Sometimes in Order to Build A New Life You Must Destroy the Old Life

Reuse / Rebuild / Renew

I was going to schedule this post for Thursday as I’ll be away from my desk, but I have decided to send it out a couple of days early instead.

Surprise!

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I am without home in my own head, currently. Not strictly true. I am simply moving from one career phase and into another, or rather I am moving from one life to another, or rather I am carefully removing the bricks of the house that I spent so long building and using them to build a house that suits me better.

I am starting small with careful acts of noticing; slowing the panicked horse of myself by noticing the sea green of the ripening wheat; the bristle of it against my palm, the way a small feather is held in the cup of the spent head of cow parsley, the way an old fence post may have served its purpose and yet be left to fall in amongst the weeds and wild flowers; remaining without purpose, but still remaining.

I am noticing myself too, my knobbly old feet in my tatty old walking sandals, stopping on my early morning walk to listen to the wind in the beech trees, to be aware of my body as an interface, to be aware of myself existing; the joy of it, the excitement of it, the humbling notion that at any point any of us may well not exist.

On Sunday I ran my last stanza group. It is one of the bricks I am not taking forward, not using to create the new house. It is part of a decision, or an awareness of me over committing to all sorts of things, but often unpaid things. I am no longer committing to this one small thing, and I feel awful to not be running it anymore, but also freed from it because to run any event or group as a volunteer is a special kind of commitment, one I have gladly taken on for four years. Commitments like this can easily lead to resentment. I don’t ever want to feel resentful about any of the work I do, and right now I don’t resent it, but I do wish for some weekends back and I feel like that is the tip of a slide towards resentment. Spelt, the poetry and creative non fiction magazine I run (and founded) takes up an enormous amount of time, mostly at weekends, it means that I often don’t really get time off at the weekend and when I do it is spent recovering. See also evenings, instead of supporting other writers at events, I am recovering from spinning plates all day. That is nobody’s fault but my own. And it is something i keep doing, a repeated behaviour that feels a bit destructive, as if I am not honouring myself, not valuing myself. ‘More fool you’ someone close commented this week, after I complained about my bad shoulder, irritated by the sending out of submissions responses hundreds of times. What they meant was - you are doing this to yourself, the only person who can stop doing this to you, is you.

“What you're supposed to do when you don't like a thing is change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. Don't complain.”
― Maya Angelou

Rebuild / Reuse / Renew

I am using the launch of The Ghost Lake to motivate me, as a kind of elevator to another floor in which I value myself more. I am using it as a place to jump forward and to make decisions about my future from. There are many spider-plans being drawn, and then crossed out and re drawn, each one with a certain amount of courses, workshops, mentoring, spelt activities, podcast activities etc reduced, each one with the prices increased for my services. It has to be like this for me. I have to repeat and repeat and repeat, reduce and reduce and reduce, reminding myself over and over to be realistic with my time, be bold, be brave, get into the habit of saying no, of reminding myself that to want to have a slower life doing things I love is not a sin, that evolution is uncomfortable, that change is frightening but that this is the moment to jump. I am removing the bricks of my strange building with its too many tiny rooms in which I can barely turn round in for all the clutter and am building something airy, with wide windows and good light.

I had a weird dream once about a cool, shady house with tall green plants all around, and in the middle was a white courtyard, and in the courtyard a swimming pool, deep and dappled, and I was dangling my feet in it, wearing a wide brimmed straw hat and a red bathing costume. Sudden panic like waking up from sleep walking then - whose house is this? A sudden sense of being in the wrong place, of intruding, of being an imposter. And then the clear bell of knowledge - this is my house. I dreamt myself a place of refuge and I intend on building it, if only metaphorically.

This is my house and I deserve the cool courtyard and the dappled water, the wide windows and good light.

Photo by Adheesha Paranagama on Unsplash

In reality I actually live in an over cluttered ex council house, but perhaps one day?

On Wednesday I am pushing myself wholly out of my comfort zone and into a red, crushed velvet jump suit. I am going to the Harper Collins author party at the V&A. The invitation was just for me, but I asked them to allow me to bring a plus one; my husband, so that I can use him as a human shield. Otherwise, because of the anxiety, because of my weird number dyslexia, I would almost certainly have gotten lost somewhere and by the time I had righted myself and got to the hotel, I would have sat on the bed and cried, unable to leave my room. So I asked for help, and was given help. What a revelation. Another brick in my new house, another wide pane of glass for a window, the knowledge that I can ask for help. All these beautiful clean walls, new views, cool, clear light.

I’m still extremely anxious about the party, (that’s how anxiety works) about any party really, but especially this one; a party at which I will wear a name tag that says clearly ‘Wendy Pratt: Author’ and know that I am arriving at said party as me, as myself, and that that person is an author. I’ll let you know how I get on.

I am becoming good at seeking myself in the small noticing, at recognising my true self and holding that thing, that thin, thin thread that leads to my true voice, and winding it back in order to write, because that is where the writing must come from, always, the deep cool cenoté of myself, the deep well of myself so well hidden.

It is now just six weeks until The Ghost Lake comes out. You can pre order it from anywhere - Amazon, Waterstones, Bookshop.org, your local indie bookshop, the library. I can’t wait to take you on my Ghost Lake journey.

What to Look for in Summer

On Friday paid subscribers will receive the first set of note for the new course. You don’t have to do anything, if you’re a paid subscriber they will arrive in your inbox automatically along with links etc.

The Spelt Poetry Competition

There is just four weeks left to enter the Spelt Poetry Competition, this year judged by Gregory Leadbetter. Entry is just £12 for up to three poems. Real cash prizes and publication in Spelt to be won.

All details here: Spelt Poetry Competition

Until next time

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