The fruit never falls far from the tree

Today is my birthday. I love birthdays. They don’t have to be mine for me to be fizzing like pop, I am known to be the proverbial firework when it comes to celebrating other people’s birthdays too, but today is mine and I awoke with a feeling of real happiness.

It isn’t just receiving Happy Birthday wishes or even the thoughtful gifts that makes me happy, it is the wonderful fact that I really am grateful to be alive and my Birthday reminds me that my life is a gift.

This morning I am playing David Bowie tunes, I am drinking super strong coffee and eating marmite toast, I am breathing the beautiful clean silken air in the garden, I am absorbing the feel of the day.  As I think about my life I think of my daughter. My daughter was born 22 years ago. Her name is Katherine Fiona, which means ‘pure light’, and she is to coin a phrase the light of my life.

A thought struck me a few months ago that although she does not know all the ups and downs twists and turns of my life, how often her own life follows the pattern of mine. By having her it is as though I have experienced the joy and pain of being me and then the joy and pain of her becoming her….and while she is different from me in so many ways, in so many more we are alike. So that when I play David Bowie tunes full pelt she joins in with the mad dancing and singing, and we even have the same taste in shoes…..check these out she bought me for Christmas!

Sometimes when we are together I don’t feel as though our ages are different at all, we laugh at the same stuff, we discuss what is going on in our minds and bodies, and share the same indignation and rage at injustice and inequality.

This last was brought home to me when Kate decided on the research subject of her current Masters in Fine Art. Unlike her contemporaries she has chosen to explore the objectification of women in art. I studied for a Masters in Philosophy some years ago and instead of following my legal career I chose to explore the obstacles to career progression for women. We had never discussed my Masters and as far as I know she knew nothing of it before she made her own choice. When I asked her why she had chosen this she said ‘I am not afraid to try and use my skills as an artist to make the world a better place for women’ …..She is not afraid to voice her thoughts, and she is not afraid to stand up for her beliefs either. I tell you when I look at her it is like looking at me. And when I see this concern for the world growing in her it makes me feel a wonderful joy that this little apple fell near enough to me for me to watch her blossom.

Kate has her first exhibition in London soon, if you want to go and have a look at what she and other young women like her are doing then check this out.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/ygtcollective/skin-croen

So….my dear women, on my Birthday….. I would like to say a very big Happy Birthday to you too, and wish for you that whatever fell near to your tree brings you heartfelt love and joy.

Best

Dee

Whispers and Shadows

Hello everyone, today I am very proud to present to you this short story by Jean Garrod, I was stopped in my tracks when I first read it and it has caused me to stop and consider what my own legacy may be. Please read and share with your women folk and send me your comments, I will be very happy to pass these on to Jean. 

many thanks

Dee

 

Whispers and Shadows

By Jean Garrod

Just whispers. Nothing definite. The timing would be about right  though… Irish Potato Famine. Leave or starve to death. He took his fragile young wife and baby daughter. Terrifying journey across a hostile sea. The stench of vomit, the screams of the mother counterpointed by the howls of the little girl, who would forever now fear crossing water. Liverpool docks, still rocking beneath them as they struggled to recover their land legs. More bone-weary travelling to arrive in East Lancashire. Stunned relatives with little enough for themselves now obliged to help these refugees. The child was quieter now, just the occasional murmur. They discovered she had had a stroke, and would be permanently paralysed down her left side. He tried to find work, but what little there was, was not for Irish “bog-trotters”. With rising despair, he left his young wife and growing daughter for America – the land of opportunity for Irish refugees. At first the letters from America came with news and a little money. Gradually, inevitably, the letters dwindled. His news got bleaker: the money got less. She knew he would not return. With a burst of energy that surprised the relatives, she sailed for America, promising to send for the child when they were settled. 

In the hustle of New York City, she got the bus to his last known address. Almost there, she suddenly saw him from the window! She rushed off the bus and hurried after him. She watched him turn into a street and rounded the corner just in time to see him enter a house. Breathless, she patted her hair and dusted down her dress. A woman answered the door, smiling. “Excuse me, I’ve come to see my husband.” Frowning, “There’s only MY husband here.” The man, who was husband to them both, rushed through the door and away into the night. 

She collapsed on the doorstep. When she came to, she was on her way back to Liverpool. Arriving home, the relatives arranged for her to live quietly in a bedroom with the madness. Elizabeth was my father’s mother. Despite the poverty, she up married, had two children and a long life. My mother welcomed her into our home in her senior years. As one of six children, I vividly remember her scary stories that left me afraid of the dark for years.

Just whispers, nothing definite. But very believable against the backdrop of that history. Such legacies leave long shadows. Abandonment, rejection, poverty, pain and struggle. A deep-rooted legacy of shamefully being not nearly good enough. The Grammar School didn’t help me. No fitting in anywhere. The shame is overwhelming. My whole family is covered in shame.

But the shadows are deepest when the sun is strongest. What is this legacy for me? My great-grandfather left an intolerable situation to help his family – twice. Taking a great risk for those he loved. Trying to keep the family together despite the challenges. My great-grandmother,although fragile, seeking to know the truth of her husband, despite the cost. Survival is a strong theme here. And my grandmother? Well, she left me her gift of storytelling that our grandchildren love so much. She passed on the Irish gift of the ‘sight’ that helped her to “read the tea leaves without the tea leaves” and enables me to bring comfort, reassurance and sometimes a different perspective on life’s challenges. Family has been a strong force and I can now express my love for them in words without feeling shallow and pretentious.

All-in-all, I’m very grateful for the legacy that they left me. I have come to a deeper understanding of and gratitude for all they did for their future children. What’s your legacy?

Breathing out and breathing in..............

Breathing out and breathing in...............

There is a space between breathing out and breathing in, when the breath and the life force is stilled, that an opportunity arises to just be. The time in this space may be only a few seconds long but if you take the opportunity to be in this space for even a few seconds you are actually being still. Applying this practice to other parts of our lives may at times feel difficult, there is pressure put on ourselves and others to do, and not to be. Sometimes though fate lends a hand.

About three weeks ago we had severe storms here in North Wales, the Met office issued the area as being code ‘red’, while what we experienced pales into insignificance compared to other countries, for us here in North Wales it was pretty wild. The storm, although predicted, seemed to blow up out of nowhere one Saturday afternoon.  I tend to ‘feel’ the weather and immediately it hit this storm felt ‘cruel’. The first bout didn’t last long, about an hour of thunder, hail, stair rod rain, wild wind and lightening. The lightening hit the hill I live on and as a result it blew my phone lines and with it my access to the internet to pieces. It also blew up my TV and my amp. When all this happened I was standing in front of my microwave and because the door was open I heard then saw electricity arc across the microwave…..if my husband hadn’t been standing next to me I know he would not have believed me. So with all my media ‘blown’, my cottage on the hill was unusually quiet, no internet, no TV, no radio, no music at all. The storm raged on and off for three weeks, the fields surrounding my cottage were flooded, neighbouring houses were damaged, trees were brought down, but because my cottage was quiet on the inside I experienced it all in a different way.

I was essentially in a breathing out and breathing in space, fate had intervened in the hurly burly of my life and I was now for the first time since I returned from Africa, feeling the planet by ‘being still’.

My initial response was to fill up the space, read, do chores, plan work schedules, faff about……but the quietness seeped into me and after a while I would allow myself to sit and watch the weather through our huge dining room window. I would stand in my garden and be hit by the wind, pelted by the rain and hail, I would inhale the cold and think to myself that this was wonderful. It was scary too, the storms were brutal but I was not afraid. I felt more love for being alive than I have felt for some time and I am truly grateful for being able to feel the storm yet remain unharmed.

For those of you who need to find that breathing out and breathing in space don’t wait for the storm, have a look and listen to this then sit back and 'be' for a while.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8X0s_Hns-Q

Wrestling with Pandora’s Box

Hello all you wonderful lovely women, first off I would like to apologise to our regulars for the delay in publishing Lisas story. We had a violent storm up here in the hills last week and it blew my phone lines, tonight is the first night they have been back working sufficiently for me to have internet access. Anyhow enough of that. I am very proud to be able to publish Lisa's story, it is one of real courage and something that has made me stop and think about just being 'stoically accepting' of a bad situation. Read on ladies and don't just sit there....get up off your arses and seize the day!  Best to all of you, Dee.

Wrestling with Pandora’s Box - One Woman’s Words to help you find Hope.

I once had a career and a life in the way most of us understand it. Headlines would be enough:

Young woman makes it through her degree, lands a job, seizes some of the opportunities, progresses and even manages to learn a few things on the way. Takes time off to have a baby - wasn’t enjoying work especially anyway - loved some of the people but..

And then: Terminal diagnosis of High Grade Endometrial Stromal Sarcoma (nope - you probably won’t come across it again). Aged 34 and suddenly I had about 5 months to live the rest of my life. Care plans were ‘palliative’ and they weren't ‘curing cancer’ like the adverts on the telly were saying.

Pandora had just opened her little box and everyone else was now sat on the lid for fear Hope got out. I had a 2 year old and there was no getting my head around it. A bit like Wurzel Gummidge (if you’re old enough) I needed to swap heads to deal with the situation.

So, I started reading.

People performing best in the longevity stats turned out to have ‘fighting spirit’ (Greer, Morris & Pettingale, 1979). I didn’t. I was displaying ‘stoic acceptance’ which had a worse outcome than ‘denial’.

One thing I had already learnt though, was that copying behaviours is a good way to learn them and even eventually to make them your own. So I set about mimicking fighting behaviours - I started asking more troublesome questions. I stopped automatically joining in with the conventional wisdom behind statistics. Outliers are always culled from the statistics anyway. I set out to be one of those - to just last beyond the ‘normal distribution’ to start with.

The signs I might be able to do this, were probably already there but lying  dormant. I’d been recruited to my first job because my personality profile said I was ‘rebellious’ ! (The organisation were looking for culture change.) Now it was time to let my rebel out of the box to deal with all the other shit that had already escaped.

I read outlier’s stories - I started gently - with those who lived a few years, instead of predicted months. I read anything vaguely scientific backing up alternative therapies. I saw anyone I could for more information to nurture this new thinking. I kept reading.

Suddenly Hope was out of the box. She took some nurturing and some absolute leaps of faith but I’m here more than 13 years later to tell another outlier’s tale.

There’s more than I can cover here - I’m half way through writing my cancer story so others are inspired to find their own hope. Writing is my new but probably my final career move. I feel comfortable. I know what I’m doing. I can benefit others while enjoying so many aspects of it.

‘Real Women’s Words’ poses some questions, so I’ll do my best to answer them:

What has your life shown you?

Not to accept anything at face value! - Being open-minded saved my life. And being a bit of a rebel helped because I get a little thrill from being unconventional. 

Question, question, question. Look for different views. Make your own mind up. Herd mentality benefits the herd but not necessarily all individuals. Being the odd one out doesn’t necessarily mean you’re wrong! If you’re fighting for your life, you’re often on your own.

If you’re not what you need to be, fake it till you make it.

If you’re not what you want to be, get on with it now.

And don’t wait to be rescued.

Where have your ambitions and your desires led you?

Up many garden paths! I hadn’t the courage to discover my own ambitions for many years, not that I knew what I wanted. Save one clear one: to be a good Mum. That made my diagnosis all the harder but was the ultimate motivation. My first clear goal was to get my son to school - that meant surviving an unimaginable 3 years. It has shifted now to seeing him to university and beyond.

My desire to give others hope, has finally led me to write. I have had incredible support from my husband Simon, and a number of amazing friends who have known the time would be right one day.

Where do I want to go next?

Carry on writing then write more. And then I want to be read. And when I’m read, I want the reader to know how to find Hope if ever they’ve lost her.

You can follow Lisa’s writing progress on her blog sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com

Reference: Greer, S., Morris, T. and Pettingale, K.W. (1979). Psychological Response to Breast Cancer: Effect on Outcome.
The Lancet, 314(8146), 785-787.