Stepping Back

In the immortal words of Ross Geller, “we were on a break.”

Modernish and I reached an impasse.

It wasn’t her. It was me.

I knew I’d taken a break from writing, but upon my return even I couldn’t quite believe that six months had elapsed since I last penned anything personally.

Time has flown, as every grown-up always told me it one day would.

The scary thing is that (apparently) it’s only set to slip away faster.

This isn’t particularly interesting though. As I said, it’s something almost everyone already knows.

However, what they may not know is that lacking hours in the days, weeks and months was only one of the reasons for my slightly self-imposed writer’s block.

The other was an infinitesimally tiny confidence knock. I was just one of a few people to enter a local short story competition with three winners, none of whom were me.

I have no doubt that they were all more deserving and more accomplished than I.

I can also honestly say that I don’t regret entering, nor was I soured by loss.

But it’s become clear that it was just enough to encourage me to shy away from my keyboard in the few moments where I might otherwise have entertained myself with a spot of tapping.

Nevertheless, being of the firm belief that life has a way of leading you back to the things that count and which you’ve lost, eventually, the inevitable happened to me.

For starters, I was given the gift of time. A little window devoid of the procrastination temptation finally appeared and I fell back in like with sharing my small, insignificant stream of consciousness.

For main, I was brought to tears by one of the most thoughtful presents I’ve ever received. A little something that reminded me of what I set out to do and why I wish to do it.

And for dessert, I watched a programme recommended by a friend. A show where a guest passionately discussed an author’s love of writing so great that she wrote against all odds for neither monetary gain nor public adoration.

Some would say the stars aligned.

Others would say it’s pure coincidence.

Either way, it brought me back.

And I’m so pleased that it did.

It feels almost unfashionable now to simply say “I’m happy.” There’s a choking guilt that stops me from admitting it, something about those two words that feels as though you’re conceitedly ramming your good fortune down people’s dry, reluctant throats.

But that’s not the case at all.

Saying “I’m happy” doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten that others aren’t and it doesn’t mean you don’t realise how lucky you are. I’m acutely aware of both and I’m certainly not jumping for the high heavens with joy all the live long day.

Nonetheless, happiness is the one thing we all appear to be striving for and yet, for whatever reason, it seems we’re scared to share when we’ve found it.

With the New Year marking a return to ‘start as you mean to go on’ mentality, now feels like the perfect time to reclaim the phrase.

And whilst it might also be the point at which we once again attempt to begin something new, it can just as easily be an opportunity to step back; a juncture that makes it possible to remember and rekindle whatever we so wish.

Progress is not linear. Neither are we.

Starting over isn’t necessarily the way forward. Stepping back doesn’t necessarily denote failure.

On the contrary, I’d challenge anyone not to feel just a touch thrilled by the prospect of a Pick ‘n’ Mix.

Pots and Pitfalls

A cyclamen, a pretty weed, potentially a dandelion and nothing but earth.

These are the four beings currently flourishing in the flower pots just beyond my window.

A cyclamen, a pretty weed, some Cosmos and a wealth of wildflowers.

These are the four entities that I had hoped would now be thriving in the flower pots just beyond my window.

At face value, a fifty per cent success rate might not seem too bad.

But this is the point at which I admit that the cyclamen was gifted to me by my Mum, whilst the weed marks the beginning of a second generation following the unfortunate wilting of the first.

For a while now, my job and my ripe old age have been leading me towards an ever-increasing interest in the world of gardening, but seeing my plants in such peril has reinforced the newfound respect I harbour for the green-fingered among us.

I’ve always appreciated the art of horticulture, despite the prospect of having to watch Gardeners’ World and the like filling me with an inexplicable dread of boredom for much of my teenage years.

Both my Nan and my Mum are brilliant gardeners. Whilst they never fail to modestly protest that they’re far from being professionals, they have a far greater knowledge than I.

Indeed, they have many more victories too.

Together, they were responsible for sowing the seed that eventually helped me to see the immense beauty and challenge every tiny little piece of greenery presents.

As any gardener will tell you, the key is patience.

I tried to keep that in mind as I eagerly awaited the sprouting of my own shoots.

All in good time.

Reminding myself of this each day, I soon saw evidence of one reward.

This year was the first time I’ve ever attempted to grow anything from seed and although I had to concede defeat on the wildflower front, out of nowhere two of my Cosmos cannily carved their way through the soil.

Rule two of gardening; accept that certain things simply won’t thrive in the spaces you’ve put them, but take the time to really relish the ones that do.

With their distinctive lattice of leaves taking shape, I optimistically anticipated that the buds of one of my best-loved blooms would soon burst forth.

Alas, disaster struck.

Stems snapped. Deluged, lacklustre bracts disconsolately draped over the periphery of their pot.

I could hardly bring myself to look at them for heartache.

Nevertheless, I trimmed them back, left the soil where it stands and vowed to try again.

In the grand scheme of harvests and horticulture, my loss was minor.

But it did make me realise how tremendously intelligent and dedicated you have to be to triumphantly combine the grand with the green.

If I’m ever lucky enough to procure my own pygmy plot, I’ll earnestly endeavour to do it some horticultural justice.

Fortunately, I feel the balance may well be tipped in my favour on account of there likely being a bundle of bushes and a plethora of plants already prospering.

Adding my own touches here and there will be a pleasure.

And maybe one day, perhaps with the passing of a few seasons, I’ll gather just enough courage to brave the pitfalls of a blank botanical canvas again.

All in good time.

Supercuts

I hope all will be forgiven when it comes to the not-so-brief hiatus I’ve taken from penning the pieces that every now and then pop into my mind.

I’d love to be able to justify it with some elaborate, impressive reason, but alas all I have to say is that I’ve been ‘busy’.

The important thing is, it doesn’t mean the bliss writing brings me has diminished, only the time I have to devote to it.

Which is why returning to it today feels like more of a privilege than ever, akin to the feeling of walking into a cosy room, or taking a hot shower.

Importantly too, I wouldn’t have been able to write the passages below if society and life hadn’t returned to some semblance of normality. Being ‘busy’ might not be conducive to creativity in the sense of actually being able to craft my tiny contributions to the world, but it is in terms of triggering ideas.

Finally, I’ve once again been able to pursue the pastime of people watching.

It sounds a bit sickening, a little Love Actually, but on my recent travels I’ve noticed how joyful it makes me to simply and quietly watch others living their lives being equally happy, thoughtful and caring.

Going back and forth to London again has made the feeling more abundant.

Some would say it’s because there’s a greater variety of life in the big smoke, which is undoubtedly true.

But I suspect there’s something more strategic in it; that the only explanation for the Tube and train WiFi being so shockingly bad is so that they’re able to subtly encourage us to see the stories playing out around us as opposed to those on Instagram.

As I once again departed Waterloo, two guys on a platform bench caught my attention through the carriage window. Uniforms donned, totally unfazed by the world around them, only their faces betrayed the delight they’d discovered in each other’s jovial company.

Conversation. Grins. Laughter.

For a fleeting few moments, they were absolutely carefree.

Just as I was, smiling as I saw the jocular scene slipping away around the corner.

It reminded me of an earlier instant I’d enjoyed on the same journey.

Standing on the Tube, I happened across a young girl and her father sharing headphones.

In her full orange football kit, programme in hand, it didn’t take me too long to realise they’d just been to the England vs. Croatia match.

The pure adoration reserved on her face for her father revealed that she’d loved every minute, just as much as his ebullience evidenced the elation he felt at having been able to treat her to something special.

I couldn’t help but think I might be witnessing the making of a great talent.

At the very least, I’d been in the presence of total and utter contentment.

Seeing such snapshots, I considered the comparable scenes suffusing my own life; ones I hope will help others to occasionally remember, in the immortal words of Hugh Grant, that “love actually is all around”.

And you don’t have to be ‘lucky’ to find it.