BEGINNINGS: There’s nothing unique or particularly profound about a beginning. We’ve all had them and some are so universal as to be of little interest to anyone who isn’t directly involved: the new job in a new country, the new home and new set of friends, the change of career, the getting married, getting divorced, getting married again. I don’t include the births of my two children; these were their beginnings, not mine. I just tagged along for the ride and occasionally asked the mirror who I was.
I used, back in the day, to be a burner of bridges. This wasn’t deliberate, simply careless. It seemed imperative, the shedding of ties, the wiping the slate clean and I gave little thought to the consequences. It was only as I grew older and perhaps ‘up’ that I concluded that this approach was neither necessary nor particularly kind. Of course one can’t make a new start without casting off a few ropes, but you can, I now know, take the important bits with you . . . And still move on. I’d like to say one carries the important stuff in one’s head and heart, but let’s face it, it’s mostly on my mac.
Seriously, the idea that you can light a fire under what’s gone before and simply get rid of it in a puff of smoke is a fallacious idea. The ashes remain and out of them will rise, from time to time, a small mythical bird that might tweet in your ear or crap on your shoulder, but at any rate will get your attention. Thank heavens.
Interestingly, I was just discussing this with my daughter. She was here with us in Devon sorting through the stuff of two and a half decades of her life. She too, she told me, is a bridge-burner (perhaps all young people are) and now, in her middle thirties, she’s beginning, like me, to think this might not be the most useful method for moving on. Surrounded by photos and letters, she made the first tentative steps towards connections back to the past, pinging teenage pics and and copies of letters to old school friends. As I had some involvement with this charming multi-cultural bunch of young people, I find myself inordinately pleased that they might be back in touch once more.
It’s one of the greatest positives of this rather difficult process: sharing memories of childhood and later development with our son, Alex, and daughter, Kate, as we rifle through boxes, keep and discard. I recommend it to all parents. It connects you back to something important, doing it together. I hate to think that all this remembering might have happened without me.
No, the past doesn’t need to be destroyed in order to move life on, but one can recalibrate and – oh no, please don’t say change the narrative! – too late, it’s done. One can hmmmmm, intervene in the story of one’s life. So, a new beginning. Nothing dramatic (too old), nothing profound (too dull), nothing that hasn’t been done before. We’re just selling our house, putting all our belongings into storage and taking off. . . . soon. Oh, help!
Loose Endings
While A and I have been engaged with the minutiae of packing and planning, the rest of the world has been getting on with its business. And, if the news is anything to go by, something is rotten in the state of Denmark. If it wasn’t for my own personal experience, I’d be inclined to believe that humanity has gone to hell in a handcart and it isn’t coming back anytime soon.
But I do have that personal experience. Good, decent people do exist and we have the good fortune to know some of them: people who take the time to notice and the trouble to care. What’s more, this part of Devon is full of bright and creative people. I remember being warned that, when we left Malvern, we’d be moving into a cultural desert. That was so wrong. A few years running a music and art charity soon shattered that idea. And being perfectly talentless in that direction myself, I’ve enjoyed the vicarious pleasure of briefly sharing in that world, learning from people who know their stuff: about music, visual art, poetry. It’s been such a pleasure.
But our time here hasn’t all been sweetness and beauty. There was a moment when I decided to raise my head above the parapet and do a spot of protesting. It was uncomfortable, I told myself, but it was action. I won’t bore you with the details, but when I discovered the banners and placards, the box of street stall paraphernalia under the stairs, I was hit by a visceral memory of that time. The feelings are still very mixed. On the one hand was the camaraderie, the friendship and spirited determination of fellow campaigners. On the other was the exposure to human characteristics I’d rather not be exposed to, especially my own. I found myself turning into something I didn’t much like. And that’s what finally persuaded me to give it up; not so much the eggs being thrown, although that was dispiriting, but what I was turning into. Overwhelmed by the lack of impact, the futility of it all, a sort of crushing disillusionment set in. I become intolerant, cynical and I forgot to notice the good.
So now, A and I ration the news, visit friends, lap up their kindness and say our good-byes. The packers will be here any minute and the table I’m now sitting at will be gone. And then we’ll be gone. It’s uncomfortable, we tell ourselves, but it’s action. You see, we can’t help but engage with the rottenness in the state of Denmark. It’s a habit, just like cleaning your teeth. So what are we doing? Running away? . . . Ahh, the Removalists are here and they want to take the . . . . .
Spaces
‘Humans need oreezons.’ So said one of my brother-in-law’s cousins. Or perhaps it was a brother. I can’t now remember; it was a long time ago. We’re sitting on the beach at Post Lafayette in Mauritius, where Adrian’s sister, Debby and her husband, Jean-Paul, have their beach bungalow. The children are busy on the shore, searching for crabs, drawing in the sand and practicing cartwheels. But we’re looking past the children, across the water to that distant place where the sea meets the sky, so full of promise, possibilities and mystery, my favourite of all horizons.
Although I’ve forgotten who said them, the truth of those words has struck me both negatively and positively at various points in my life. Horizons are not just entities that are ‘out there’ beyond the self, they also get inside one’s head, expand the mind and lift the soul. Deprived for too long of their gaze-lengthening, imagination-stimulating possibilities and the soul begins to curl in on itself and wither. There’s a deep connection between the mind and the space the mind inhabits. Humans do indeed need horizons.
And yet, I’m prepared to believe that this doesn’t apply to everyone. After all, people with the means to live anywhere, still choose to live in valleys, enclosed by walls or surrounded by woods. I can only speak for myself and, of course, those many people I’ve talked to over my life time, like that relative of Jean-Paul’s who sat by me on the beach as we stared across the Indian Ocean to its intersection with the big blue sky.
This subject has become a hot one lately. Adrian and I are moving from place to place, from flat to house to flat and this inevitably raises the question from time to time of where, when we’re done with being nomads, we might be happy. We don’t talk in specifics, or practicalities and logistics; these are discussions about feelings, about visceral experience. There’ll come a time, no doubt, when talk in pros and cons is needed. But in the meantime, it’s a luxury not having to convince oneself or others about merit, not having to make judgements or comparisons; a luxury to be able to try a place on for a while, take a twirl once or twice and check out how well the fabric fits.
There’s no question that some fit better than others. When we first came to Britain, as a couple, thirty five years ago, we were offered a cottage in Hawling, the village where Adrian’s grandfather once farmed. It was a generous offer and the cottage was pretty enough with its pale stone walls and mullioned windows, but the windows were small, the outlook confined and I knew immediately that I couldn’t live there. Since then, we’ve lived in six houses in six different settings and those in which I’ve been happiest have all had space, light and, of course, views to the distant horizon. It isn’t rocket science.
Nor is it mere fancy. Open spaces and long distance views are essential for psychological well being. I’m convinced of that. Pick the right space to be in and the spirit lifts up and flies. Shut it in and it becomes, well . . . shut in. Maybe this doesn’t apply to everybody and maybe its a developmental thing, born of early experience. It certainly applies to me. I grew up in Australia with big skies and big seas. I need horizons.
