Emotion recollected in mild agitation

I notice… . I wonder… . It reminds me of… .

My daughter gave me The Laws Guide to Nature Drawing and Journaling for my birthday earlier in the year. It’s a beautiful book, and an inspiring one. Above are the cues that John Muir Laws uses when he takes his journal out and about.

Yesterday was an unusual day. With trepidation I went back to the pool for the first time in well over a year. Oh, how I have missed being held by cool water! Afterwards, whenever I caught the smell of chlorine on my skin I smiled. Then in the afternoon I visited the Museum in the Park in Stroud, to meet Juliette from Dialect and the other mentees: Sarah, Keeley and Audrey. When did I last spend time IRL with people who are not immediate family? It was at a Writers’ HQ retreat day, even longer ago than my last swim!

Successive lockdowns notwithstanding, I have yet to get round to missing human contact. I was apprehensive, even as part of me floated above the whole experience, conscious of the water I was swimming in. But it turned out to be rather lovely. A gift, in fact, to be amongst other writers; not at my ease, no, but in the right place. Me being me, it was wildly over-stimulating and, as always, I was first to leave.

I notice: how each person carries themself; how their hands move or are still; the tilt of their head; the complex choreography of their face when they speak; the pitch and rhythm and tempo and dynamics of voice; birdsong; the sun and breeze on skin and in hair; moving patterns of light and shade; the visual textures of metal chairs, fabric, the gorgeous planting; the colours and forms of flowers in themselves and how they influence each other; the aroma of those flowers, laundry detergent, shampoo; the internal sense of time passing… . Not to mention the ever-present interior monologue. And then I must attend and contribute to the actual content of the conversation.

This is normal. But I wonder: is it a creative-person thing to be quite so aware of this kind of sensory stuff? An extreme-introvert-at-large thing? Or just a strange Kate thing? There comes a point when I reach saturation and shut down. And so I leave before that happens. I wonder how it would have been had I followed my instinct and sat for half an hour afterwards in the beautiful garden focusing on one single plant until my attention was brought back to a more humanly-navigable scale. But… we had only just met and I fear it would have been too weird. I didn’t want my actions to be misinterpreted as lack of interest or, worse, rejection. In fact, I felt a sense of tremendous goodwill towards everyone. I hope a little of that, at least, came across.

And today? “It reminds me of…”? Isn’t that where the writing comes in: assessing the significance of these things; making meaning from them; finding or forging the connections between things? It is in pieces. I am in limbo between sending Pascale a batch of poems, last week, that I am not remotely satisfied with, and our next session on Monday. I am not getting nearly enough sleep. Everything is still in acceleration-mode. I have a nagging worry about migraines and the anxiety/OCD that have at times followed upon this state, the one taking my words and the other my perception of any control over my thoughts. I look around my own garden and can’t sufficiently separate myself from the unstemable exultation of it and my mind interprets it all as a kind of burning and I long for cool water, for blue and blue and more blue.

Gold Stars and Marble Jars

I am tired and restless, starting to fret about my work and whether it is (in all the ways!) enough, even as my mind appears hellbent on becoming a perpetual acceleration machine. This would be more concerning were I not a meticulous tracker of the ‘seasonality’ of my mental and emotional energies. Consulting my journal, I see a pattern of steadily increasing pitch through late winter and spring, which reaches peak intensity (subject to a variable degree of discordancy) in summer, followed by an abrupt plummet, then a minor revival in autumn before the next-to-nothing-doing of early winter (or, as more accurately reflects my perception of it, several months of November).

Perhaps perversely, then, winter is ‘my’ season. My worst episodes of depression and/or anxiety have occurred in the summer. Perhaps the excess of it overwhelms me. The garden turning to jungle when I turn my back on it for five minutes. The trees pulling the sky down with their leaves. The insufferable heat. Weeks of poor sleep. Worst of all,the inescapable human noise: lawn mowers, strimmers, neighbours’ music clashing and roiling like the meeting of oceans. The nauseating reek of charred flesh and smoke. Everything comes too close, is too loud, too bright. That aside, I like the long-light days. I like taking a table and chair into the garden to work. I love the abundance of fresh fruit (Cherries! Apricots! Oh, doughnut peaches!)

I am reluctant to inquire too closely into the ramifications of apparently working most intensely when I am leaping out of my skin. I had another mentoring session with Pascale recently, discussing the twenty new poems I’d sent her. It was a ragtag collection of episodes from childhood, an ambivalent attitude towards my kitchen, and strange half-bird beings. Of those that Pascale judged the strongest, the majority began from prompts from the Zoom sessions I attended for NaPoWriMo, during which I was far from my comfort zone. The best poems in themselves unnerve me; there is something Other about them. But I have learnt to recognise that if the work is worth doing, it will scare me. And the only effective way I know for dealing with that fear is to crack on with the work.

It’s not all existential angst! Considering seasonality, I wonder to what extent I have simply not outgrown the school year. I like best to write in cheap exercise books. Perhaps I am still writing poems and stories for Mr Furze from Class 4, so he will reward me with an actual pen to copy them up ‘in best’ to be stapled on sugar-paper to the wall display. There’s a child here somewhere hungry for encouragement and recognition. To that end I have acquired a packet of gold stars and a jar of marbles. I put a gold star on the calendar every day I have written. I place a marble in the jar for every complete hour I have written. The marble jar is filling with gratifying speed. The calendar begins to resemble a small galaxy. Yes, it is silly. But it might just keep me going until the kilo boxes of cherries are back in Tescos.