Reflections passing by...

Today we helped an old woman cross a road. My son was tired and I was struggling to cross the busy junction of Theberton Street and Upper Street holding him in my arms whilst attempting to push his buggy onwards. Her peacock blue cardigan and apple green t-shirt walked comfortably before her shuffle. We made eye contact and exchanged a smile as we passed each other. A catch in the air made me turn and check. Standing at the edge of the road, like a hummingbird hovering, trying to attract a passer-by and they passed her by. Not one took notice of this fragile hummingbird. I left my buggy stranded in the middle of the pavement and took her arm. My son, in my arms, quiet now and still. She was light and relaxed into the aid she needed, we helped her to the dentist office as the door closed on her brightness my son (3 days off being 2) said 'helped a lady cross the road'. Strange that he knew we were helping at such a tender age yet all those passer-her-bys could not recognise her need.

Ooops, so soon I break my own rules... in the breaking of rules lie the beginnings of innovation...

The sound of a heart string breaking

crouching the child squats on the ground
hello woodlouse your legs are wriggling says the child
woodlouse curls tight into a ball stretches scuttles off
the child sighs rocks back on his heels pushes up moves on
breaking the sound of the mothers heart
for all the imagined rejections to be faced

The shenanigans of the blog

These are my first attempts at blogging and have come after many laboured hours hunched tight to my laptop scouring the reams of information at my finger tips. I'm a lurker, a serial blog haunter. They sate my voyeuristic tendencies and mostly leave me with a sense of repugnance.

I think it is essentially revolting and crass to spill your life out seemingly without personal censorship and reflection. Yet, more ghastly still to delve into the fragments of anothers life so ritualistically and to be absolved of all social, moral responsibility. The responsibility to connect. The responsibility to interact.

The trove of blog plunder is full to the brim and whereas the sparkling costume pieces ('one man's treasure'... yes I know) outweigh the genuine treasure, they are there. Blogs that are insightful, hilarious, inventive, instructive, emotive, poignant and at times inspiring.
I have vacillated for some time over whether I should or should not write a blog.

'I should...'
Because I feel a strange sense of debt to put something back.
Because to pass comment safe from the reprisals is cowardly.
Because there is , arguably, therapeutic value in blogging.
Because I can retain a veil of anonymity.

'Most definitely should not...'
Because I will undoubtedly be contributing to the endless ether-junk,
Because it is absurdly vain and really quite ugly to assume people will be interested in what one has to say.
Because participating actively will incur some obligated responsibility, not least to my own fragile principles!

However, just recently I stumbled across a blog and I know this place, this canal, this boat. As I read I became aware of a short coming of mine. To forget that life exists in a myriad of realities is all too easy. Community is about noticing, caring and sharing experience with each other. Perhaps, I thought, this whole blog endeavour could be good...

And so I pledge not to fill this space with idle waffle about the state of my affairs, minor changes in my mood, my periods or inane shopping anecdotes. Nor will I subject my family to the scrutiny of others. My husband being old enough to decide for himself what he would like to disclose and my child who will one day be old enough to at best shrivel in embarrassment, at worse resent me my indulgences. I shall relate stories and happenings, the observable interactions that move me. Those moments that remind you that the world is still turning.

Maybe, I can reach out an unseen hand and touch a part of this community. Life.


NB: At times I may post items that fall way short of these lofty ideals and apologise in advance for misleading you...

Who is it you see?

Kings Cross is a busy part of town. The clamour can be deafening and it hums with the vibrancy of movement. Everyone is going somewhere so it seems. We live here and I like it in parts.

Today is not a day I like being here. Today I sit on the lower deck just behind the stairs leading to the top deck. The engines are slamming and the bus is warmer then one would wish. As the bus begins to lurch across the grid-locked traffic into the stop I can hear the thudding of heavy feet and a shrill sing-song voice. She appears. I watch her aware of the presence she is. We all shift in our seats, eyes flicking to anywhere but her. Her hair is a short tangle of black curls and her clothes are mismatched, garish, dirty and ill fitting. I watch her as she chatters to Gods only she sees and answers the daemons that only she hears. I am moved by her and part of me wants to reach for her, she glances round. I look quickly and obviously away as she turns towards me, thinking hard 'don't come near my baby.' Who sits on my lap pointing out buses and taxis and wheels and people. 'Don't come near my baby.' I watch as she hangs unsteadily to the pole as the bus pulls in and hear her laugh as she thanks the driver. There is little joy in that laugh, it's a brittle thing. I see people move away from her outside and then the bus pulls out and she is lost to the noise and the throng. Just another dark shape in this city.

As I talk with my boy sharing his glee and wonderment at the world as it emerges from its cocoon before him I think about my compassion. I always thought compassion should be free. Times past I would of offered a smile. My compassion, it seems, no longer comes without conditions.

http://www.mind.org.uk/