maybe

Maybe  it needs a bit more time. Maybe this is just a rocky patch. Maybe the mountain is just a little higher than we thought. Maybe it will require a little bit more courage. Maybe I haven't fallen back as far as I thought.

No one said it would be the easy. This dream. This life. This living. Learning to fly on my own wings. 

But maybe it will be worth it. Maybe wellness will come again. At the right moment. Maybe the courage will be there.

Maybe I don't have to give up hope, after all.

how could I not?

And when I wake in these mountains, when the first warm rays of sun are  yet to stream to the valley bottom. When the world is still quiet and sleepy and the odour of morning mist and autumn leaves hangs in the air. When the only sound is the call of a kestrel, the chiming of the church bells.

How could I not? How could I not, this life, my life, not love? With it's ups and it's downs. With it's stumbles and falls. With it's getting up again. With the rain and the sunshine. With the fatigue, yes. Oh that fatigue.

But also with all the small moments. With the people on my side. With the breath. With the heartbeat. My heartbeat. His heartbeat. How could I not be in love with it? It is not perfect. But I am living, breathing, creating. How could I not? Because it is imperfect. Sometimes tangled. Lumpy and bumpy. But it is mine.

"Be in love with your life. Every minute of it." (Jack Kerouac)

How could I not?

(Inspired by the lovely Faye...)

my breath

Rough grass beneath our feet. Forest paths and fields of scree. The ceiling so high, so inviting. And then this moment. This smell. This taste. These mountains in my lungs. My muscles unfurl. My chest rises and falls. The clouds, the sun, the earth. My breath.

be kind

Be kind to your sleeping heart.
Take it out in the vast field of light
And let it breathe.'               
Hafiz

During group therapy at the thèrmes today, we were encouraged to think about being more "kind to ourselves". The psychologist asked us to share with the group the things that make us happy, that help us to be kind to ourselves.

Knitting and spinning were of course at the top of my own list. Whilst I learn to find my own rhythm once again, it looks as if there might be a lot more woolcraft going on around here for the next few months. 

floating

I was nervous. Until I lowered myself into the water. First my feet, then legs, then belly, then arms. All the way up to my chin. 'Trust me,' the physio said.

I realised in that moment that I've become wary of trusting strangers with the knowledge of my illness. For fear they'll make cruel judgements. For fear they'll laugh at me.

'Trust me,' he said. And with my heart racing, I lowered the rest of myself in, until the water was all the way up to my chin, closing over my body. I let the water come, I let the physio hold me, I let myself stop being terrified.

I let go.

Because there, in that moment, it didn't matter if I'm tired or achey. If I slept badly last night. The only thing was the water swooshing around me, holding me up.

The physio gently manipulated my muscles and limbs. Not trying to hurt me. But helping me to feel a little better.

The only thing was the water moving me from side to side. The deep wrinkles slowly forming on my finger and toe tips, rather than on my brow.

taking the waters

Summer pasture lands just above Barèges, July 2010

And finally,
the big day comes.

I get up later than expected from my after lunchtime siesta and trundle over to the Tourist office in our village. The bus for the thermal baths is slowly filling with patients when I arrive ten minutes later. 

The driver takes us up the Barèges valley, along the road to the col du Tourmalet. We overtake panting cyclists wishing to measure themselves against the greats. 

Ten minutes later, we arrive in the spa of Barège, a long, thin village clinging to the hill slope along the river Bastan. The thermal baths have been here for over three hundred years. 

French people have been coming here every year to take the waters. To be taken care of. To find healing and peace in the shadow of the mountain, beside the bubbling brooks and thermal springs.

And finally.
Today it is my turn.  

living without

Casting my eyes over the plate I see a colourful landscape - the steamed courgettes, the quinoa and split peas, the nuts and the seeds, the buckwheat and chestnut flour bread. Not an ounce of meat. Not a grain of wheat. Not a drop of milk.

Not so long ago, I wouldn't have thought it possible to make something so delicious with so many missing ingredients. Whilst we've eaten pretty much vegetarian for over four and a half years and our diet has never been heavily reliant on processed items, we had a handful of ingredients that always made the top spot on the weekly menu.

And so we've been exploring different ways of living and eating, starting by abandoning those French staples of bread and cheese.

Three months ago, we decided to finally take the plunge and see whether living without gluten and dairy would make living with M.E./CFS and Fibromyalgia any easier. We decided to overhaul our diet not so much in the hope of a cure but rather as a conscious decision to choose a path of food as nourishment, possibly even medicine.

The initial fallout, both physical and mental, was not pleasant as our bodies readjusted. Without the shop bought cakes or biscuits when the afternoon energy dip came, I had to reach once more for a piece of fruit or a handful of nuts.

Breakfast time was initially the hardest and I cursed as food preparation became laborious. I felt especially burdened by the lack of ingredients, choices and alternatives available to us here, halfway up a mountain. Gluten and dairy free products are not as developed or easily available here as in the UK elsewhere and so for a few weeks we were having to make everything from scratch. In order to keep the fire of change burning, we expanded our modest library of wholefoods literature. And most importantly, we kept talking.

It certainly has been a time of much reflection and discussion.

To be continued...

letting go

If my eyes follow the lines of my arm as it extends beyond my body, they arrive at my hands. Both closed tightly.

If I were to peek into one of the hands, inside I would see everyone and everything I hold dear; my family, my beloved, my friends. But also my personal successes, big and small, my precious memories. 

Now if I were to examine the other hand, I'd see the fingers are clenched so tightly over into the palm, the knuckles are almost white. In this hand sit my life-long and more recent dreams. My secret longings, my most bitter jealousies. My joys but also my sadnesses. My hopes for the future but also my present despair.

With my fingers of both hands wrapped so tightly around these, I can open neither my hands nor my heart to anything else. As if I'd somehow loose myself if I dared to offer them up.

All that I hold in both these hands are part of me. I guard them jealously, unwilling to let them go. And yet.

No one is asking me to let go of my loved ones. No one can take away all that I have achieved. But perhaps I am hanging on too tightly to the other stuff?

If only somehow I could have the courage to loosen my grip, to let go of one handful? Then one day I would wake to find an open palm resting by my side, free to be filled with other possibilities. 

busy hands

We're now back in our valley home, after a few weeks away. Lately, fatigue has been becoming more and more a heavy weight around my neck. Not the everyday tiredness that comes from leading a hectic life. Nor the Sunday morning sluggishness and lethargy be-known to students brought on by one too many sugary cups of coffee, frequent late nights or not enough fresh vegetables. Rather an exhaustion that greets you when you wake in the morning, that a good night sleep won't lift. A tiredness so consuming it seeps into your bones, that could drain away all happiness if you let it do so.

Just a few short months ago, I was a teacher and translator. Working for myself from home. Weaving together words and untangling muddled syntax. It feels like another life ago. I've been off work since March, too ill to work. And as this current rough seems to be showing no sign of abating, looks like I'll be taking the rest of the summer off too.

As we try to navigate our way back to that path of wellness, my days have been stripped back to the essential. Eating wholesome food. Fresh air. Long sleeps. Deep breaths.

Foraging in the woods helps. Picnics in the sunshine helps. Spending time with friends helps. And above all, keeping my hands busy helps.

managing tension

 

The early morning scent of brewing coffee. The first rays of golden light out on the balcony. The fleece in my hand is bouncy, soft. Like a tiny fluffy cloud. It feels exactly like it belongs there. My head starts spinning with a hundred million billion willion thoughts. Now is the time to bring them out. Let them breath. With each turn of the treadle, they tumble out. Thoughts only. Dreams. Little sadnesses. As I draft the wool, the wheel twists the fibres together. My thoughts twist into the thread, wind onto the bobbin and are held in place by the tension between my hand and the wheel. It is time to let go, to put tension and stress to better use. It is time to make yarn.  

making lace

It's been years since I properly made some lace. The last time would have been sometime in 2006, just before packing my bags and heading off to University. There was barely room in my broom-cupboard sized study bedroom for my knitting needles and yarn. Needless to say, my bulky lace-making equipment was packed away for another day.

In between the rain showers this week-end, I snatched some time out in my parent's garden to get out my pillow again and throw some bobbins around. 

Traditional bobbin lace uses fine threads wound around wooden bobbins and much repetitive labour to produce fabric of great intricacy.

Lace-making is truly a labour of love. To craft even the most simple length of trimming requires great doses of patience and concentration.

Progress is slow, sometimes less than a quarter of an inch per hour, depending on the intricacy of the design, the fineness of the threads. 

From the pricking to the winding of the bobbins and finally to actually making the lace, seeing a design slowly unfold on the pillow is always a source of great joy. Thread by thread, pin by pin, the beauty of the lace reveals itself little by little. 

On-going studies at the Harvard Medical Institute for Mind and Body Medicine indicate that repetitive activities such as lace-making elicit the "relaxation response" which alleviates stress and allows the brain to set aside intrusive thoughts.
 

In the same way knitting and spinning seem to magically calm me, I felt the beneficial effects as soon as I picked up my bobbins again. Working at my pillow, I could feel weeks and months of stresses and strains fall away as soon as I methodically worked through the design.

I do hope that this time, I'll be able to find space for my bobbins and pillow when I head back to France in a while...