Searching for answers through these pages of binary,
While my troubles become blurred with help of the winery.
But now my glass is empty and so are my hopes,
In moments like these I don’t know how anyone copes.
My loneliness is amplified with each stroke of the board.
The silence is deafening and can’t be ignored.
It all feels dramatic and I hate that about this.
I hide all the photos so I don’t reminisce.
Though my lips are sealed, my fingers are frantic;
Overthinking my actions and all the semantics.
So maybe it’s time I let these pixels rest,
Put a cork in it and hope for the best.
I discovered this quote the other day, prompting me to go on a miniature journey of self-discovery.
What would the 1,172 photos lurking in my phone’s memory say about me?
On occasion I will skim over my albums, just to pass some time when internet connection is low or to remind myself what I’ve actually done recently, but other than that I have never really properly looked at them and pondered what they say about me.
So, I decided to look over the last 6 months (nothing more because it would take me a month of Sundays!) to see what I supposedly ‘fear losing most’. And well, yeah, hmm, there were definite trends in my photos…among the myriad of curios and other miscellaneous visuals there were 3 things that according to the quote I am scared to live without:
Now I really didn’t know what to make of this… I mean, yep, I can completely understand Orson, my little chocolately bundle of insane is most definitely something I need in my life, he reminds me to be loopy and enjoy everything!! Especially food…
As for my face, I wasn’t sure how I felt at first… there was some momentary guilt that I was this crazy little narcissistic demon but after some further thought and staring into my own eyes, I decided I’m OK with it. I like my face. My brain can be a little chaotic most of the time…toing and froing, upping and down, inning and outing, your typical roller-coaster, but my face is always there; consistent, with all the bits where they should be and usually with a hint of a smile, and that helps me feel more confident even on my down days. I do spend a lot of time and money keeping my face looking, well, like my face. While yes, it’s nice to get appreciation from others, I do a lot of it for myself. It’s my own transportable canvas and I find the process of ‘tending’ to it completely calming.
And then there’s the drinks……….I have no explanation for this. I didn’t realise until I did this actually how many pictures of drinks I take. I’ve never thought they held any special significance to me, they’re just drinks! However, it appears I’ve held some undiscovered obsession for some time. Maybe they’re speaking to my inner-magpie; the sparkling colourful liquids, I need them. But then, in reflection my drinks are a very accurate indicator of my mood. Now that I think about it – all of my drink selections are based on how I feel. If I’m drinking tea during the day it means I’m feeling tired, tired and probably in need of a hug. Lucozade Orange is the red flag of a post-sleepless-night day; I’m probably going to be a bit dazed and scatty. Grenadine and lemonade is my happy drink and has been for 20 or so years. The list goes on but I won’t bore you with the details.
It’s been an interesting little investigation that’s probably going to leave me pondering things for the afternoon and thinking a little more about each click I take in the future. But for now, I’ll just leave you with this visual sneak-peak of the things my camera claims I fear losing.
Things…….have happened, recently.
Well, maybe ‘bad things’ isn’t the correct label, more like changing things. Things with an unknown direction. Things that are going to create a lot of twists, turns and bumps. And while I may not be completely comfortable talking about the specifics of these things at the moment, they are still things, my things, and they have triggered a shift in my brain.
Through the tears, the laughter, the anger and confusion, I’ve realised that I really need to do some ‘mental maintenance’. If I don’t nip things in the bud, I am going to become a person I don’t want to be and I don’t want to have to look to medication to muffle the chaos. So, in the momentum of these changing winds I have taken it upon myself to improve my state of mind, find a new sense of calm and experience some clarity. Lady Anxiety has played too much of a leading role in my movie and it’s time for her to step out of the spotlight.
Although it is still early days, I am slowly but surely absorbing and embracing some of the tips, tricks and habits of mindfulness. And I have to say; it is quite delightful. Yes, I might be approaching it a bit haphazardly (as I typically do with most things) I am still feeling the benefit. For someone with a heavy overthinking addiction, it’s been gloriously shoulder-relaxing to channel my focus into something beneficial. I’m realising that the things I once enjoyed have silently slipped out of my weekly routine, lost to panic and tiredness, which is why I make my return to the blog. It has been months since I’ve written more than 20 words for myself. I can already feel my fingers twitching to ramble about nonsense again…
With that I bring you Mindful Dog Stroking! – fun for all the family! Well, for Orson (the chunky brown bear) and me! Yes, his beefy happy face is fantastically calming in its own right, but adding mindfulness to the mix has made our ‘Mother and Son’ bonding even more relaxing. In return for my thoughtful grooming and fuss, Orson has been teaching me to appreciate the little things in life; the smell of trees, the squeak of a toy or the crunch of a biscuit. And while I may not start sniffing lamp-posts anytime soon, I am learning to stop and appreciate the nuances of everyday life, one breath at a time.
That’s not dust on the needle, this record is broken,
A repetitive loop of words already spoken.
St- st- stuck on the same old tune,
Echoing off the walls of this weathered tomb.
Carved in the rock are old lessons from friends,
Advice from the wiser in the hopes that I’ll mend.
Whitewashed with stubbornness, faded with age,
Clouded by the haze of my own silent rage.
Their logic seems sound when scrawled on the stone,
Yet the vinyl still clicks with that same whining tone.
The cave feels crowded with this incessant sound,
My mind gasping for air, begging not to be drowned.
I see a speck of sunlight guiding away from the echo,
Suffocating spaces pushing me to escape and just let go.
But my concrete feet fight frayed habits to stay,
Stuck in this cycle of my own groundhog day.
I can hear the birds chirping, counteracting my song,
A beat that’s been listed at number 1 for far too long.
I wrote this a while ago, never posted it here, it’s just remained lurking in the middle of one of my computer files, affectionately known as ‘The Bubble’. But I found this video this morning, which I thought was beautiful, calming and urged me to hunt this out for posting…
I possess a whole medley of scars, not just one. Some through accident, some through blatant tomfoolery and others through choice and curiosity. I don’t look upon scars as ghastly disfigurations of the skin but as memories, lessons and moments of escape.
One of my first, and probably scar with the earliest memory, is the star shaped bruise on my foot that I obtained when I was just a pup. At the tender age of never-thinking-things-through-and-three-quarters, I decided it was a good idea to try climbing the derelict motorcycle that we had propped up in the back garden, only to have the motorcycle decided it would be much more fun to mount me instead, and leaving me a five-pointed off-colour reminder.
Scar two – above my eye – Again, I was a child and as a child it was not one of my brightest move to try and tightrope the park bench because it resulted in a completely graceless headfirst dive into the razor-edged gravel. I should probably view this scar as an act (one of many) of my own foolishness, but I only look upon this scar with fondness. At the time it happened I was with my Dad and one of my longest friends to date, and remember the look of pride on my Dad’s face when I didn’t cry as they laid me down on that hospital bed to stitch me up, while the adjacent boy, who was much older than me, thrashed around in screaming fit as they attempted to stitch a similar injury.
My knees are adorned with a variety of playground war wounds and, I hate to admit it, some intoxicated-while-wearing-too-high-heel wounds as well.
On the back of my left hand peeks a scar that was the result of me not removing my hand quick enough from a closing drawer. Darwin would be proud.
Then there are those I have inflicted upon myself. Despite there being more than I can count, I only ever remember one being done in sadness. That one hides across my stomach and is slowly but surely starting to fade.
Knife nicks, cigarette and lighter burns, scissor snips, lava lamp and kettle burns, even the occasional nail scratch were all done in calm. I have a curiosity in the healing process, I love how the body mends itself while holding onto a memory. Many, not all, but many of these act as landmarks in my life. This was the year I did this…or this was the moment that happened. I know people look at them with worry and concern but it doesn’t bother me as I know their true stories.
To me they are just inkless tattoos Stories written in invisible ink. I’ll admit, they’re not the greatest pieces of art but I appreciate their value none the less.