Athletes and Artists

The morning dawned bright and beautiful.  That's right, people.  The sun was shining.  The sky was blue.  The birds were singing.  The cows were mooing.  OK, you get the idea....

A whole morning in front of us.  Oh, what to do, what to do.....
In our optimistic haze we decided we could obviously hike the length of the Devon coast, or at least from Hallsands to Start Point to see the lighthouse.  First thing in the morning 5 miles round trip sounds like a great idea. 
Which it probably is for someone who isn't several stone overweight and seriously out of shape with 4 children and 3 dogs in the hiking party.  And, who designed these walks?  Must the entire way there be uphill?  I mean 2.5 miles uphill.  Seriously?

If I had thought about it a bit more clearly (which would have required several more cups of coffee than I managed), I would have been able to deduce that a lighthouse is going to be on high ground and therefore, this walk would require substantial vertical effort.

The men and youngens set off like this hike was a race for life.  I was happy to let them surge ahead.  In the first 10 minutes I thought I was going to burst a lung.  And why exactly was I carrying my cold weather coat which weighs a not insubstantial amount but wasn't waterproof enough yesterday to keep me dry and yet was heavy enough today to slow me down?  There was that temptation to abandon everything I was carrying.  Instead I was grateful I opted to let Marc carry the camera.

My friend, M, used to be a competitive runner.  In fact, one of the parts of yesterday's story that I just couldn't bear to include was that she ran all the way to Beesands yesterday and back in the rain with the three dogs, just to do some reconnaissance work for us. She did this before I managed to get dressed.  But today she slowed it down and we had a girlie bonding chat while she encouraged me to keep on putting one step in front of the other in her ever so gentle way.  She never once complained when I stopped to catch my breath, even if I had just done that 3 minutes ago.

A profound sense of achievement overwhelmed me in a very private way when we arrived at the lighthouse and I was reunited with the other part of our travelling gang.  Of course by that time, they had taken off up the side of the mountain to check out even higher ground (because of course, there is always higher ground).

I told them I would meet them on the way back.  I looked out over the sea.  I could hear the children yell and giggle over my shoulder.  I soaked up the sun, congratulated myself on meeting today's objective and did I what I do best:  watched the tide go out knowing that later tonight it would come in.

See, I've learnt that recently.  No matter what happens, the tide is sure to come in and then it will go out.  Tomorrow it will do the same even if I don't watch.  The sun will rise and the sun will set even if it is raining.  The stars will shine even when it is cloudy.  Joy and happiness is inside of me and all around me even if I can't feel or find it right now.  There is absolutely no use looking anywhere else for it.  Right now, I am seeing it and feeling it all in Devon.

After our athletic endeavours, we stuffed our faces and headed to Slapton Beach for a bit of stone skipping, kite flying, castle building, and fishing.  None of them were widely successful.  In fact, none of them were successful at all.  Nobody seemed to mind.

Once back at the cottage and properly fortified with hot cross buns with lashings of butter and sugary hot tea, the girls decided to try their hand at a bit of artistry; they painted a couple beautiful landscapes with our watercolours and then Abigail wrote a song begging for the sun to keep shining all week.  The words are done and as I write the boys are working on writing the tune on the piano.  I have to admit to being impressed by the effortless joy and happiness emanating from every pore of these children.  It lightens my load and smooths more than a few wrinkles.

I anticipate tomorrow morning will bring more than a few aches and pains as I pay for my ambitious trek today.  Stay tuned to learn if I am able to walk........


PS The end of yesterday's story (http://clare-panton.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/stopped-wind.html) was inadvertently omitted.  OK, not entirely true.  In my rush to share the magic with you I forgot to finish the fishmonger story.  Just in case it was keeping you awake, I thought I should let you know that the fish was indeed freshly caught that morning.  I know this because when we went back to pick up our shopping all of the fish was sold out and when I asked he told me I would have to wait for tomorrow's catch.  When I asked what he would have, he looked at me like I was some crazy, city girl and told me every morning was a surprise.

Stopped the Wind

We are on holiday in Devon (southwest coast of England) with another chorister family of four and their 2 dogs.  We've been planning this trip since June last year and had hoped for that lovely springtime weather promised by the south of England during the Easter school holidays.

We plan.  God laughs!
We had a late arrival night followed by a late dinner followed by late night bottles of wine which meant ultimately it was a late start to the morning.  The heavens opened up in the morning and the gale force winds made it a wee bit difficult to stand up.  But we had set our minds on a walk along the coast and we were going on a walk, dammit!

OK, I surrendered the moment I stepped out the door.  Abigail supported my surrender and joined me in the comfort of our car as the others set of for a bracing walk to Beesands about 2 miles away.  We would meet them there.

The roads are single track surrounded by 10 foot high hedges are both sides and grass growing down the middle of the road.  Abigail announced she felt like Alice in Wonderland.  She was Alice.  I was the White Rabbit what with my obsession for punctuality and all.

Thanks to the wonders of sat nav we made it without a single wrong turn and whilst enjoying the scenery.  What did we do before this wonderful invention?  Oh, I remember:  bury our heads in maps and be lost for hours until asking for directions.  Even then a local accent would lead to a nod and a smile but no closer to finding our way.

The initial drive by survey of the tiny seaside village took all of about 30 seconds.  We got parked up  across from the designated pub and I wondered what Abigail and I were going to do for the next hour whilst we waited for the others to survive the walk.  There wasn't even a newsagent.
We spotted the car from the other family.  M had decided that one car wouldn't be enough for all of us to return home after lunch so she would hang with us.  With reasonably low expectations, we headed to the local fish shop.  And then the magic started.....

The fishmonger greeted us with a hearty hello.  It was a small shop but there was ample fish which we were assured had been caught that day.  Yeah, yeah I thought "they always say that".  We found the tea bags and instant coffee we were after and then found some homemade hot cross buns, which clearly we were not going to pass on.  We headed to the counter only to be further tempted by the pronouncement that the fishmonger had just whipped up a large pot of crab chowder which would be ready in about 2 hours.  As it was only 11 o'clock we decided, to postpone our purchases and return after lunch.

Back out in the wet weather,we headed.  A sign outside a small church enticed us inside with the promise of hot tea and cakes, the price being only a donation to the church maintenance fund.  We were greeted by 3 very enthusiastic women including the village vicar.  They prepared 2 of the best cups of tea I've ever had and a delish hot chocolate for Abigail.  We bought some cakes for after the walk back at our cottage and then sat down for a right proper natter. 

M went to book the pub for lunch and returned with some bad news:  the pub was fully booked until 2:30.  Plan B went into action.  We would wait for the walkers, eat cake for lunch, then go for our pub lunch.  The church was happy for us to wait.

The walkers arrived soaking wet and chilled to the bone.  We got them warmed up with hot drinks and gorgeous homemade lemon drizzle cake.  As if by magic the boys gained a second wind and a piano was magically produced from a tiny little corner.

W sat down and started to play for the walkers in the church.  Then Seb played.  Then W played.  the girls sat decorating cupcakes and colouring.  Each and every person who walked into that church for a refuge from the wind and storm found a place filled with warmth and love.

The church emptied and the men headed for the pub when our little choristers decided to deliver a most beautiful gift.  Despite it being Easter Monday, they began to sing Once in Royal David's City.  Even though it is traditionally a Christmas carol, it seemed right and appropriate.  Their voices blended beautifully.  They were pitch perfect.  They sang without accompaniment and hit every high note.

When they finished, everything was silent.  You couldn't even hear the wind howling.  They had stopped the wind.  It was as if everything had stopped to listen to them.  And then the little boys' sister broke into applause and I wiped away the tear from the corner of my eye.  The rain on the windows invaded our space and the boys smiled shyly like 10 year olds do.

We thanked the church ladies of St Andrew's Church of England in Beesands, Devon for their gracious welcome. We made a generous donation to ensure that this haven of warmth and kindness is here for future generations to seek comfort.

The afternoon had not gone according to plan but the day had far exceeded our expectations.  Who would have thought we could stop the wind?

A Journey

My life has consisted of countless journeys.  I’ve travelled to India, South Korea, Maldives, Australia, Italy, Spain, Slovakia, France, Mexico, Brazil, Sweden, Scotland, Switzerland, all over the USA and way too many others to bore you with here.

Each journey has had its surprises of lost luggage, flight cancellations, bad weather, dolphins, sharks, missed taxis, food poisoning, parasitic infections, muggings, and hospitalization.

The journeys have been both spontaneous and planned with military precision.  I’ve packed everything but the kitchen sink and paid extra luggage penalties.  I’ve also gone with just the contents of my hand bag.

I’ve travelled on ferrys, planes (both big and small), trains (1^st and cattle class, day trip and overnight), sailed a yacht across the English Channel from Portsmouth to Cherbourg and a catamaran in the Indian Ocean.  I’ve driven overnight from Germany to Italy speeding down the autobahn and getting ripped off by an Italian toll booth operator. 

I’ve missed flights by seconds. I’ve missed flights by days.  I’ve been upgraded to first class for free.  I’ve stood on a packed train for 9 hours from Paris to Amsterdam more than once.

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting one of my very best friends on a flight to Australia.  She had the misfortune of being seated next to me 14 years ago and our conversation, started that day, has never ended.

I’ve cried through an entire journey returning to the land of my birth to attend my grandmother’s funeral.  It seemed the journey would never end and my tears would never stop.

I’ve sat in front of people who kicked my seat and drove me to distraction.  I’ve eaten the strongest cheese and freshest baguette with my mother and daughter returning from a dream trip to Paris.

I’ve smiled and giggled and had my expectations wildly exceeded on the journey of my honeymoon.  My heart was swollen with love and the promise of the brightest future.  I can’t remember ever being so happy in my entire life.

I’ve met so many interesting and some irritating people.

I’ve taken many journeys.  The greatest journey is the one I am still on:  the most unpredictable of all journeys.  My life.

There is no map.

I often get lost.

Not everyone is helpful when asking for directions.

I don’t always like where I am.

I don’t always know where I am going.

I take wrong turns.

I keep walking.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get there and the transportation is sometimes unreliable.

I’m travelling with an amazing group of people.

I am often surprised by what I find along the way.

The scenery is pretty good.

There is no tourist guidebook.

Some sites are massively over rated.

Tomorrow will surely bring a new adventure.

New Coat

My first full winter in the UK I needed a proper coat suitable for the English weather.  Not entirely sure I know what this is now and I certainly didn't know what that was then given the broad spectrum of weather you are likely to encounter in the country during the months of October - March. 

In Colorado this is an easy questions to answer.  You either need a triple down for the blizzard like conditions or no coat at all.  I've worn shorts in February in that state but of course that was back when my blood was thicker and I was foolish.

In Germany you just needed a raincoat.  All year round.  End of.  You might add a scarf in January but you would definitely need to hang it up to dry every night.

In the winter of 1997-98 I was working in London on Old Bond Street above the brand new flag ship Calvin Klein store.  And I had money to burn.  During my lunch hour I popped in and invested in a gorgeous dark charcoal grey wool coat.  I paid nearly the same as my rent for this garment but I figured it was an investment for life.  It had deep pockets and was double breasted to keep the wind out (when I could get it buttoned).  It went with everything.  It could be fancy or casual.  It has served me well.

I very shortly lost the unsecured belt.  I knew that was going to be a problem when I bought the coat but choose to ignore this miniscule flaw in my investment.  I have stitched and restitched the lining of the coat more than a half a dozen times.  I lost nearly all the buttons and the replacements don't match exactly.  The arms are pilled and given I've gained considerable weight since then the coat hasn't actually buttoned up for some time.  Although I blame this on the ill fitting buttons we all know that isn't really the underlying cause.  The hem had to be repaired last winter just before the coats last outing and I knew then that after 14 years of dedciated service it was time to retire the old girl.

Which of course meant that I had to buy a new coat.  I hear squeals of delight out there from my shopaholic faction.  Regrettably, I am not a member.  Shopping is a competitive sport worthy of an Olympic gold medal best left to well trained experts.  I am not one of those.  I find no joy in shopping.  In fact it is high on my stress trigger list and if I didn't ever have to do it, I wouldn't.

This, however, was inevitable and necessary.  I entered the shop with my shields up and defenses on stun.  I was on a mission.

A long army green puffer coat was too small and made me look like a mouldy marshmallow and I swear those ladies I was sharing a mirror with were laughing at me.  The black shawl coat with the faux fur collar was about 4 sizes too big so it looked like a superhero cape and it wasn't lined so was going to be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in the dead damp cold of January. 

Nearing the point of throwing in the towel I found a long taupe down coat which fit perfectly and didn't actually look all that badly.  I knew if I hesitated I would freeze this winter so I headed for the till.  On my way there I also found a lovely winter satchel which I just couldn't live with out for the bargain basement price of £29.  SOLD!  It would match my new coat I practiced saying for my husband's benefit.

I put the coat on outside after removing the tags and stuffed the old coat into my shopping bag.  So much for respecting the old.  It looked great.  It felt great.

Soon I was sweating like a pig on a spit.  I found myself wishing I'd covered my entire body in anti-perspiration.  I removed the coat and carried it around.  It was a bit like carrying a king sized duvet.  This morning I took the dog for a walk.  I put on the coat and 5 minutes into the walk I had to remove it due to a reoccurence of the perspiration. 

I had executed my plan for a new coat and ended up buying a double sleeping bag.  The weather better turn to sub zero very soon or I will be needing to buy another less effective coat this weekend.  But the satchel is great!

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

CHAPTER I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am hopeless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
 
CHAPTER II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in this same place.
But it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
 
CHAPTER III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it there.
I still fall in... it's a habit... but, my eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
 
CHAPTER IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
 
CHAPTER V
I walk down another street.
 

--Portia Nelson

Aunt Helen

On October 12, 2011, at 1:30 am my Aunt Helen lost her battle with brain cancer having fought valiant battle.

Aunt Helen represents a time in my life when everything was good and nothing could ever go wrong.  Adults were perfect up on their pedestals and children had no other purpose than to create mischief and keep their parents on their toes.  My mother and father were still married.  My aunts were are still married to my uncles.  Family dinners at my Grandmothers house were raucous chaotic events filled with love and laughter and usually a fair bit too much to drink (for the adults).  The tribe of 10 cousins encouraged each other to climb higher into the trees and set various things on fire.  Christmas Eve was magical and I wish so hard to be able to freeze that time and for none of it to ever change.

But the world kept spinning and it all spun out of control and nothing was ever the same again.  By the time I was 12 my parents had divorced.  Shortly, thereafter, Aunt Helen and Uncle Ed divorced. Uncle Bob and Aunt Sandy remained married but moved miles away.

Family gatherings became fraught with the tension of custody battle and alimony payments and we were never ever all together again.  The tribe of cousins flew out into the chaos of the world and went on to create some of our own chaos in other places.  We've struggled with addictions, broken marriages, custody battles and demons.  Every one of us has our own children.  But that time of childish abandoned joy ceased a long time ago.

I haven't spoken to Aunt Helen for years and years.  We had a bit of a falling out when I was in university which makes my grief somehow hollow and shameful.  I've seen her across rooms at matches (weddings), hatches (christenings) and dispatches (funerals) but more than a mere nod and smile little passed between us.  I wish I could have told her that she represented all that was good in my childhood and that she made the best chile con carne in the world!  Her laughter will be missed.

Stumbling

Joyce Elaine (Carson) Smith
 October 3 1921-February 7 2005

Today would have been her 90th birthday.  I have been without her compassionate wisdom and gentle guiding light for 6 years.  I miss her everyday and every year I stumble today.

My Valentine

He's a very clever man.  He's funny (although perhaps not as funny as he thinks he is....) but he can always make me laugh.  He's built our son (and more for himself probably) the most amazing scalectrix track along with buildings like you have ever seen before!  Our daughter thinks he hangs the moon every night just for her.  He's crap at DIY.  He can't remember beyond the next 5 minutes so he doesn't plan.  Or rather he plans but it never happens according to the plan.  He loves gadgets and can teach even me how to use just about anything although I must admit I would prefer he would just do it for me.   He can fix any car anywhere no matter what breaks.  He makes a wicked creme brulee for Christmas dinner every year. He makes me coffee every single morning. And I adore him.  He is perfectly imperfect and perfect for me.

He's the best valentine in the whole wide world!

New Month Resolutions

The start of a new year brings such optimism. Everyone dreams of fresh starts and new beginnings. They’ll be a better person.  They'll at least look like a better person. On 31st December, just about everyone I know makes some declaration that the coming year will be so different than the previous year.

And yet, fate, destiny, the hands of time doesn’t really know that the year has ended and a new one has begun. The sun set that night and will rise the very next morning on the New Year Day the same way it did on the old year the day before. It is also incredibly egotistical to think that just because 365 days have passed the next 365 days will be better because the stroke of midnight has encouraged you to declare it so.

Maybe just the act of wishing it were so may in fact make it so. If you don’t wish for being fitter you will never get fitter. The activities required to transforming a doughy blob to a svelte form require more than thoughts, of course, for without the thoughts and desires it would never happen. In fact, it is indeed the very determination driven from those desires that keep you running down the road in a driving, freezing rain or sweating in a gym that smells like dirty socks surrounded by others who have clearly been more successful in achieving their desires.

And yet, here I find myself nearing the end of the first month of the year and I’m not entirely certain I can even remember the resolutions I set for myself which clearly means I haven’t managed to keep a single one unless of course I wanted it so badly it has seeped into my sub consciousness and I am achieving without realizing. Somehow I doubt that.

I read somewhere that you were more likely to stick to your new year’s resolutions if you didn’t tell anyone what they were. I can honestly say that my survey size has proven this to be incorrect. Of course, the size may prove to be statistically invalid since it is just me. I consider it accurate enough to inform me that in the future I would do better to shout them out from a bullhorn in the middle of rush hour in Paddington Station (or Grand Central if you live over there).

I am disgruntled that this New Year so far hasn’t been much better than the start of last year. Whilst I am not bed ridden just struggling to breath from the fog of pneumonia, my husband’s car has died a death when we could least afford it and has put to bed any of our desires to avoid the 20% VAT penalty. Having received several boxes of chocolates as gifts my desire to lose weight was derailed. My day job consumes my thoughts and my writing struggles to find the wee little spaces of creativity that hide out in the darkness of a bad day at the office. I have managed to adhere to my pledges to just make sure that I clean my face every night before bed on at least 4 occasions. Yes, that’s pathetic but some nights I am just too exhausted. Or forgetful.

So far, 2011 is sucking. Major big time.

And yet I am not willing to give up on 2011 just yet. I think the problem lies in the length of time: 365 days, 52 weeks, 12 months. It all just seems like plenty of time to do all and be all we want to be. But you find yourself at the end of every year wondering where the time went.

So let’s break it down into more bite size chunks. Why can’t we celebrate the end of the month as an opportunity for a new beginning? Just imagine at the end of every month you sweep all that didn’t go so well that month into a metaphorical rubbish bin. That was then. Bye bye.

At midnight (or as late as you can manage to stay awake) of the last day of every month (keeping in mind the next day is more than likely a work day), you celebrate with a wee glass of bubbly (or hot milk) and imagine how much better the next month is going to be. Affirm your goals, aims, desires. Validate that the plan you’ve got for getting there is achievable. Make any necessary alterations and get busy. You might want to skip the fireworks. Or maybe not.

Bring on February! Happy New Month!

You call that an airplane?

Kosice, Slovakia in January? I can hear you all snickering at me. What was I thinking?


First off, let me just say I had to go. For work. Really.

Ok, so the choice of date was all mine but that is partly due to massive scheduling conflicts over the last 6 months and there was a genuine fear that if I didn’t get out there now I might never get out there. And I needed to be here.

But where exactly is here?

Kosice is the 2nd largest city in Slovakia and is only the far eastern end of the country near the borders of Poland, Hungary, and Bulgaria.

To get here I flew Austrian Airlines from London, Heathrow to Vienna. Austrian Airlines deemed it acceptable on that leg of my journey to offer me a stale piece of neither sweet nor savoury nor fresh nor stale but rather just bland piece of white bread (although I use that term loosely). One bite was enough for me to decide I would work on my weight loss this week.

At Vienna airport, we had to make a dash for our connecting flight since we were late departing Heathrow (some things never change). As we went through security it appeared that there was considerable confusion over what the procedure was as each of us were subjected to various and all different degrees of search. Only 1 of us had to remove our shoes (me). Only one of us had to remove both scarves but not jewelry (me). Only 1 of us had to remove our coat (me). Only 1 of us had to take our laptop out of our bag (me). Only one of us had to remove our belt (not me). Only 1 of us had to remove our watch (not me). Only 1 of nearly missed the plane as security decided to unpack and repack their suitcase (eternally grateful, not me). I was feeling fairly secure as we compared notes on the bus taking us to the plane. (NOT!)

And then I walked off the plane. Trouble is I didn’t see a plane. OK, so there was there little tiny propeller type flying machine but this was most certainly not going to be the transportation I would be taking to Slovakia.

If you are new to my blog, you will be unfamiliar with my fear of flying which over the years has gone from bad to worse. I prefer to fly either dumb drunk or heavily sedated. Or perhaps both. This time I was neither and I was regretting that short sighted decision. Worse still, I was travelling with professional colleagues and trying desperately to hang on to any dignity I might have.

I started to tremble and sweat and was having trouble breathing. I merely walked away from my colleagues hoping they wouldn’t notice that the blood had drained from my face and I was struggling to climb the steps onto the aircraft.

By the time I got myself seated, I was in a full blown panic attack. I tried to count. I tried to meditate. I tapped my forehead. I pinched my ear. I tried to breathe deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth. I entertained the possible positive outcome of fainting and losing consciousness. I had lost the power of rational thought. The aircraft taxied for what seemed like miles and miles at which point tears were dripping down my cheeks. I realized a complete stranger was sitting in the seat next to me and he was just staring at me. I looked at him and attempted a smile and then assumed the crash brace position.

Before I my low humming turned to outright screaming we managed to get airborne. I counted to 100 and then I was fine. Now, do not go leaving me comments about how safe it is to fly in airplanes. I know that. If any of this was rational I could get over it by the sheer strength of the statistical evidence. I blame my father. And my husband. And my children.

I have always had a moderate fear of flying but nothing that a fear of flying course taken over 20 years ago helped me to conquer or at the very least submerge. But when I became a mother and my husband and I were flying with our first born child to the USA and I realized the responsibility and danger associated with taking this child on this dangerous flying flame thrower without his explicit permission was very inconsiderate. I then thought really that we should not all 3 be on the same flight together so that at least 2 of us would survive in case of a catastrophic nose drive. Then I thought no I would prefer that all of us go at the same time so no one was left behind. I tried to warn you that none of this was a shining moment of clarity.

My husband makes the entire situation worse. You see, he loves flying. He really wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. Hell, he still wants to be a pilot. He loves watching the Air Crash Investigations on the Discovery channel, especially the night before I have to travel on my own.

My father has always been afraid of flying and I always used to make fun of him. Every single reply he’s ever given me, I now use. Don’t tell him that.

Luckily, the flight was long and after an hour or so we began our descent. I looked out the window and saw the landing gear go down. Actually I saw one small tire. And the panic returned and the whole scenario played itself out all over again although in a much shorter time span. I never noticed before how much more quickly you land than take off. I’ll bet the passenger next to me was grateful for this small mercy as well.

My communist bloc adventure had begun.