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The selfish Kate and the concientious Midget

People are selfish. The Midget takes issue with this. In her mind, there’s something evil about being selfish.

I thrive on selfishness.

Ok, so maybe the Midget is one of the most conscientious people around, and yes, maybe on one or more occasion I have been called manipulative. Mind you, that’s mostly by the Midget, and only really when her ideals don’t align with mine.

But selfishness helps me stay happy. And whilst my happiness is a very selfish need, it affects those condemned to work beside me, or those whose genes I share. Plus there’s the dear darling Boyfriend who suffers greatly if I’m a moping mess.

Selfishness allows me to say no. Since I am first, my time is organised to my priorities.

Flying carpet doodle

Meditation – another selfish habit.

Selfish but kind

But just because I’m selfish doesn’t mean I’m unkind. The only person I’ve ever intentionally hurt was the Midget, and that was 15 years ago and so doesn’t really count. No. On the contrary to being selfishly unkind, I go out of my way to be selfishly kind. I’m happy to invest the hours in obtaining good company. For the most part the hours pay off.

I’m safe because I know that I have a multitude of friends that I can fall back on.

If I was truly altruistic wouldn’t I be hunting down the person in the world most in need of a friend, and giving them someone to talk to? Instead I invest my time in people I like and who have lots to give me in return.

The Noph is my sound box, a conscience that sits on the sofa beside me letting my introspective meanderings flourish whilst always pulling me, ever so gently, back to reality. Rapunzel is an inspiration. A flash of colour always reminding me that doing what I want to do is the key to happiness. Singing stood on a chair whilst perfectly sober and perfectly out of tune isn’t just a dreadful racket, but also a wonder of humanity. And yet, Rapunzel and the Noph also remind me that hard work, the washing-up and work is all very, very necessary. Sometimes I need reminding.

All my relationships are selfish. But just because my primary goal is my happiness, doesn’t mean I don’t have secondary goals. I believe that we’re foremost responsible for our own happiness. Whilst I can’t make any of my loved ones happy by myself, I can support them in being happy. It’s in my best interest that my friends are happy.

Selfish but generous

All this selfishness leads me to question why I volunteer. If you volunteer yourself, you probably find the question rhetorical. For me, life is a search for meaning. When I volunteer I have an effect. I mean something to someone. It’s particularly evident when I work with kids – it’s painted in their faces that I mean something. I have the power to help and volunteering takes this power and translates it into action. Actions that build my confidence. It’s a repeated idea that the giver often gains more happiness than the receiver.

Doodle a day 27 March

Work sometimes feels like this.

Selfish but hard-working

Then there is work. I guess I have always had a lot of hostility towards this idea of work. Engaging my brain throughout the best part of five days a week, every week for a company… It sounds like a lot of effort just for some pennies. I get it being necessary. I do. But even so. 40 hours?

Yet work can be rewarding. I love learning and in my job I’m always learning. I’m building a skill set which makes me more employable and better equipped to help those I want to help. I love writing, and my writing is flourishing. I’m also making a difference. Ok, yes it’s within a company, but the company’s values are aligned with my own.

My selfish heart wishes that the 40 hours were a little less rigid. Some days I just want to go to a beach. But most days I roll back into the hovel feeling that I’ve done something productive, and that makes me feel good.

Selfish but unashamed

So yes, I lead a selfish life. One which at its core is kindness, because I need kindness for my happiness, and the sharing of my time and skills, because I need to be valued. Thinking about it, it’s not evil at all.

Nothing at all to be ashamed of.

Would you, like the Midget, disagree?

 

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Dreaming dreams and catching them: life after The Hovel

lark rise Either the boyfriend has prospects, or I’m crazy. Not just because I spend my time loving him, but because we’re going to be living in the same building, again. This time, there won’t be six of us, there’ll be two. Me and him.

The Mother is referring to these living arrangements as ‘living in sin’, but she seems more excited at the prospect of a new house to visit than concerned that I’m being corrupted.

There are pros and cons to this new arrangement. Of course if you know me well the first wonderful thing you’ll think of will be that there will be someone else to do my washing-up, every night. Sure he’ll be tired from playing with boats, but if he has the energy for all those press-ups, he’s got enough energy for the crockery. Since the Boyfriends stinky clothes are currently rotating around my washing machine I’m sure everything will end up fair (ish). Less fortunate is that it’s a longer journey to work. Either Bertie (my car) and I will be causing further damage the planet, or I’m going to be incredibly fit.

I do love the planet. I also love sleep.

It will be sad saying goodbye to The Hovel. It filled its purpose in life quite amicably and I shall remember it fondly. The deer I’m going to miss terribly, but the new home is also hidden away in the middle of nowhere, even more so than The Hovel, and I’m sure there will still be wild wonders.

I’m going to have a garden. This means I need to learn to grow a plant. This is exciting. There’s also going to be a separate bedroom (there’s multiple floors) and so less breakfast in bed. But it’s slightly more suitable for guests as long as you don’t mind the Boyfriend creeping past in the early hours to go row.

A year ago, I knew where it was I wanted to go. I knew the plan was to eventually move south, as I did, get a job, which I’ve got, and live with the Boyfriend, which is imminent. I wasn’t sure how everything was going to tie together. Sometimes when we weren’t seeing each other for 7 or 8 weeks at a time (and longer when I was in Italy) it seemed like life was a tangle of frayed ends. Now it feels organised. Structured even.

It didn’t take that long really for the dream to seem everyday and normal.

Dreams are simply long-term plans. Nothing set in stone. Flexible, adaptable, but maybe achievable. Whether the Boyfriend does or doesn’t have prospects is truly a question belonging to one of my long-dead great-grandmothers. And she’s not here to asses him and let me know. What I do know is that for right now, he’s enough for me. The future is simply a dream.

The ongoing road

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Hunting spiders, wearing glasses and feeling scared

As I write this I am wearing glasses. I haven’t worn glasses since I was fourteen, so they’re taking a little bit of getting used to.

As glasses go, they have the weakest lenses they possibly could without actually having no lenses. This means I can see everything just fine, except during that moment of adjustment when my brain has to catch up with my eyes. It leaves a conundrum. I’m sat in the living room talking to my family, but they’re watching TV and I am not watching TV. To avoid watching TV I’m staring at a much smaller closer screen, so I’m wearing my glasses.

It’s not that I’m rude. It’s that they’re watching one of these TV programmes where someone dies in the first few moments and then the rest of the programme is spent working out what happened. Sometimes, actually in my experience quite often, the clues come in the form of further dead bodies.

I don’t like being scared.

I really don’t like being scared.

I’ve never had a love of any TV programme that might give me nightmares.

In the middle of the scary TV programme there was a loud thud about our heads. My cousin, the Little Mermaid, ran downstairs in sobs, shaking, unable to articulate what it was that had terrified her. She leapt into her daddy’s lap and stayed there for some time.

The Short Aunty and I investigated. There was nothing unusual on first sight. Once the sobs and the shaking had calmed a little we learnt that we were hunting a terrifying monster in the form of a spider.

I have complete sympathy as I myself have an irrational fear of dead mice.

Finding a spider in a room of children’s toys is not the easy. I took my glasses off for the search. I only ought to wear them for looking at close screens. This leads to a certain conundrum. When you’re going between hunting spiders, reading on your tablet and talking with your family – during the adverts – how are you meant to manage whether your glasses are on or off.

We failed, but luckily my Uncle located the spider. Tired and with no end in sight of the murder investigation, just more adverts, I went to bed.

In the morning the Little Mermaid filled me in on who had, or hadn’t, been pushed out of a window and exactly who the culprits were.

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How to be blissfully happy – notes to myself

On the beach

Horizontal horizons are over rated.

I woke up this morning, and then waited in bed for a couple of hours until I wanted to get up. I made myself a cup of tea, shook the last of my cereal into a bowl, dropped the cereal packet into the recycling box (just a large cardboard box since the real recycling boxes have mysteriously disappeared) and poured on the last of the milk.

My food situation is a cross between a surplus and a famine. I have plenty of biscuits, tinned fruit and custard, having inherited the Nonna’s tin supply, but in terms of fresh food I’m down to an apple, a reduced-price mini-courgette and a lemon.

None-the-less this isn’t at all bad. There was enough milk for one bowl of cereal and since there’s only me one bowl of cereal was enough. With my cereal I returned to bed, opened the curtain to let in the stunning sunshine, and set about practising Italian.

I am very much monolingual, but I have a bilingual dictionary and a wonderful curiosity.

An hour later it was 11:00 am. I got up, switched on my old computer, Alexandra, because the new shiny fast computer is having a hiccup. Whilst Alexandra was loading up I floated around the kitchen, relocated all the washing-up to a single surface and made coffee in the magic pot on the hob. Black of course because of the milk crisis.

I meandered around the internet for a while, finding pictures that make me smile and stories that fill my imagination with wonder. I never sit still for too long. Today I drifted between the computer and the kitchen to the sound of Italian pop classics and the gurgle of the washing machine.

I am trying to learn Italian. Casually, on the basis that if it works out like my obsession over Ancient Egypt I’ll be fluent in no time. If it doesn’t then I’ve better things to do. My efforts to speak Italian are somewhat hindered by my lack of attentiveness to sounds and my beautiful Yorkshire accent. When we were travelling Betty and I split the language learning. I remembered what words we needed, she said them. I can read the road signs, she can order salami. Her ears are trained in the study of phonetics and so she at least knows what sounds she’s saying.

I swept the kitchen floor – it was foul – using a dustpan and brush. The hoover refuses to turn on after it’s last encounter with the hovel’s floors. That burning smell…

And then, because it’s sunny and I am happy, and when I’m happy I don’t really mind chores, I mopped the floor too.

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The final days of life; the first days of life.

The Nonna died, with my pink teddy bear and the Midget’s crying mouse in her arms. Warm, peaceful, painless. Death.

I held a tiny baby in my arms. One week old, the son of a friend, lips twisting ready to smile. Warm, soft, sleepy. Life.

And my mind is twisted by this circle that I so regularly ignore, the inevitable, the potential.

If I knew how to cry, I know I’ve got a world of emotion struggling inside me, but I don’t know how. I don’t know what I feel. First shock. The phone call stating that there was nothing more that could be done, the life support the Nonna’s body depended on would be switched off. Her brain, damaged beyond repair. Her life ended. Her breathing, once the ventilator was removed, steady but raspy. The snoring predicted and normal sounded a familiar imitation of The Mother.

Yet, throughout, her hand in mine was warm. The night passed and the sun rose, the sleepless night exhausting. Her breathing became more laboured. Gentle nurses injected drugs, brushed her teeth, applied lip-salve, and kept her eyes the picture of peace.

The end came eventually, as it does for all of us.

And in another room, a life was only beginning.

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Changing Clocks

Outside, in the half-dark that is early morning, I de-iced the car to take the Mother to work.* She helped, finding the de-icer and doing most of the work. I started the engine.

As I pulled out onto the main road, the Mother looked angrily at the dashboard.

“The clock hasn’t gone forward.” The tone of her voice made it clear she was accusing my car of somehow being faulty.

“He’s an old car.” I said, “Bertie doesn’t know he’s got the wrong time.”

She appeared distressed by this idea. Clearly her daughter was driving an inefficient car. She explained that her iPad doesn’t have to be told that the time needs changing. I explained that Bertie was more like the oven than an iPad, and just like the Father had to change the clock on the oven, I would have to change the clock on the dashboard.

“Or you could do it?”

“How?” Car maintenance and clock changing are not normally areas the Mother takes responsibility for.

“If you press the  ‘H’ button…” unfortunately, the Mother’s sight isn’t everything it used to be, “…the top button.”

And, with a single click of the ‘H’ button the time was corrected. Bertie has a simple clock. The numbers loop in one direction. There’s a button for hours and a button for minutes and you press them until the clock reads the right number.

It’s amazing how much of an impact technology is having on what is considered normal. The Mother needing to be told how to change a clock reminds me of the Grandmother not recognising the save button icon as a floppy-disc (she calls it the TV button). And whilst these little hiccups are sweet and make me smile, the frustration was palpable.

*Somehow I then managed to become sun-burnt by lunchtime.

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