Joie de vivre

iris-chrysographes_1406930i

 

Walked through the village to give French lessons to the farmer’s wife confined to her bed after an accident. There are irises out in the gardens, dark blue and royal purple and a lovely dirty apricot. My friend Beppa’s house is very neat and orderly but somehow lifeless and unenjoyed. On the other hand my home looks as if we celebrate Christmas every other day, so I am not one to talk.

 

‘I feel depressed,’ said Beppa. ‘How do you say that in French?’

‘You can’t say that,’ I said vaguely. ‘Depression is not a feeling, it is a symptom of repressed feelings.’

So we listened to Edith Piaf singing  husky songs about doomed love affairs and practised a clapping counting game. Then we had a peppy conversation about la condition humaine and  unlimited potential and  how sometimes it helps to make a note of three small things each day  we feel grateful for. In the present tense and not the conditional.

* I am so grateful that I finally realised the importance of the word PROMPTLY in Step 10. It only took two years for me to notice that. What a difference a teeny little adverb can make!

Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

* I love hearing my housemate sing All Things  Bright  and Beautiful in the bath, tunelessly but with feeling
* I am grateful to have people in my life who love and need me. Sappy, but true –
My friend Beppa  hummed and hawed over her three reasons for gratitude and we talked about  the nuisance of French nouns all being masculine or feminine. She said she is grateful to have extra painkillers hidden in the armoire in  the salle de bain. She is grateful she doesn’t have to have sex with her husband because he has wrenched his back. Le pauvre homme! She is grateful she isn’t as overweight as her sister.
For some reason, I can’t help feeling Beppa may be more in touch with her feelings than many of us but we need to talk a little more about la gratitude and  the importance of some joie de vivre.
When I got home my puppies had shredded a copy of the London Review of Books and my house looked more lived in than usual. Quel dommage! And I have nearly finished my rewrite of the rejected chapter but it reads awkwardly in places so I have to revise the last section again. Nevertheless, life is good.

To be of service

cavorting dolphins

 

It turned out to be a wonderful birthday, not because of the messages or gifts or the special birthday supper, but because my friend Stephen phoned and asked me to go along  with him on a 12-Stepping call. Stephen stammers very badly, so he finds these calls difficult but considers they are essential for him in his second year sober.

I was very happy — off we went and after numerous meanderings around a large  state hospital, we found someone I shall call Jim lying in  bed looking  very remorseful and sorry for himself. He had accidentally drunk one bottle of brandy too many and fallen badly, breaking his leg in two places.  Lying  in bed with no family willing to visit and a rudely outspoken doctor telling him home truths, Jim had begun to wonder if he might  be that rare animal, the unicorn. Alcoholics are rare as unicorns, as far as Jim is concerned.

 

So we sat down and I gave him some of my ice cream birthday cake and Jim told us why he didn’t think he was alcoholic and I nodded  aimiably and Stephen went out for a smoke break because listening to delusion makes him  furious. Then, while Jim ate more birthday cake, I talked about why I do think I am alcoholic, in simple but graphic terms.

 

Jim’s wife is of course to blame for  it all. She tricked Jim into marrying her by pretending to be pregnant. Jim has significant trust issues with women. And with preachers, because his local minister  has so much sympathy for the no-good wife. And Jim’s children have no respect for him and he does not know why that should be. Such insolence! And there are money problems and Jim’s wife does not respect his authority in deciding how the money should be spent. Jim deserves a little fun! There is a girlfriend but  she is another reason why Jim has trust issues with women. Why would a single woman have an affair with a married man anyhow? Jim has too many opinionated and uncaring people in his life. His son from a previous marriage will not speak to him and that tears Jim up.

And then there is  life, the universe and everything else. Why, asked Jim hotly, do we not know if nature or nurture are responsible for who we become? Jim holds with nature. It is all in our genes. Nothing to do with luck or choices. Everything is predestined.

As he spoke I could see that elusive unicorn running away  between the trees, so rare, so misunderstood, so elusive. There is nothing more fascinating to the still suffering alcoholic than philosophy. What is the meaning of life? Who is responsible for evil? What does free will have to do with  anything? Who can capture a snow-white unicorn running into the depths of the forest?

I went back to talking about alcoholism and Jim’s tiny red piggy eyes spilled over with that melodramatic remorse we all know so well. Everything is his fault. He has destroyed the lives of everyone  who has crossed his path. It is all due to the seed of evil  planted in his nature. Why will I not talk about original sin instead of AA meetings? How prosaic, how like a simplistic woman with a head full of ironing boards and  recipes for ice cream cake.

So it was a tedious meeting for all of us. But just as we were leaving, Jim said he would like to go along with Stephen to an AA meeting. He feels he has nothing to lose. And he thanked us  for taking the trouble to come and visit him. The shining  rare unicorn had cantered back into the room along with bed pans and a tray of bland-looking  supper.

Stephen and I didn’t say much on the way back home but we both felt  very contented. A beginning perhaps for Jim, and for us the hope we had been of some use. A basic human need  and as necessary as breathing or saying thank you when we wake up sober each morning.

Something to celebrate

coinAA%7E1%20copy

 

Yesterday my friend Susan sent me her AA coin for 13 years of continuous sobriety as a gift on my belly-button birthday today. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am. While ageing is something that happens whether you work at it or not, each year of sobriety is indicative of growth, commitment and grace at work. Congratulations Susan and thank you for the encouragement!

Susan is one of my  closest blogging friends and a brilliant mental health advocacy writer. Through her blog If you’re going through  hell keep going I have become aware of many issues around Big Pharma and the struggles of those with mood disorders to get effective treatment and find  skilled and compassionate counsellors and, well, to keep going.

In the relatively brief time since I became sober I have met recovering alcoholics who  have had to deal with schizophrenia, psychosis, bipolar disorders, phobias and crippling clinical depression. They are some of the bravest and most gifted  people I know and put my own struggles in recovery into perspective. Recovery is possible for all of us, if we are willing. Nobody is excluded, nobody need suffer alone without hope.

“There are those too who suffer from grave emotional and mental disorders, but many of them do recover if they have the capacity to be honest.”

A difficult day

FHB suchocki

 

Well I underestimated just how difficult yesterday was going to be. As one does. I was tired from rewriting and the potatoes wouldn’t go crispy the way they always go crispy when I roast them.

My beloved friend Trix is very ill. Swollen and ravaged with steroids as the lupus continues unchecked. Lupus in the brain is a medical nightmare. She began weeping when she saw me and we hugged while I stood there reeling with shock and wanting to run away.

And her husband  was drunk and deadening his pain, demanding the lion’s share of attention. At one point I went into the spare room and found myself tidying a bookshelf just  because I couldn’t trust myself to be with the others and not say something unforgiveable to him. Or throw his car keys into a neighbouring garden so that he couldn’t drive the car into a pantechnicon with her sitting beside him. Or say something unforgiveable that might lead to him storming out and never speaking to me again. Because he will need my friendship after she is gone. (Which please God will be mercifully soon.) And it is not Anton’s fault that his presence reminds me of my own drunken absence to  friends like Trix for so many years, that I don’t remember things that she did for me or what was going on in her life while she kept on loving me and putting up with  the odd crumb of affection. That I may have run out of time to make the amends I so long to make.

In sobriety I have come to realise that almost nothing really is worth those ill-timed conflagatory fights. Those all-or-nothing  shouting matches or cold accusatory stand-offs. Very few situations require ultimatums. When I was doing my Step 9 amends I realised how deeply and shockingly hurt friends had been by  things I had said and how some things cannot ever be unsaid and may not really ever be forgotten, even if they are forgiven. And losing others impoverishes our lives more than anything else.

Even though staying present to ourselves and others hurts so much at times. A part of me is always going to wish I could run away or hide somewhere until the diffucult stuff is over. I am not very courageous around emotional distress and I will always want to lock myself  up somewhere out of sight and  put a pillow over my head or numb myself out with a strong glass of alcohol or a efficacious little pill. And that is no longer possible.

So it was a difficult day. But I kept my mouth shut and  held onto the notion of sustained relationship and didn’t say or do anything I would later come to regret. Which makes it a good learning curve of a day but  it didn’t and doesn’t feel that way. Grateful this morning that I have work to do and bookshelves to tidy.

Scrapbook 3

Brakage

 

I have no business writing a blog at all. Last night I wrote 5 000 words of my revised chapter and only 200 words make sense. This is  fairly usual, so it doesn’t bother me that much. The writing life is not 90% hard work and 10% inspiration, it is 75% substandard writing and rejection and 5% getting better and the rest is up to the publisher’s whims.

 

But I do know my first thought is rarely my best or most original idea. When I put that last full stop to the draft of a blog post, I go and have a cup of green tea and then come back and read what I wrote in the flush of genius or impulsive emotion. Then I cut out the  over-disclosure and innuendos and that odd little whine of self-pity. Professional writing  takes  even more forethought: there I prune out most of what I like because my fondness for certain phrases or adjectives  signals that there is something jejeune and indulgent going on.

But inevitably something awful and unnoticed creeps into print and there are certain articles and short stories I cannot think about without wincing. So the opportunity to rewwrite is  a tough blessing in disguise.

The sky is black and lowering. Will we be able to eat in the garden? Is there enough salad for  four people? Should I add some more potatoes? I am dashing out to a farmers’ market and the menu may  change if I find tiny broad beans or new scarlet runner beans or fresh rainbow trout.

Earlier this morning I sat up in bed rereading one of my favourite novels, A Tale of Love and Darkness by Amos Oz whom I hope wins the Nobel Prize for Literature. The Nobel committee are as quirkily perverse as small puppies or eccentric spinsters, so  I doubt Oz will be honoured. But his account of growing up in Jerusalem during the last years of the British mandate in Israel is a funny,  nostalgic and heartbreaking achievement. My bedroom looks out on a drive  surrounded by  flowering bushes of poinsettia, ornamental ginger and bougainvillea — I can see the tops of the fruiting loquat tree and an old spindly jacaranda, a bright green leafy branch or two of the pin oak at the corner of the drive. I sit up in bed reading and pausing to gaze dreamily out of the window.

 

Yet as I read Oz describing his mother’s home in Eastern Europe, I look out of the window and imagine different bushes, different trees. And I see again  my old family home  on the highlands forest reserve with the dark lines of pine forest and the wild tall ferns, fiddlehead and tree fern, that bordered the lawns. Jungly mountains beyond, the sound of a crashing waterfall somewhere just out of sight.  In sobriety I retrieve a wholeness and balance to old memories because that past coloured by grievance has altered. It is rather like unpacking a suitcase and paging through  photo albums or  unfolding baby clothes. Yes, I am there as the child on the far left, in a school hat and gingham, but  it is no longer all about me. There is the long shadow cast by incest, violence, alcoholism — but there is a smiling cousin playing with a large  German shepherd and  a gifted family, troubled but musical, booklovers sneaking off to find a quiet place to read, younger siblings in ugly handed-down cotton shirts and Clarke’s  shoes  in patent leather with silver buckles. There is the old Landrover with cracked windows and a two-way radio. My little brother who died so violently is clambering onto a tractor, shouting at us to  watch him barefoot and scrambling, grinning from ear to ear. The patina of light and dark, chiarascuro.

Piecing together the forgotten years, in gratitude. But now I must get back to work…

Scrapbook 2

 

Brakhage

 

I’m distracting myself  with blogging because I have to rewrite a chapter  of 15 ooo words. With footnotes.

And because it is Friday afternoon and I want to go and sit out in the garden and eat goat’s cheese and sundried tomatoes on focaccio.

 

My friend Trix and her drunken husband are coming to visit tomorrow. She called me and said she is worried that he will insist on driving home drunk. She is afraid  he may have an accident or get arrested for drunken driving. Again. She wants me to persuade him not to drink too much. Or to stay over and sleep here. She wants me to worry about her drunken husband too so she can feel less lonely and anxious.

But I am not going to worry. Anton is alcoholic. He will  drink beer as he drives out here at 10am. He will have his own supply of liquor in the boot. He will eat very little and get drunk and sing off-key Neil Diamond  to us. He will not worry about driving back to town drunk and he will not stay overnight in a place without enough alcohol.. He will turn nasty and belligerent if I reason with him. So I refuse to worry about Anton or the  accident he might have or  his arrest or his nastiness. He is alcoholic and that is what alcoholics do. I tell Trix she can stay overnight if she is afriad to get into a car with him behind the wheel. I tell her I will understand if she chooses not to come out. She is ill with lupus and  I want to spend some time with her. He wants to come along too.  It is going to be a difficult day and there is nothing she or I can do to stop Anton making it very dificult indeed.

This is what Anton always sings after  five or six beers and  half a bottle of Scotch:

Love you so much can’t count all the ways
I’d die for you girl and all they can say is
“He’s not your kind”

They never get tired of puttin’ me down and
I never know when I come around
What I’m gonna find
Don’t let them make up your mind
Don’t you know

Girl, you’ll be a woman soon
Please come take my hand
Girl, you’ll be a woman soon
Soon, you’ll need a man

I’ve been misunderstood for all of my life
But what they’re sayin’, girl, just cuts like a knife
“The boy’s no good”

Well, I finally found what I’ve been lookin’ for
But if they get a chance they’ll end it for sure
Sure they would
Baby I’ve done all I could
it’s up to you

Girl, you’ll be a woman soon
Please come take my hand
Girl, you’ll be a woman soon
Soon, you’ll need a man

While all of us girls become women sit around  pouring cups of tea and wishing he’d shut the fuck up.

I have always kept scrapbooks. I buy notebooks and make up collages of  snapshots, typography,  little pieces of fabric, grocery receipts, crayoned sketches, cardboard, old photographs and poetry or quotations. It is a way of creating something layered and cryptic and intriguing. I look at my life differently after  pasting it up in fragments.

 

Jane Wodening, then Jane Brakhage, assembled three remarkable scrapbooks in the early 1960s, when she was the wife and muse of experimental film maker Stan Brakhage. Celebrated today as a pioneer in avant-garde cinema, Stan Brakhage was just gaining recognition for his non-narrative and hand painted films during the period documented by the scrapbooks. Wodening created the scrapbooks from literal “scraps” of their family life, Brakhage’s creative process, and the artistic communities of which they were a part. Pages are covered with the widest array of verbal and visual materials including but not limited to letters, manuscripts, photographs, original art, clippings, pamphlets, filmstrips, and flyers.

Scrapbook

undone needlework

 

Just heard from my publisher in London who tells me breezily he wants a rewrite of my latest chapter.

‘Um, what bits did you feel needed a rework?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Oh just redo the whole thing. Give it another bash. It needs a fresh perspective. Could you get the new stuff to me by  next Monday?”

Which reminds me why I love blogging so much. I get to write what I like.

It is gloriously hot and still here in the mountains. The birds have eaten all my basil seedlings and the dogs have dug up my  little sage bush just as it was recovering from a replanting.

My neighbour is having a nervous breakdown because she has had to lie in bed  for a fortnight recovering from a back op. She says her own thoughts have become a shouting match.

I wish I could go into the city and walk around art galleries. I miss looking at art and photographs and  the Internet is not enough. Images  of unfinished needlework found here.

I don’t know how to rewrite this damn chapter and I am unravelling at the edges. But I must sit down and just get on with it.

And I sometimes wonder if developing a certain resilience and persistence is not as crucial to sobriety as it is  for writing practice. When I first went along to AA meetings, I loved and was immediately drawn to those who were gung-ho about staying sober. Those who were struggling or ambivalent  were too much like the old me. I remember  choosing to identify with those who put sobriety above everything else, who wanted to crawl up back into the sunlight of the spirit no matter how hard it might be. Those who were  sitting around debating  if they might be problem drinkers rather than alcoholics reminded me of myself aged 35, switching to white wine because red wine was the problem. Red wine made me more unladylike than white wine. White wine practically begged to be sipped and left alone for decent intervals. Red wine was sneaky and rough around the edges and  gave me hangovers because of the sulphur in it.

My daily dip into As Bill Sees It, all soggy  with bathwater.

Provided we strenuously avoid turning these realistic surveys of the facts of life into unrealistic alibis for apathy or defeatism, they can be the sure foundation upon which increased emotional health and therefore spiritual progress can be built.”

A spacious fellowship

dinner table

Today is a public holiday here in South Africa: National Heritage Day sometimes known as National Braai Day because everyone loves barbecues. The holiday used to be known as Shaka Day after the great Zulu tyrant and warmonger. I am going to bath my puppies and  make lunch for seven people. I am planning a stunning  exotic Zanzibari dish centred on chick peas but my housemate has grilled steak in mind.

 

I was reading As Bill Sees It in the bath this morning, and felt soapy and encouraged by this:

‘We have found that God does not make too hard terms with those who seek Him/Her. To us the Realm of Spirit is broad, roomy, all-inclusive, never exclusive or forbidding to those who earnestly seek. It is open, we believe, to all men and women.’

That really does  make me feel welcome and as if there is space for everyone in the fellowship.  It reminds me why I so loved the Desert Father Origen when I studied patristiucs years ago. He believed in universal salvation, that everyone ever born would find his or her way home, to union with the Divine. After his death Origen was canonized and his work taught to many generations of believers. About a century after his death, somebody realised that universal salvation made hell unnecessary, and Origen was anathematized and branded as a heretic. But he remains a favourite of mine. Along with all the Desert Mothers who didn’t get honoured by the early Church.

 

No learning curve has ever surprised me as much as studying theology. I unlearned almost everything  I thought I believed and it zapped some of the contempt I tend to assume prior to investigation.

 

Broad, roomy, all-inclusive. That makes me think of a long dinner table at which everyone is welcome and nobody goes hungry. With both chick peas and steak there for  the taking.

Scaloppine di pollo

chicken + artichokes

 

This is an Italian dish that makes chicken breasts meltingly tender and exciting with the help of mushrooms and artichokes. If you don’t have artichokes, use zucchini. I have had too many bland and slightly overcooked chicken breasts and when I first discovered this dish I made it all the time, with copious amounts of white wine.  Glass for the chicken-licken, glass for the cook, bash fingertips as chicken breasts get pounded, more wine, burn  garlic, more wine, out of white, let’s have some red, scrape chicken off floor, etc. If I could make this dish while incapable, anyone can do it.

Then I sobered up and  forgot about the recipe because I wasn’t cooking with wine any longer.

As it happens Scaloppine di pollo works just fine without any wine. I sometimes use creme fraiche as well as cream, or some chicken or vegetable stock.

 

Earlier I was reading tributes to the flamboyant, lovable and maddening Keith Floyd who was the first creative television chef to show everyone how easy it is to cook and how easy it is to get it wrong. He ran his popular restaurants into the ground one after another, went through four marriages, claimed to be bored and misunderstood and was perpetually bankrupt. I can’t understand why so many journalists  are shy to state the obvious: Floyd was hopelessly alcoholic.

 

AA Gill puts things in a nutshell:

‘I can’t in all honesty say that I’ll miss him. I was once sent to interview Keith in the south of Spain, where he’d retired: one of his many retirements, all hurt and self-pityish, to escape from the ravages of unions, socialists, philistines, do-gooders, traffic wardens, political correctness, immigrants, critics and sober bores who had apparently taken over Great Britain, the country he loved except for everything it did and everyone in it.

I found him in one of those sorry expat Costa del Sol pubs at 10.30am, necking pints, leaning on a bar with half a dozen hacking, pasty-faced, nicotine-fingered taxi drivers and nightclub bouncers, flicking through The Sun while complaining about the football and the price of Marmite. Four hours later I left him slumped and insensible in an armchair, his sweet young wife apologising with a well-practised, half-hearted boredom as she tried to get him off the soft furnishings before his bladder gave up.’

 

SCALOPPINE DI POLLO

 

4 ounces freshly squeezed  lemon juice with some zest to taste
2 ounces white wine (skip this and just taste for  the right acid balance)
4 ounces thick cream
1 lb butter or 4 sticks
6 (3-4 ounce) chicken breasts, pounded thin
a little oil, for sauteing chicken
a little butter, for sauteing chicken
1 small cup flour, seasoned with
salt and pepper, for dredging
6 ounces pancetta, cooked (or good back bacon, not too fatty)
12 ounces field mushrroms or ceps, sliced
12 ounces freshly boiled and cleaned artichoke hearts, sliced
1 tablespoon capers
1 lb capellini or thin spaghettini, cooked al dente
chopped flat-leaf parsley, for garnish

 

1. Heat the lemon juice and white wine or stock in a saucepan over medium heat.

2. Bring to a boil and reduce by one-third.

3. Add cream and simmer until mixture thickens (3-4 minutes).

4. Slowly add butter until completely incorporated. (I often use less butter once sauce is unctuous.)

5. Season with Maldon salt and freshly ground black pepper.

6. Remove from heat and keep warm.

7. Cook pasta and drain.

8. Heat a small amount of oil and two tablespoons butter in a large skillet.

9. Dredge pounded chicken breasts  in flour and saute in pan, turning once, until brown and cooked through.

10. Remove chicken from pan and add remaining ingredients.

11. Heat until mushrooms soften and are cooked; add chicken back to pan.

12. Place cooked pasta on each plate.

13. Add half of butter sauce to chicken mixture and toss.

14. Taste and adjust, adding more sauce if needed.

15. Place chicken mixture over pasta.

16. Garnish with flat-leaf parsley and any unused zest.

17. Alternately, mix pasta and chicken mixture together.

18. Toss with lemony butter sauce.

 

Serves six or seven, fewer if men are involved

A quiet dawn

Nick Brandt

 

Woke up and read blogs while  having coffee, waiting for the dawn. More and more as I become familiar with posters’ lives and concerns, hopes and challenges, I am able to read between the lines and  feel the weight of the unspoken.

My heart aches for the friend who died of alcoholic convulsions in New Orleans last week. I had not seen her for years and remember her only as a brilliant architectural student. The struggle is over for her now.

But the news gave me a hollow chill inside — I was reminded of a morning a decade or so ago when I went into the kitchen all shaky and  nauseous with bruises on my face and saw empty vodka bottles everywhere, vomit all over the place. I couldn’t believe I had drunk so much, had no idea how I had obtained the alcohol, had no memory of the vomiting, knew I might well have had some kind of seizure  because there was blood in my mouth. Alcoholism is such a frightening death-in-life.

It is such a pleasure to wake early and see dawn breaking, to look at the world as if it is fresh, that intimate  tender drama of seeing something or someone for the first time, made anew. Colour pouring into the grey valley, the mountains warmed with light. It is so important to stop and reflect on the beauty in our daily reality, the loveliness of a transient dawn in Africa. In ancient Hebrew, the planet Venus was called ‘deer of the dawn’ because it appeared so shyly and  had such a delicate fleeting presence.

 

The word ‘dawn’ intrigues me. It has a number of meanings. Dawn has to do with light filling the sky. An idea dawns on us, meaning that it develops and grows. There is the sense of opening, changing, light  filling the mind and heart. A luminous beginning. It comes from the Old English dagian, to become day and is  an active verb in its Norse origin: to dawn. We emerge into a new dawn; a new consciousness dawns  in our lives; there is a dawning awareness of possibility. An hour of gold, starting afresh.

 

Image from photographer Nick Brandt found here.