Little Blue Eyes.

So much happened is happening. Baby born in early December. Parents in a heartbeat. Figuring it out. Pressure and stress, somehow life can feel boring in the eye of the storm. Oh! And love, in abundance, in waves, in demand.

How true it is, nobody can prepare you for what arrives. Most beautiful of all is the fact that you do it. You do it and you nail it. You walk down the canal with a baby strapped to your chest, coffee in hand, you laugh and you love.

Life is still out there, still for the taking. Just, it looks slightly different.

The experience of bonding is different for a father, in my experience. It’s not as accessible, nowhere near as immediate. Mother struggles too at times. But when away from the family, framed photos of the baby produce more existential questioning than feelings of love. I know it to be true but it makes no sense.

Then the love, desperately wanting to squeeze the baby, like Lennie clasping onto a mouse. Wrapping them up in a fluffy white towel, fresh from a bath, skin indescribably soft. The possibility of it all. And one day, without warning, a smile. Better still, the day the giggle comes.

I still think about water, a lot. Some idyllic stream out there in the world.

I’ve started reading the New Testament (NIV). I want to see what’s in there.

Sunday, oh Sunday.

I knew it was raining as I went to leave the house, knew it would carry on raining. But I chose not to wear a raincoat. I decided I wanted to feel my canvas gilet and thick woollen shirt grow heavy and damp as I walked. It was that thin, wispy kind of rain that looks like nothing much at all but that leaves you soaked in no time. I wanted to march on, with my head down, talking to myself and to the dog. I wanted all of this just so that I could experience that singular feeling of walking back through the front door after a wet, wintery stomp, getting undressed and having a hot shower, drying off and putting my softest, comfiest clothes on, lighting the fire, hunkering down. All in the knowing that winter is real, that I felt her touch, and that she can’t get me anymore, not from the safety of my sofa.

This was the idea, and the urge to play it out was so strong that even walking the dog for an hour and a half somehow didn’t feel like quite enough. So great was the desire for knowing the day, only to get home and to block it out, that on arriving home, I fed the dog, changed into my running gear and headed straight back out. I ran 9k, rain dripping from my brow, my black sweatshirt, thick from the rain it was absorbing. The whole while, imagining that feeling, of getting home and closing the door.

Sunday, oh Sunday.

And sure enough, it felt just as I’d hoped, so simple, so indulgent. I swapped the shower out for a hot bath full of Epsom salts. Made baked beans on toast, lay on the sofa, the dog jumped up and joined me. I closed my eyes and woke up a little while later.

Anticipation.

I tried writing, so many times, but what to say? We’re closer now than ever before, the due date is mere days away, nine to be persist. Nine days, what can be done in nine days? The whole world can change, as we’ve learnt, in the blink of an eye. Nine days, both agonisingly far away and terrifyingly close. Here we go. And then! Of course! It could all happen this evening, tomorrow morning, tomorrow evening. The whole experience will begin and will end, and in coming to its natural end the whole world starts again. Conscience created, the play button pressed. Strap in, kid. It’s your turn now. (Speaking to myself or the child?).

And so what have I been doing, these last few weeks. I’ve been in my head, a whole lot more than i’d like to have been. Worrying about worries, imagining the worst, of myself and the world. For what reason, I don’t know. It’s habitual, habits tend to feel comforting, even the most uncomfortable of them. I have been, at points, low. And in these moments I am of little use to anybody. At least it certainly feels that way. And I’m sure it’s not entirely true. I don’t sit, slack-jawed and drooling, dead to the world. It’s not like that. It’s a shortening of the fuse, a tendency to only see things negatively. But isn’t it true? That through darkness we find light. I certainly find, that at some point, I’m so fed up with the amount of darkness that I’ve been digging through that I start, more actively than usual, to look out for the light. Of which, I am pleased to report, there is plenty.

It can feel a little sticky at times, when you’re consciously trying to outmanoeuvre the go-to-negativity, in real time. But it works. And so whilst, yes, I have been feeling low. I have also been experiencing real light and real growth.

It is worth acknowledging that i’m not at all surprised by my having felt low. I am stood, looking out over an unknown ocean watching winds of change build and wrestle their way closer by the day. I can almost feel it now, the wind licking at my cheeks. I won’t fight you, change. Just please don’t be surprised when you reach me and find me sensitive. Anticipation is one hell of a trip.

Kingfisher.

Kingfisher flew by
A brief encounter with joy
All electric blue

We walked beside the canal, slowly and with purpose. I felt attuned to the world around me, Autumn does that, doesn’t it? Pulls you in, makes you notice.

I had a bench in mind that I was aiming for, and as I turned the corner I saw that it was vacant. I sat down and the dog jumped up beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw flash of electric blue light fly past, it stuttered momentarily, hovering, before continuing on its way. It took me a moment to catch up with what I had just seen. A woman stopped to say hello to the dog, I asked if shed just seen the kingfisher fly past, she hadn’t. It had been my moment and my moment alone. And what a moment it was. I felt grateful.

I spoke this week about the lens I witness the world through. Constantly convincing myself that people hold answers, that there are definitives that evade me. That perhaps people know something that I don’t. As I type this I realise that it’s not so much that I think they know something as much as I hope they know something. And by something I mean the thing. The reason to it all, the purpose. I need to shake this notion.

Term of Endearment.

We sat in the morning traffic and watched as the clock crept closer and closer to the allotted time of our appointment. We’re going to be late, aren’t we? And indeed we were. Stood at the reception desk twenty minutes after our appointment was supposed to have started. We were told by a unfazed receptionist that the next available appointment was in five hours and that we’d have to come back. It was harmless, the appointment was a routine check-up, everybody is happy and healthy, but it really changed the course of both our days.

We drove back in the direction of home and agreed that a mooch around town, just the two of us, would be the best way of making the most of the situation. And we were right, it was lovely. We got hot drinks and a loaf of bread from the bakery. We popped into a women’s clothing store and picked up some maternity trousers, both of us laughing in disbelief at how she has gone from wearing an XS to an XL in the space of seven months. Went to the theatre to see what films they have coming up, visited the local charity book shop and finally swung by the office to grab my laptop.

We arrived back at the hospital, sat in the waiting room playing the days wordle together. We entered the word birth as our first attempt, to honour our day and our chapter. No letters were fruitful. We laughed it off and pursued playing the game without injecting ourselves into the entries. Until finally, we landed on the correct word, which was, believe it or not mommy. We sat in awe, slack-jawed and somewhat inspired. I looked at her, all beauty and power, world builder, mother (mommy).

Many Happy Returns.

We flew on Friday morning, landed, picked up the rental car and drove three hours west. The world around became more sparse with every mile we ate up. The company was good, despite all of us tired from the early start and travel. We checked into the rental cottage, I got the fire going and we put the TV on, takeaway for dinner, glass of wine.

The next day we headed into the small town to meet the coach that had been put on by the bride and groom, the crowd boarding the coach were an unlikely bunch, from different branches of the couples lives. The atmosphere was polite, excited, happy.

The ceremony was a pagan affair, officiated by a druid, songs were sung, fires were lit, ancestors were acknowledged. The vows read by the bride and groom were dense and lush, painfully honest at times, brimming with love. Hands were tied, tears were cried.

We headed to the pub and were greeted with traditional songs being played on guitars, accordions, whistles. We were lucky to find a table and all set to knocking a few back and catching up.

When it came time to eat, we were ushered into a large barn off the back of the building and a pizza oven was fired up. Myself and **** were seated on a table with a couple in their thirties, expecting their second child. The bloke was either coked up or just really enjoyed talking. His partner didn’t get much of a word in, nor did the two of us. We didn’t mind though, he was doing the heavy lifting and it suited us just fine.

Then onto the third and final room of the day, in which we enjoyed speeches, recitals, songs and dances.

It’s a magic place, the country on a whole but that corner in particular. I came away, especially from the service, with a renewed sense of possibility. Freedom to create, freedom to listen. I felt creatively empowered. Emotional and fortunate. I became aware of my role as custodian, of human life, that I incubate and nurture before passing on. I was reminded of the idea of play. I text home to tell her that I love her. I thought about the miracle of our child, unborn and unknown, yet surely adored, if only we could comprehend. And we will, we’ll understand all too well, In time.

Happy Sad.

Do you have fond memories? Or at least are you fond of the memories that you have?

By the time I was leaving my desk and getting ready to walk the thirty minutes back to where I left the car I became acutely aware of the fact that I was feeling sad. I toyed around with different adjectives to hang the feeling from, low, flat, subdued, but no, I was feeling sad. Which was strange, to me at least, as there was seemingly no reason for me to feel this way. Stranger still was the fact that I was enjoying feeling sad. It felt correct, I felt no friction. I slowed my walking down to the pace of a funeral march, I let myself hunch over, a fraction more than I usually might. I welcomed the rain, the ache in my feet, the feeling of sadness.

I tried to explain myself when I got home but it wasn’t quite landing. What do you mean you’re happy to be feeling sad? I’m not sure, was all I could say, but just trust that I’m ok.

The feeling isn’t there today, in fact, I’m not sure what I feel today. And so perhaps that’s what made me happy to be sad, it was the knowing how I felt, without question or doubt. A feeling observed and accepted for what it was.

Watching the dog twitch in his sleep, restless in peace. I hope he knows how much I love him.

Shhhh (the sound of rain)

I’ve started going along to a group exercise class, it’s USP being that it’s a group exercise class for people that don’t like group exercise classes. It’s outside, rain or shine and there are three classes a day, morning, afternoon, evening. It suits me to join the 6:15am class. Which means setting the alarm for 5:40am, rubbing sleep out of my eyes and driving through the still-dark morning. We finish up at 7am, the sun is just starting to come up, somewhere behind the clouds. Floodlights make the sheets of rain look infinitely worse than the sheets of rain feel. Something about exercising in the rain gives the whole experience a kind of against-all-odds atmosphere. I find myself feeling proud of everybody that’s turned up, all these strangers, none of whom are naturally athletically inclined, giving it their best.

Inspired by strangers.

Autumn & Co.

It’s elusive and forever will be, stop wasting time trying to point a finger at it. Declaring it found! The finish line proven, the race concluded. This is not a race, never was.

I received a message from somebody that i’ve not heard from for some time, six months or so. At one point they said I know how much you like the Autumn months. Made me smile, I guess I felt seen. I absolutely do, love, the Autumn months. It’s my favourite season, the world feels dense with wonder and creative possibility. My wardrobe makes more sense to me in Autumn, my home feels more inviting. I light the fire, I welcome the dark. I read historical fiction and let my world soften around the edges. Everything becomes more romantic, from coffee in the morning, to driving in the rain, listening to sign crushes motorist. I’ve tried tirelessly to write this season into words, so often my offerings fall short, don’t touch the sides, seem cutesy in comparison to the world outside my window.

For now I’ll say thank you, to Autumn & Co for all of their beauty, their mystery and charm.

Ummmm.

Something that I have put off writing about, but that I think of often. Is the nature of my thinking. I am in thought, like many, almost always. And whilst I can plod along, mulling over the people and places that make up my world. I can also allow myself to think big, to think vast, to challenge myself, to play both sides of one argument, to detach myself from the idea of being correct, as it were.

Perhaps, put simply, I wonder.

The issue is not with my thinking but instead with my ability to communicate my thoughts with others. What seems clear in my mind is soon scrambled beyond recognition at the point of sharing. And the same is true with my writing.

These thoughts, that inspire and excite me, they exist on an infinite plane, my conscience. They can evolve and interact with one another constantly, they can be manipulated and observed from any and every angle, endlessly. And then at the point of sharing they face an unavoidable hurdle whereby these many ideas, have to be delivered in a linear fashion. Only one word can be uttered at a time, one word written. But my thoughts can’t understand this, and so, like giddy children, it’s as if they make a mad dash for the exit, assuming they can each arrive, fully formed, all at once. And of course, they can’t.

I fall into an irreversible muddle. A fluster and frustration. Because what a torment it is to not be able to succinctly communicate. They are there, my thoughts, I see them, I feel them, how is it that I can’t just share them?

Perhaps this is part of the human condition, perhaps I am not alone. Nonetheless, it is tiresome and isolating.

Once Upon a Time.

We celebrate content that is auto-biographical in nature. Now more than ever. Whether it’s the content shared by friends on social media or the content shared in the albums released by the biggest artists of the day. So much so that peoples private relationships are now playing out, more or less, in real time, in front of our very eyes. But how authentic is this authentic content? I appreciate that me pointing at the authenticity (or lack thereof) of modern culture is not a new nor original take. But I do so not to mock or ridicule, but instead to use this observation as a starting point of inspiration.

What if I were to play them at their own game, what if I were to write a body of work that was truly autobiographical, spelling out the mundanity of my reality. A reality, I’m keen to add, that I am very fond of. Without relying on metaphor to express myself. Without leaning on escapism.

Even if just for myself I believe this will be a fantastic creative exercise and I have no doubt, a challenge.

Ready, Steady, Go!

I want to write, I stand at the threshold, on the side of anticipation, looking over the boundary-line and into creativity. it’s out there, it exists. But from here it looks tangled, a code without clues, the thickest of brambles. That’s how I feel, each time I open up a blank page, each time I think about writing. And it doesn’t seem right just to cross over the boundary and start hacking at the root of the matter, but instinctively I know that this is exactly how anything happens.

So here I am, stepping, cautiously at first, over the boundary line and into the mist and the marsh of it all. I’ve been here before, I took these same steps years ago and without half as much trepidation. I bounded into the possibility, but not now, not this time. What’s changed? When did I become aware of my own nakedness? I’ll get there, because I must, because the alternative is to wither away.

The dog is wining for me to take hime home. The sun is shining.

I’ll write tomorrow…

Hall of Mirrors.

I = have this image in my head of a ladder leant against the side of a mountain. A huge ladder scaling a huge mountain. And there I am, three quarters of the way up, wearing blue jeans and a red shirt. The wind is a constant, the dust is a bitch. I’m climbing with purpose, hell-bent on success. But it’s not for me to know what waits at the top. And isn’t this the way it goes? Because, how can I know?

The baby is due in less than three months and I’m starting to get a little antsy. I’ve been made aware by people around me as well as by my own intuition, that what lies ahead will change our lives forever. But what does that mean? At this point all I can do is imagine, but you can’t imagine yourself into being prepared. And ok, perhaps that’s the point, we won’t be prepared and it’s going to knock us for six, chew us up and spit us out some twenty years down the road. But it’s one thing to know this and another thing to know this.

Excitement and angst dance back and forth until they meet in the middle and move as one.

Imbalanced.

(How much I consume compared with how much I produce.)

Over & Over. 25th of July.

I could let the fog roll in and engulf me, as if I were disappearing. Eyes closed, standing perfectly still—porcelain. I could let the tide wash over my feet—ice-cold, rhythmic, certain. I crouch down, scoop up a palmful of water, and bring it to my lips.

The light of a cargo ship flickers in the distance—at least, I think it does. Childhood memories feel just like that: like the light of a cargo ship passing through the thickest mist. There without doubt, yet not quite at all.

Anger is alive, out there in the world. I know this because I've felt it. Love is too.

I walk down the jetty, take the sun lounger, and lay it on the water—this is my vessel, my slow ticket out. The water is so clear that nothing escapes my sight. I let my fingers glide through the surface, creating the smallest of waves. Those waves join the tide, and the tide finds my feet, standing out there in the mist. I'll remain here, all the while, on the surface.

And what of my size? Quite often these days, I feel as though I have no size at all. When I catch, for a fleeting moment, a sense of the world and the fact that I’m alive—that's when I feel it. Tiny, wonderful, and perhaps terrified.

I give in and beckon for willing hands to reach down from the sky, to scoop me up in a palmful of water, and drink me in. I observe all of this, over and over again.

August 6th.

The riots spread like angry butter over hopeless toast. The catalyst now long forgotten, the goal not clear to any. But then isn’t this the way? Isn’t this exactly how anger works?

Summer.

We made the most of the summer holidays. Trips to the coast, trips to the country, hiking, hiking, gardening, scrabble, jigsaw puzzles, podcast series, TV series, we laughed, we made love, we saw friends, we thought about the future, ate in, ate out, sang in the car, danced in the kitchen.

She’s glowing now, she’s a creator, a world builder.

Cry, cry, cry.

The day is still yet to get going.

There were more tears last night, there had to be. Because what else is there to do? I don’t understand the news, until of course, I do, at which point it’s too much to understand all over again, and I’m left with no choice but to cry.

One Weekend.

Tears, stood in their rows, foot soldiers, waiting to be deployed. Tears of sorrow, tears of joy.

Sorrow for the mother that didn’t survive the birth. Sorrow for her husband who has no choice now but to navigate the road that they paved together, alone, knowing she’s taken one half of the road-map with her. Sorrow for the child who will come to learn what they know in their heart one day in their mind, some merciless time in the future.

And the next day, joy. Joy for the groom who stood alone in the room, cheeks flushed, learning how anticipation can stretch seconds into minutes. Joy for the bride whose head turned the corner one whole heartbeat sooner than her feet, such was her eagerness to see for herself, the man that she loves.

Tears that asked no questions, but were there when I needed them. God knows I needed them.

I Was There.

It didn’t last long. Not barely a minute. But the feeling was real and the joy was sincere. Lay out on the lawn, bird song at sunset, last of the blue sky above. I thought of the baby, I thought about love. What a way to end the day.