Hello, hello. Sitting down again with a quarter-written post on paper, my one coffee of the day and BBC Radio 4’s Woman Hour playing in the background. The neighbour’s cat has perched himself on the patio soaking up the sun, and I just thought, if I can spill these thoughts on paper, why don’t I just add them to a blog post and sit down and write (and, type up)?
I need to write out some thoughts today and get them out. Why am I questioning everything on low days? My head is physically already ‘off’ so of course, my self esteem issues decide to resurface right now? Nah. I’m prioritising rest today. At least until I’ve awoken for the slumber that is a cloudy head and physical fatigue. I can, and to be honest proudly, blame some of that on the fact I went to the gym yesterday and pushed myself positively – so despite how I feel physically right now, I will thank myself later.
I’m feeling really quite anxious to be honest. I feel like I should be searching harder for jobs right now, not sat resting my body that hurts. That underlying feeling of how I should be constantly doing ‘something’, working on ‘something’ is eating away at me. (It has done for years, hence my million and one projects, never resting properly and lack of blog posts over the years when really I just should have sat down and written.) I’d tell others to prioritise rest if they need to, if they’re tired, exhausted, mentally or physically. I’d even make them a cup of tea despite openly claiming to make terrible teas because I just do, I’m sorry. Why do I not tell myself to rest? Why do I not stop and make a cup of tea for myself? Why do I have no grace for myself?
‘Going to God’ with our issues is something I do feel I can’t talk about out loud sometimes, particularly as a 27 year old in a evermore secular society that’s quick to criticise any belief and laugh at any person or people who put trust in something other than themselves and the ‘world’. I can’t run away from the feeling of not being good enough and it’s only really working to resolve those feelings through opening the Bible (even if it’s just the app on my phone), going to church (any church) and listening to the sermon or preach and listening. For me, all of that switches off the noise. I lose my concentration in the prayers during a church service sometimes, those quiet moments oddly more distracting, and I get annoyed at myself for that every time it happens, which is silly really because that lack of concentration has nothing to do with a lack of faith of belief in God. I guess I just remember learning a child what to do in each section of the church service (we are talking Church of England here) as much as what happens spiritually in those moments. As I’ve gotten older, although on reflection I had this same feeling at about 9 years old, I deeply loved the words of the Sunday services. The ones we’d read as a congregation, and the ones I heard the vicars read and would follow line by line, word by word. Maybe after all my learning of language and Linguistics, I’ve come full circle to realising maybe where my love for language began. I’ve used maybe twice in that sentence because I’m tentative to express that as a fact or a claim, I’m aware my thoughts – and anyone’s – can be fleeting. I’ve had enough CBT therapy to understand that, and enough schematics and grammar throughout my Linguistics study to allow my brain to dissect sentences and utterances that come from thought that I took a step back from that level of detail a while ago to breathe (and not analyse other people’s words too deeply – still working on that one…).
On Easter Sunday I had to get up and get to church. I had been up most of the night unwell in excruciating abdominal pain (now calling myself a ‘gastro girlie’ on Insta because, that’s the reality). But to get back to my point, I would not have felt settled for the rest of the year without going to hear the good news. For Christians, Easter Sunday truly is the happiest day of the year, despite it’s twinges of sadness at the reality of what pain and suffering brought about Jesus’ ascension, those trials and mockery, public humiliation and the horror of the crucifixion. To leave church to then spend time with my family only added to that joyful feeling on the day. Our family is so blessed with six beautiful children and will only expand with time. I struggle to put into words the gratitude I have for being part of a large, close-knit family where I could stop this blog post and go round to my Auntie’s for a cup of tea and a ramble, getting a metaphorical kick up the bum from my Uncle to just get on with things, and then cuddles from one of my cousin’s sons who is just the cutest child on planet Earth. I’ve been learning from my Dad, now that he’s taken on the role of Oracle from my Gran, how his paternal side were all about family. Keeping that family unit together, strong. Even if it meant getting people with differing views around a table, because, let’s face it, even in a family, you’re never going to completely agree with each other! It meant visiting relatives by turning up at their doors unannounced to check in on them, make sure they were okay and well; to ask the genuine questions about how people are, and see how they are, not just take a ‘I’m fine’ or ‘things are good’ on face value. These stories come to me passed down, since I was not born then, but I feel immensely and oddly proud (if that’s okay to say, of course it is but, someone is always going to criticise my pride, right?) to know I am a descendant of people who cared that much about others to go beyond the necessary and show love in very basic, menial and human ways that weren’t about spoiling others with generosity, bringing pure ego through the door all the time or lauding anything above anyone. Open door policy, always. If I could be anything like that by the time I am a thought in a descendant’s mind, that would bring me joy.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of my Gran’s passing.
Her encouragement of my writing; her influence on my speaking, reading and writing paramount to why I find so much comfort and frustration in language; her indignation when I would struggle with my confidence are just some aspects I’m so grateful for. When I don’t feel strong these days, I remind myself what my Gran got through; and I remember even more, what she didn’t put herself through which is why I know she wanted me to go for things she had never thought she could have achieved herself. I’m grateful she told me life stories that matched the age I am; all the relationship, family and friendship advice I was given – even if sometimes I didn’t want to hear it. ‘Remarkable’ would be the best way to describe her, ‘formidable’ a close second.
I’m sure I’ll always repeat myself when I remember her whether out loud, on screen or on paper but I will give myself grace for that. I knew she loved me, I know she knew I loved her.
Love,
Anna
kulayrosas 