you & ME

No Valentine's card for me today. No last minute roses, out of season strawberries, expensive champagne or unethical chocolates. No candlelit restaurant or diamond ring.

No big, show-offy gestures. Just a long list of tiny, meaningful ones. Just me and you, my love. You & M.E.

You made me breakfast in bed, because I was too weary to rise after a sleepless night. You came back from a walk bearing a tiny elm bough, plucked from a snowy hedge, bringing the outside in, because I was too poorly to leave the house.

You massaged my aching muscles. You held me close when the tiredness overwhelmed and the anxiety threatened to carry me away. 

We're simple hearted folk. We don't celebrate Valentine's day. We don't even know the precise date of out first meeting, our first date or all those other firsts that seemed so important to my younger self.

We don't keep these dates, but what I do know is this: it doesn't really matter to commemorate when the seed was first planted, but rather to keep nurturing and  tending to this precious love every single day.

I guard our precious memories fiercely in my heart's mind. When I'm afraid, worn out or downhearted, we take one out together, carefully unwrap it, admire and enjoy it from every angle with a whispered "Do you remember when...?"

We're not celebrating Valentine's day with pomp and circumstance. But you've been there for me when it matters, on a very poorly day, just like you always are.

*****

Joining in with the lovely Rachel and Faye to celebrate the love and support of the wonderful men in our (chronically ill) lives.

and there was that time

 

And there was that time in

the last days of summer.

When we sat beside the ocean,

you and me, 

listening to the waves

pounding against the shore.

And I felt the spray on my cheeks, and 

I felt your hand in my hand. 

And I was not afraid of the roar.

And as we sat beside the ocean,

you and me, 

watching the sun sink into the briny depths.

I felt it's last warmth on my cheeks.

And I felt your hand in my hand.

And so I was not afraid of the dark. 

And later, as we settled down to sleep

you and me

beneath the pine trees,

I felt the pounding of your heart from your chest to mine

I felt the warmth of your skin on my skin 

I felt your hand in my hand

And I was no longer afraid.

Already five (and a half!) years together, you and me. Not bad, hey?

starfish

There are times when it can feel as if the rough and tumble of this chronic life has left us washed up on the rocks. Forgotten in the sand by the retreating tide. Just like this little starfish I found on the foreshore last weekend. 

But just as on the foreshore the tide will always turn, so too in life things will inevitably change. It can be hard to stay calm whilst we're waiting. Sometimes it's easy to loose perspective and get swept away by such feelings, to feel as if we'll be marooned forever. 

It's at times like these we have to hold on tight to all the good things we have. To remember that we are not alone. And to acknowledge that all things must pass. Even the really hard stuff. 

And sometimes when all that is to hard, we have to surrender and let those wonderful people who are there by our sides look out for us. Let them pluck us from the sand and safely put us back in the sea, as it were. Because we are all holding each others lives. And together we can get through the strongest of tempests.

All things will pass. Just as everything will be ok. Because he is by my side. As he has been for the past five years.  

golden days

Late summer days spent with his parents, then mine. Golden, sun drenched days wrapped up in a total disregard for time, where the big event of the day is going for a picnic, and the only decision to be taken is which mountain meadow to visit next.

I adored their two week holiday out here with us, so quickly settling back into the familiarity of their company. It felt good to have them in our valley, tucked up in their cosy little gîte on the other side of the stream. To be able to just pop round for a cup of tea in their garden each day on my way home from school.

We walked slowly along familiar paths, learnt tai-chi in the open air, gorged ourselves on the last of the bilberries and swam in icy mountain lakes. We made dinner for one another, caught up on news, knitted in the garden and drank coffee in nearly every café in the village. 

I soaked up every ray of late summer sun, every drop of family time. Like last year, precious memories to hold on to when Autumn eventually falls into our laps.

walking out

People often ask me, where did it begin?
 

Muscles tensed. One leg planted firmly on the earth, the other swinging forward as a pendulum. Heel touched down and my body rolled forward onto the other foot. The legs reversed position and the whole thing started again.

As simple as that. We met in the village library. But it began on the mountainside.

Five years ago, I walked towards the summit, step by step. Not my first steps in the Pyrenees. But my first steps walking out with Nico. 

Five years later, and we're still walking together, albeit much slower than back then. Walking through the mountains, through the valleys, through the world.

sleepless

My nights have been restless of late; dark shapes clouding my otherwise blue sky dreams.

My calls through the thick ink of night snap him to attention and without recollection of space or time he is tangled in her damp hair. He wraps me in his arms and whispers in my ear until he feels my heart return to its natural rhythm.

His breath graces my neck and my body softens. Sleep beckons me once more and he gently returns to his half of the bed, my warmth still on his chest. These are the ways he knows how to soothe my nightmares. Treading slowly with me. Holding tight. Making new dreams.

I hope that these dreams, this fog, will not haunt me for long. We hope they are merely a product of this rocky patch now; a mind leaping ahead whilst its accompanying body lags behind out of breath from the exhaustion of being.

spinning out anxiety

The past few days have been emotionally charged and I'm doing my best to guide myself into a new, better rhythm. As always, it's much easier said than done.

At the start of the month, I had to give up working for the time being. Whilst this new normal will be better in the long-term, for the time being, it is rocky. Fears about money, the future, and especially my own self worth as a disabled person are clouding the horizon and making it hard to see beyond this situation. And poor Nico is witnessing long, passionate displays of sadness, anger and anxiety. Sometimes (unfairly) directed at him.

In the aftermath of a storm, I can see how it's difficult to find that balance between indulgence and comfort. He continues to express his endless, wholehearted love. And I continue to express my frustrations and damn down-hearted state. Usually, he would encourage me to let go of my anxiety by walking; pounding it out on a mountain path rather than dissolving in a flood of tears. But walking is hard for me at the moment. Hard physically, hard emotionally. So if my anxiety can't come out in my feet, perhaps it can come out in my hands instead?


About a month ago, we found a beautiful, old double-drive spinning wheel. Although it was actually for my birthday, we've been getting to know each other in the quiet moments.

I felt like I'd reached a point where I needed to find some release instead of getting caught up in my sadness. Starting to spin my own wool is helping me to do just that. Learning to find that gentle equilibrium between enough and not enough tension. Learning a new skill is helping me focus on the task in hand, and not worry about the rest.