Current Events – Nastasya Parker

Enduring Power

This Week’s Bit of String: A pleasant surprise

Sometimes it’s hard to remember in the chilly grey exhaustion of January, but my family had a great Christmas. My husband and I decorated the house all cosy, I cooked many yummy things, and we welcomed our kiddo and their partner for an extended visit from the US. We spent relaxed, happy days together, which became even lovelier when they got engaged.

I didn’t see it coming. They look after each other and live together, but somehow I did not expect an engagement, even when they’ve been a couple for years. I suppose this naivete was largely down to my own self-perception: Hang on, I’m old enough to have an engaged kid?

The surprise has faded a little, but I’m still tremendously excited that my little family is slated to officially grow. Whenever I see someone who knew my kiddo when they were at school, for example, I update them with relish. And I’m not the least bit tired of it yet.

I’ve written before about the worry that a memory’s power might get used up or worn out. And I am thinking about this again, wondering whether I should guard the engagement news to keep it feeling shiny. Right now, I still get sharp pangs missing the kids when I walk past their empty room. Maybe that will fade, but does that mean the happiness about the times we had will too?

Keeping News New

This relates not just to the stories we want to pass on, but to what we take in. As an alarming presidential term begins in my native country, I’m wrestling with how much to let this consume me. Twitter is a mess of partisans either hyperventilating over or ogling Trump, very little use, whereas mainstream media talking about him like he’s normal nauseates me.

This man lacking empathy, intelligence, and morals was elected president, partly due to a lack of information getting to people about him… or indifference of those people to the information that did reach them. When a leader seems constantly to be making things worse for somebody, often for one minority or another, it’s difficult to keep impressing that upon others who have the privilege of just getting on with their lives.

By definition, we can’t be shocked by the same thing in perpetuity. We all know a person or two who’s a last story freak; who always has a prevailing trauma or a story that tops all others. As a storyteller myself, I’m liable to fight fire with fire and hyperbole with hyperbole. Telling stories becomes a bit of an arms race.

My plan for not getting caught up in it when actual current events feel like they’re escalating is to stick with the facts. Let’s monitor and respond to the ruling party’s actions, not their pervasive rhetoric.

Capacity for Astonishment

Recognising that even a glimpse of the inauguration would be intolerable, I sorted myself some alternative programming for Monday after work. I watched one of my absolute favourite films: Spielberg’s Lincoln. It has a Tony Kushner script and a massive cast of incredible actors immersing you in 1865, when Lincoln decided it was time to amend the Constitution to ban slavery–even if it prolonged the horrific Civil War.

*Different from the 13th Amendment, but still very cool. From the British Library.*

“Is this a hopeful film to watch today?” my husband asked.

“Well, it shows that even when our history was cruel and selfish, some people managed to overcome it.”

Although I’ve watched this film at least annually for a decade, it still moves me to tears several times over. From the first scene when a defiant David Oyelowo repeats the Gettysburg Address, to Tommy Lee Jones taking the freshly-passed 13th Amendment home to share with his partner, to the final departure of Lincoln from the White House. Watching this again, I know that sometimes, a retelling actually grows in potency thanks to our anticipation of the best bits. A passion for something can spiral, heightening enjoyment still more.

It also gives me another tip for keeping a story fresh: broaden the cast. The more voices we allow to speak about something, the stronger a story is.

What stories do you love to repeat? How do you maintain their power?

A New Challenge

This Week’s Bit of String: A great cup of hot chocolate

What’s the best hot chocolate you’ve had? I once had a wonderful hot chocolate in Paris after a 3-hour queue and a walk through the Catacombs. It was made with proper melted chocolate. (The drink, that is. Not the Catacombs.)

More recently, I’ve enjoyed a lovely, thick cup of cocoa at a craft market a hilly 4-mile hike away. And a Terry’s chocolate orange hot drink at Costa after a canalside wander. These were moments of well-earned bliss and I thought, more of these times, please.

*From the aforementioned canalside walk*

I still like the generic, grocery store equivalent of Swiss Miss packets mixed with hot water like I had as a kid in the US. I have that cocoa while there for the summer, countering the early morning chill in a rustic cabin or at a campsite. I love my Cadbury drinking chocolate here in the UK though, despite my dislike for Cadbury Dairy Milk–too cheap and sickly.

When I first studied in the UK, I bought some Cadbury drinking chocolate powder. I was indignant that it required mixing with milk, as that meant spending more money. But when I complied with the carton’s demands, it was well worth it. This remains a favourite of mine, or I can use our Hotel Chocolat Velvetiser to make creamy mugs of salted caramel clementine, or black forest hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate is all around us, even if it really doesn’t fit in the song Richard Curtis likes so much. These days, it feels a tad doubtful love is all around us, and while Christmas will soon be all around also, I’m resolved to maximise the cosy hot chocolate moments by having some variety of it every day until Christmas. Probably during the brief time off following it, too.

Changing Speed

So I’m taking on a hot chocolate challenge. One of my work buddies is completing a challenge where she does 100 squats every day this month. My husband has grown a Movember moustache with a 1980s, Ned Flanders curvature. Me, I’m going to drink hot chocolate on a daily basis. Life is fairly challenging anyway, for all of us.

A couple months ago, I started on the 100 Days of Writing Challenge. I wanted to see if, while between projects, I could write bits of fiction with the same degree of regularity I wrote my daily scribbles. I really enjoyed it, but grew exhausted with the end of the first term at school, and the disheartening election. I still haven’t figured out what you write when the world looks so wrong.

Fiction is surely the answer long-term, and I’m still making up figments, but other things occupy my head. Hot chocolate is the answer at the time being. It’s also a way of re-embracing where I am. I can’t move back to the US to be with my family now. I must maintain a safe place here in the UK in case they need to come here. Therefore, let the Cadbury and Hotel Chocolat flow.

Tips and Exceptions

I’m taking this challenge seriously, but allowing flexibility, should anyone else choose to partake. On Friday nights, one might substitute another nice drink, like a Snowball with fizzy lemonade and Avocaat. Middle of a busy week when your throat is tired from repeating yourself time and again to Year 10s, perhaps some Ben and Jerry’s.

If you’d like to join in, you may already be a hot chocolate expert yourself. But here are my tips for the newly initiated.

Toppings: Marshmallows are good, of course. I’m not a fan of delving through a mountain of whipped cream to reach my hot drink, but love marshmallow Fluff, the American spread you can get in jars (a British Amazon vendor sells 4-packs at a decent price). Fluff keeps your hot chocolate really warm and the extra sweetness melts at an ideal pace.

Non-Dairy: When you’re low on milk or if you have one of those awful seasonal colds rendered phlegmier by dairy products, hot cocoa is still a nice treat. Or some of the chai latte mixes you can now get, that mix up with water. I enjoy that sort of thing with a swirl of Hershey’s chocolate syrup over the top (when I can grab some from Lidl).

Non-Dairy part 2: If you only have drinking chocolate that’s supposed to be mixed with milk but don’t have milk, you CAN mix it with hot water, but I recommend adding a pinch of salt. It’s quite sickly just mixing with water.

Generics: I highly recommend Lidl’s special holiday chai mix, the Spiced Plum variety. Also, Tesco’s drinking chocolate mix is a bit cheaper than Cadbury, and has a nice hint of cinnamon.

Booze: Baileys is great, but you can add any other splash of liquor to hot chocolate. I like to put in some Malibu or Amaretto. Cointreau is also good, and Drambuie when you want to counterbalance some of the sweetness.

Do you have any recommendations for me? Bon appetit!

Elections and Remembrance

This Week’s Bit of String: A trio of fortitude

This year, our school had our Remembrance Day assembly outside. Registration groups lined up on the field behind our young cadets and scouts in their various uniforms. Seagulls shrieked and fallen gingko leaves cut a gash on the grass as if the ground seeped golden ichor.

I was orbiting three Year 10 boys with a spectrum of special needs. In the time it took to get 1300 young people out on the field, they were quite tired of standing and had no interest in our reasons for gathering.

One boy had crumpled to half his size, twisting himself to lean a bony elbow on his upright knees. I guided him to a bench.

When I returned to the group, as the headteacher solemnly began reading poems barely audible from the sidelines, a second boy pitched up his insistent muttering.

“My hands are hot. They’re HOT. This isn’t normal.”

This student always has an ailment to stop him working. His eye is blurry. There’s a cut on his finger. His dog bit his knee and the painkillers are wearing off. He considers “This isn’t normal” to be the clincher when describing these maladies, and the phrase becomes ever more laughable since clearly, having some debilitating injury is completely normal for him. Anyway, I guided him to a different, further bench.

On my return, the third boy proved unmotivated to surpass their meagre mettle. He wanted to sit down too. At this point, though, the assembly had reached the Last Post and we were about to have our two minutes of silence. I told Boy #3 he could stand for just five more minutes.

Back in the classroom, the teacher checked in with me and I referred to the boys wryly as a Trio of Fortitude. I’d pointed out to the trio that the soldiers we were honouring had to stand very long whiles indeed, and live in trenches under awful conditions, etc. But through my annoyance when people can’t spend just 20-30 minutes without being the centre of attention, I feel compassion for the kids.

Each of this trio are capable of insights regarding others, in their own time. When fully confronted with experiences outside their own, though, they bridle against it and instinctively magnify their issues in defence.

More Than Fortitude

The feeling’s mutual sometimes, as you can perhaps tell. I don’t always want to hear about which hurty finger is stopping one of our Fortitudinous Ones from writing, or whatnot. I have my own agenda, and my own problems.

And when a grasping, narcissistic, thin-skinned sexual predator gets elected president of my native country where all my family live, I’m briefly uninterested in the desperation of voters who found it a bit pricey to gas up their SUVs so deemed him the preferable candidate. Personally, I’m ok with paying fuel duties to try and combat the effects of climate change, or with paying prices for eggs and milk that reflect the costs of making these products available. I’ll stick it out, thinking long-term. Fortitude!

To an extent, that’s a reflection of my privilege. My empathy will win out in the end. I’ll be patient with my students and with the voting public because I don’t like anyone to suffer and I do realise humanity is rife with struggle.

If we are tough and resilient without empathy, we get entrenched in our beliefs and when others don’t function in the exact same way we do, we may see them as less human.

Beyond Empathy

For the first several days after the election, I felt physically sick. On Wednesday the 6th, as I walked to school through crispy, sunset-coloured leaves, I remembered the Supreme Court and how he’ll make it even more awful for 30-50 years to come, and I nearly threw up. This is not normal.

*This is just a pretty picture which I stopped and took through my post-election daze.*

I lost more sleep, worrying about the impact on my kiddo and their partner. Will they still be accepted to work in schools? Will there even be funding for jobs in special needs education over there anymore? Should I send money, help them stock up on certain items before the promised tariffs and economy crash? When I do sleep, I have extra dreams about abuse and assault. Seeing misogynists and an adjudicated rapist assume power reopens trauma wounds.

There’s a weary frustration, as I wonder how to persuade people outside my information bubble to do what’s right (ie, vote against racism and sexism and authoritarianism) whether it seems to be in their best economic interest or not. And there’s grief because, well, now how can I go home? Not to live there with my family in the near future, anyway.

And yet, this is nothing like what those soldiers and their families went through in the World Wars, nothing like the terror and loss experienced in the Middle East or Ukraine. When we had our two minutes of silence last Monday, I was grateful to reflect on circumstances vaster than my own, and to move out of my feelings.

Surviving the incoming presidential administration will require a mix of empathy and fortitude. We need to be resilient and practical, and considering the big picture while planning specific action. No matter how tiring it is, we have to keep standing.

Giving Voice

This Week’s Bit of String: Group karaoke in the school hall

Last weekend, we sang. There was an event called The Big Sing, hosted by a community organisation and linked to World Singing Day. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the roar of the election in my native country and the brutality in the Middle East, plus the tiring school term have stressed me out. It was time to step out and do something different.

I thought we might be carefully learning different harmony parts, line after diligent line. It turned out to be a playlist of fun hits from ABBA to Grease to Taylor Swift to Frozen, via a karaoke website projected onto the big screen of the main hall at my work. All we had to do was open our mouths and follow along, just right for my mental speed.

In front of us, a posse of little girls coloured with crayons through the songs they didn’t know. Their parents, in running kit, knew lots of the dance moves and were having a blast. There were various mums and grannies, including an older woman with heavy leg bandages on. A couple of boys in football kneepads and Ninjago t-shirts were singing too, and behind our plastic chairs, a short row of our Sixth Form chaps did the can-can. The newly-elected local MP even stopped in, and I could see him singing along to Disney’s “Let It Go” with the rest of us.

The idea was to come together and have fun, and it certainly hit the spot for me. It was lovely to witness and to be part of.

Borrowed Words

I’ve always loved singing, but in recent years I haven’t done much about it. As an adolescent I dreamed of hitting a Broadway stage at least as much as I did of becoming a published author. This was the 90s so my desperately-loved favourites ranged from “I Dreamed a Dream” to “Crucify” by Tori Amos.

*This is just a picture I took that I like, to go along with writing about something I like.*

Both singing and writing give us a chance to express ourselves. Singing is a slightly more instantly gratifying option. Mostly, we’re singing someone else’s words, but somehow that doesn’t lessen the release. There’s a feeling of something powerful flowing through us, and imagining a rapt audience is an enticing fantasy.

My fantasies were quickly dispelled in the first apartment we bought here in the UK. Our downstairs neighbour struggled with mental illness and addiction and would scream obscenities at us and slam his dumbbells into his ceiling/ our floor if we made any noise. We lived life on tiptoe, literally, and couldn’t let our child play in the so-called living room. It wasn’t safe to sing, and even though we moved out of there 13 years ago, perhaps the stifling lingered. It was nice to re-experience the escape on Saturday.

Listening

To sing shares an etymological root with to enchant. It is, maybe, a bit of magic. I remember church services as a little kid, in a congregation of 300 or so. I’d lean my ear against the pew and feel it vibrating with the might of voices raised together. It scared me a little, but also stirred a longing.

*Saw the touring production of this show and it was excellent.*

Now that I’m older, I kind of want to sing for me. I don’t need an audience, I just want to feel I’m stretching my voice as best I can. It’s more like my daily scribbled pages than a story I try to get published.

And I probably appreciate more than ever other people’s performances and words. When not so desperate to be heard, I can listen to others. I appreciate equally song lyrics that are raw or artful.
Stressed and tired lately, I’ve played the same songs on repeat. Here are two recent favourites which also happen to be great examples of storytelling.

Jenn Colella singing “Me and the Sky” from Come From Away: Classic musical theatre anthem with some dazzling, uplifting moments that takes the audience masterfully from “Hell yes” to “Oh hell” in 3 seconds. I love when music (and books) share a new perspective while being utterly relatable.

Carol Ades “Late Start:” It’s a catchy tune and the video is adorable as she portrays herself trying to fit a Successful Artist mould. Again, sadly relatable, but there’s a heartwarming twist as she makes an unexpected friend.

Often we find songs that function as somewhat unexpected friends. What are yours? What links have you noticed between singing and other forms of creativity?

Toughness

This Week’s Bit of String: The power of pinching

“You know something I’m good at?” a Year 11 girl says, raising her eyebrows at me over her Jacqueline Wilson book. “Pinching.”

She proceeds to list all the boys she pinched good and hard in Year 7 to keep them in line. She’s often the only girl in the lowest-set class, and maybe her talent for pinching has been key to her thriving in potential chaos. I don’t condone it, but I understand where it comes from.

In first and second grade, I was good at getting pinched. I thought it proved my mettle, and built my tolerance. A couple of boys in my class obliged me by pinching the back of my hand, the tiniest amount of skin to cause the sharpest pain.

“This hurt?” they’d ask, and I’d shake my head, lips pressed together. I was quietly proud of my fingernail-shaped scabs.

As a small human, I was terrified of doing wrong and earning punishment. Because of abuse in my extended family, I knew what kinds of pain were out there and I knew that loved ones could inflict it. When aware of struggles in my immediate family or in the wider world (I was pretty self-absorbed, as kids often are), I internalised and worried about that, too.

Inviting pain, consenting to it, made me feel more powerful. It made me feel tough rather than sensitive.

I look back on this because I’m still prone to concern and deep feeling. Many of us creative types are. Now, my sensitivity is spread across a broader field; I’m aware of so many more problems and wrongs and agonies, many that are worse than my own.

Perhaps just as a pinch is less painful when gripping a wider section of skin, empathy cripples us less when cast over a greater area.

Reinvestigating Empathy

I’ve just finished reading Octavia E. Butler’s dystopia/ sci-fi classic The Parable of the Sower. The narrator of the story is a teen girl called Lauren, a hyperempathic ‘sharer.’ If she sees anyone injured, she will feel their pain, genuinely, sometimes to an incapacitating degree. (This is revealed in the beginning of the story—I’m avoiding spoilers.)

Because it can give her the appearance of weakness among a desperate population, Lauren tries to hide her ‘sharing.’ When she has to fight, she strikes to kill because then she won’t feel her enemy’s pain. Her empathy could make her a target, but it also forces her to be tough, and that’s quite a fascinating juxtaposition.

And our heroine’s empathy makes her wary. Tuned into, and rightly frightened of, the world’s suffering, Lauren educates herself and prepares for disaster. I love how Butler uses Lauren’s empathy as a catalyst for wisdom, combining heart and head, so to speak.

How often do we see our empathy as kind of a drag, as something exhausting? It’s a bit like writing. We actually have a tremendous gift, and when not in its throes we can consider how to let it steel and prepare us.

Resilience

We can only take so much, and when we hear stories, we have limits to how much we can stand to feel them. Or maybe it’s not limits. Maybe it’s more of an inoculation.

My most heart-breaking moment as a teaching assistant (and there is some competition here) was a Monday morning exchange with a Year 7 boy. He’d been allowed to see his mum at the weekend and then returned to his foster home. He said to me in a wavering voice:

*Can a good heart still be tough as rocks?*

“Miss, you know how usually, when you cry yourself to sleep, it stops by the morning? Well… this time it didn’t.”

He was refusing to go into the classroom because he didn’t want to risk crying in front of the group and looking weak. But his feelings were big enough to slay me where I stood. He wielded a power without knowing it.

This happened a decade ago and I carry it as a reminder that no matter how much aggravation my students cause, their inner turmoil is so much worse. When they don’t want to work, it’s often because they’re anxious about failure. If they’re disrespectful, it’s often because they want to impress their peers. They are frightened and often in pain.

Awareness of their angst inoculates me against taking things personally and becoming overwhelmingly discouraged. Likewise, empathy for those who suffer bereavement or chronic illness makes us appreciate those around us and our own ability to keep functioning (such as it may be). Like Lauren in Butler’s Parable of the Sower, we can combine empathy with awareness to make us stronger.

How does your empathy serve as a strength?

Preserving

This Week’s Bit of String: Jam from the hedgerows

The acers behind the school were already blushing scarlet when our new term started on Monday the 2nd of September. It felt too early, as if I’d missed out on something. Shouldn’t we already have got to know our new students and settled them into routine by the time the leaves turn?

There’s no time like autumn to remind us of… time. School starts, orienting students (and those of us working with them) toward exams. The garden outdoes itself and nature accelerates toward harvest. There’s my little Bear’s birthday–they just turned 23 this week. I’ve definitely missed out.

There are new writing deadlines and many special needs care plans to learn. I must jumpstart my diet and catch up on reading while my energy’s still depleted from the summer. Then family crisis strikes, and I’m glad that while I was home I stayed up till midnight scribbling the memories and got up at 5… Preserving things takes a real time commitment.

And yet, or perhaps therefore, I blew off the writing and reading progress I’d scheduled after school and went foraging for berries instead. For one sunny afternoon, I berried for 2 hours, and the following day I collected for over an hour, ending up soaked in a rain shower. The stormwater pooled in the seed-dimples of the blackberries.

Conserving Strength

I’d done this already. In the brief interval between visiting my family and restarting school, I spent hours picking blackberries and elderberries, then making jam. This was all on my to-do list, a great big planned chunk of time: to gather berries, cook it all down, and brutally sieve it smooth. This gave me 4 medium-small jars.

For a fair bit of money, you can get an elderberry concoction at the chemist’s to combat sore throats and infections. I made blackberry-elderberry jam last year, and I swear my horrible, 19-century-consumptive coughs didn’t stick around very long. This could be sheer coincidence, but in case tasty jam can help curtail illness, I’m not taking my chances without it.

This week’s batch of jam came to only half a single big jar. Not very good, is it? After a fair bit of effort. It uncomfortably mirrors certain writing projects once I’ve read through critically and realise the piece isn’t getting anywhere.

But having spent afternoons outside, I felt better than I had since school started. Sometimes the act of choosing what to preserve is as useful as the result. Foraging, alone in a back lane or field, my mind streamlines to one purpose and the many other commitments feel lighter for a while.

And I enjoyed rustling through the hedgerows again. I have great respect for these ecosystems, towering above me at this point in the year. Bright red rosehips like beacons along the top, bindweed buds like kisses and the sun glowing through their flowers’ white petals, the jumbled jewels of blackberry bunches mixing black with still-scarlet. Elderberries are particularly beautiful in my opinion, the delicate network of stems connecting shining berries: black, silvery-red, or pink-flecked green.

Preserving Memories

I realised too why I feel particularly myself when I’m caught in the rain. It’s an unmistakable impression that I’m seizing the day, regardless of the weather. Maybe I’m conflating vitality with inner self, but it’s something worthwhile, either way.

When we’re confronted with the changing of seasons, it can feel as if time picks up tempo exponentially. Every ball we juggle is flying faster, and which one should we chase first? I’m going to work and keeping my house just about clean, and checking in with my family and cooking meals and entering writing competitions and sending out critiques for other writers.

But those hours outside might stick with me most. I scribble daily to recount how I’m building relationships with my students, and my dreams in broken-up nights. Spending quieter moments in the fresh air, focused on hedgerow microcosms or the fine vistas beyond, keeps me in a mindset that livens other descriptions, such as of my walking commute to work. Becoming more aware, I have more to preserve.

I’m probably not the only one who rushes at tasks, clamouring to tick a good variety of them off my list, assuming that the whole will be greater than the sum of the parts. But making jam this week, I realised this isn’t always the case, nor should we wish it to be. Sometimes the act of gathering is more important than the fruit.

This can be true of writing. Staying open to ideas may benefit us more than toiling to write every single one down. It’s definitely true of families–preserving memories is important, but making them will always be the most precious time. And maybe slowing down briefly can be the key to keeping on.

What do you like to preserve, and how do you find the best ways to do it?

Incorporating Wildness

This Week’s Bit of String: S-curves under Main Street

Like many former mill towns, my parents’ town in New Hampshire is built on a river. To be more precise, it is built between a series of riverbends. The Mascoma River threads beneath Main Street twice, and beneath another principal artery around the corner of an intersection.

We moved to this town when I was a somewhat irascible 8-year-old and its charms were lost on me for a decade or two. The town wasn’t really feeling itself for a while there, either. When I visit now, and walk early in the morning to avoid the worst heat, I know to look over both sides of each bridge for heron, deer, and bald eagles. And I’ve started wondering at the river itself.

The town buildings of Main Street, mainly originating in the late 1800s or early 1900s, are built right next to the river but a fair way up in elevation. The banks are unbreached walls of leaves. Boulders stand in the water as if swept there by glaciers, just a car park away from the former laundromat (future microbrewery). There’s a heavily wooded peninsula in the middle of the river section near the Lutheran church. I’ve never seen a person down there but have seen a pair of deer drinking.

I’ve started wondering about all this. What was the river like before the town was built? Was it a great deal wilder in its natural state? Did boats travel down it when the mill was functioning, somehow steering around the boulders?

Inner Wilds

While contemplating how closely we can live with wildness in nature, I began drawing parallels to inner life. We grow up civilising ourselves, so to speak: building various blocks we deem useful or desirable within our minds. As we develop our mental landscape and moderate our personalities, what torrents gush, untameable, between these blocks?

*This is actually right in the middle of town.*

An interesting analogy as I traipse through the grey-gold dawn in my childhood town, and reflect on different incarnations of myself. I wonder at which point I was the most wild, the most untamed. It’s the moments when I feel most unique that I feel most myself, like when I used to run outside alone into thunderstorms. But there are so many shared characteristics among us all, equating identity with individuality may just be another societal pressure.

As an oldest child of four, and in a religious family, I’m not sure how wild I’ve ever been, really. Who knows what my natural state would be, and whether my eagerness to conform affects my writing. Most likely, my writing is where I break free from it a little.

Defying Expectations

After all, the problem with trying to conform is that there are so many standards to meet from others, and often they are contradictory. It’s cool to be non-conformist, at such times when society expects it from us. It’s equally challenging with writing: be clear but don’t over-reveal. Ensure your characters are unique, but recognisable and likeable.

*Even the built-up bits won’t last forever. The mill upriver from town.*

Writing a happy ending is practically an act of rebellion these days. Allowing a villain to be truly villainous breaks the writing mould (and I don’t think I have it in me to do that, although I’m happy to read it). Similarly, opting for quiet, non-busy moments in real life may be the ultimate subversion. Am I at my wildest when I’m out hiking or when I’m curled up reading a book?

By linking the word wild to its root of natural (with connections to wold; woodlands), then it’s easier to accept these contradictions. After all, nature can be both calm and then fierce. Sometimes at the same time—tonight I tried to connect with my wild self by going out in rolling thunder and glimmers of lightning, but it barely even rained. Well, I was there even if the storm wasn’t quite.

What wildness have you built your life around, and how do you reconnect with it every now and then?

New Pleasures Prove

This Week’s Bit of String: Tale of two benches

Last Saturday night we went on a date. We got dinner from the chippy and sat in the rare clear evening on a bench above the car park.

“Like two yoofs,” my husband said as we popped open our cans of Rio tropical drink. “But without the cheeky ciggy.”

After our chips, we did a cultural about-face at the town cinema watching a broadcast of the National Theatre’s excellent The Motive and the Cue. Based on diaries from when John Gielgud directed Richard Burton in Hamlet, it made us want to see the actual 1964 production. It was my kind of nerdiness and luckily, my husband was all for it.

I remembered when we first moved to the town, new to the area (in my case, new to the whole nation) and unsure how to entertain our 3-year-old. We wandered up to a school playground on a typical cloudy afternoon. A plain, plasticky bench had a slightly rusting plaque: “In memory…” and a person’s name.

“Not the most flattering tribute,” said my husband.

“Well, it doesn’t say ‘In loving memory’ or anything,” I pointed out.

That made him laugh, and I felt smart and seen for a minute. That didn’t often happen in the first months as an immigrant and wife.

This week is our 20th anniversary. We’d used a John Donne quote from “The Bait” on our wedding invitations.

“Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove…”

I didn’t really have an idea what those pleasures would look like (does anybody?), and it took us a while to find the confidence and freedom–and economic stability–to come up with the successful melding of tastes like we had last week.

If That’s All We Have

It took time. Two decades ago, our wedding song was Louis Armstrong’s “We Have All the Time in the World,” from the James Bond film On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. That is my husband’s type of nerdiness: gadgetry and fast cars and also outer space.

When we met and I was nearly 20, I was keen to lose myself. The movies we watched were ones he thought I should see, and I was thrilled to be trusted with them. We had 20 days together—weird how this number keeps popping up today—between meeting and my return from Old England to New. At some point in that mad rush, he played “We Have All the Time in the World” for me, and I was moved to the point of no return.

I’ve written about time before, though. It can be more romantic when you don’t have much of it, in the same way we sometimes use it better when we know it’s scarce.

When we said our wedding vows and I eventually sorted the paperwork for our kiddo and me to emigrate, the dream of being together became a promise. One of those takes more work than the other!

*Poses like these! New Orleans, New Years 2024*

The effort has been amply rewarded. My husband is a musician, so in addition to being immersed in James Bond and Star Trek, I get to be a jazz band groupie. I would never have imagined that my cautious British physicist would turn out to be a star poser for photos, or that he’d come along to Shakespeare performances.

Sticking with it for the amount of time that change requires is a small miracle. Other times, we swoop to each other’s rescue in an instant. That’s another miracle: when one vulnerable person reveals their desperation and their partner responds with care, no matter how lost and alone they too may feel.

Suddenly You Flare in My Sight

If a story equals character plus event plus time, there are infinite combinations. I come up with fiction ideas by asking “What if…?” sometimes about real-life situations, but not usually about my personal ones. Lately, though, I imagine alternative realities which would have unspooled had I made different choices.

We often liked to tell people, if they asked how we met, that we never would have if he’d been a moment later heading back to his uni, and had missed the train. But what if we’d met seven years ago, or ten, instead of twenty-three? If we met the same way, as students with no assets swiftly adding a child to the mix—we’d never have been able to live together as a family. The immigration laws are so tight now, they keep increasing the amount a British citizen must have in the bank to earn the right to bring an international spouse home. I ache for the people kept apart because of this, because of meeting each other a decade too late.

This helps me appreciate what we have, and I track our moments of delight in my daily scribbles. As favours we gave all our wedding guests copies of Wendell Berry’s poem “The Wild Rose.” He compares his longtime partner to a wild rose blooming… “where yesterday there was only shade, and once more I am blessed, choosing again what I chose before.”

There are so many twists in life which we can’t control, and always a fair few choices to regret. It’s nice to remember the ones we’re more than satisfied with, even—dare I say it—proud of. What surprising choices would you make all over again?

Seven Wanders of 2023

Hiking around and seeing new places inspire me as much as reading other writers’ work. I don’t necessarily end up writing new stories about the places I see, but glimpses of the spectacular keep some spark alive inside me when the rest of life seems a great stack of to-do lists.

Feeling like an adventurer in the real world can’t hurt our creative life, right? Here are some of my favourite explorations, why they ignited my imagination, and a smattering of my photos.

See also previous years’ top wanders: 2019, 2020, 2021, and 2022.

Festive Cirencester, Cotswolds UK

We gave ourselves a couple hours’ break between getting COVID in December and finishing work and sorting out Christmas and travel preparations. Cirencester is fairly local and its alleys and Cotswolds stone lend themselves well to the festive season.

A wander, the purchase of a jungly fern from a back alley shop overflowing with plants, and cups of hot chocolate at a specialty chocolatier renewed the season’s sparkle.

*Black Jack Mews, back alley plant shop, wreath of pine cone kernels and moss*

Widworthy Barton, South Devon UK

While staying near the Jurassic Coast in Southern England, I went out for exercise and discovered a fascinating little story as well. Uphill from the thatched farmhouse we’d rented, I came across an even smaller hamlet and a square-towered stone church with its graveyard.

A lustrous black gravestone memorialised the village’s matriarch and her husband. He was a holocaust survivor and popularised the Rubik’s cube, and she bought the local manor house and revitalised the community, abseiling down the church tower in her 70s to raise money for roof repairs.

*The Widworthy Barton church, the Kremer graves, and the fields and hills of South Devon*

Dovedale Stepping Stones, Peak District UK

In late September we had a rather cold, frequently wet camping trip and finally explored a Peak District destination I’d wanted to see for some time. We were lucky to have a sunny morning at the Stepping Stones, casting a sharp, bright contrast between peaks.

The stones are set firm and flat in the river like molars, and after crossing, we followed the path under trees and past sparkling reflections. There was a good climb up smooth-worn stone steps laid by Italian prisoners of war during WWII, and then a further walk along the river with pale bluffs on our other side, rising up like mighty ship hulls with dark bird barnacles. We later did a longer, more rugged walk to reach the Chee Dale Stepping Stones–those are quite scenic, too.

*Dovedale Stepping Stones, fossils in one of the stones close up, Thorpe Cloud*

Newfound Lake, New Hampshire USA

For me, summer is most blissful at a New England lake. This summer we had a few days with the entire family at Newfound Lake. It’s the third biggest lake in the state and the deepest, reaching 183 feet deep. It’s thought to be one of the cleanest in the world, and the sunsets over low-slung mountains off in a corner were spectacular, the reflections pristine.

We had the trilling cry of the loons at night and that cool lake smell in the mornings. Woods of oak and pine separated the holiday houses, but we got a glimpse when we were out on our kayaks. One house even had its own massive inflatable waterslide tower out in the water, with “No trespassing” painted all over its base.

*Sunset over Newfound, mushrooms in the woods, little free library: Slow down, enjoy life*

Portobello Road and Notting Hill, London

I don’t know if it’s hard for places like this to keep living up to their reputation. Do the streets made famous in Disney songs and late 90s films want a break sometimes, want to drop the facade? Well, we took a good walk along here and enjoyed the mix of shabby and cheesy and pushing the boundaries.

We perused stalls and shops selling everything from wool berets to sequined jackets, to prints made from photos of your iris, to last minute pumpkins for Halloween the next day, and we had lunch at a place called Egg Slut–absolutely delicious. Then we did a further loop through the posh neighbourhoods of Notting Hill, with big, pastel townhouses dripping with gauze webs and jack o’lanterns for the holiday. Imagine trick or treating here!

*Portobello Road street market, painted door, decorated Notting Hill Halloween*

Brecon Beacons Four Waterfalls Walk, Wales UK

Another hike I’d been sizing up for a few years, this too proved well worth it. It was cloudy, but the falls are still quite spectacular. I guess we can thank the rather wet year for that.

Because it’s quite a popular destination, we couldn’t always get close to the cascades, or behind them. Still, I love seeing how torrents slice through rock, and all the greenery that scales the damp cliff face around and behind the water. One waterfall had dozens if not hundreds of little rock cairns built in the stream below.

To save backtracking the long, muddy, crowded access path at the last fall, we found a vague trail up the bank and did some rugged scaling. This earned us extra waterfall views from the top and made us feel quite intrepid.

*Falls and cairns. Note fallen tree in first photo and tent on the left in the third photo for scale*

City Park, New Orleans Museum of Art Sculpture Garden, Esplanade Avenue, and St Louis Cemetery #3–Louisiana, USA

Did something completely different over the Christmas holidays and visited America’s deep South . We met up with our kiddo in Houston, then my husband and I roadtripped along the Gulf of Mexico and the bayou, and spent New Year’s in New Orleans.

Staying in the French Quarter, we had the experience you might hope for: strolling out for morning beignets under wrought-iron balconies trailing ferns, pausing to hear jazz bands in the street. Later, we stopped at City Park, a massive public space half again as big as NYC’s Central Park.

*City Park ibises, The Ptolemecist sculpture and live oak, St Louis Cemetery*

We were greeted by long-beaked ibises when we got out of the hired car, and we ambled through the Besthoff Sculpture Garden beneath live oaks dangling Spanish moss and resurrection ferns (ferns that go grey and curl, allowing themselves to survive losing over 70% of their moisture in dry spells). The statues combined cultural elements of the city’s past: a Rodin, a ghostly dress with a solar system model for a head, a conquistador helmet turned to a snail with a little boy riding its back, a glorious African woman, her garment a series of impeccably formed coils.

From there we walked down Esplanade Avenue, with pretty pillared houses and more live oaks, the trees so mighty they were busting up sidewalks and weighing down overhead electric cables. We came back through one of New Orleans’s famous cemeteries, with aboveground vaults since you can’t dig graves below sea level. Some vaults have lots of cupboards in them for family remains, and one had a small ornate frame fixed to it with a photo of the occupants behind a convex lens, like a locket, so you could see the faces of the African-American couple who passed away in the 1980s. It seemed a privilege to actually see what they looked like, and I wish that idea might catch on.

*Esplanade Avenue house, decorated post, and bougainvillea*

What were your favourite visits and meanders this year? How did you keep your spark alight?

Antici…PAtion!

This Week’s Bit of String: Silent night

One of my earliest memories takes place at Christmas. My small New England town put on a Christmas pageant at the church, one of those crowned white ones on a pristine green.

Candles glow in frosty windows as Mary and Joseph journey to the manger and kneel respectfully. Junior high angels dance down the aisles, bare feet thumping over cast iron grates, and the kings stride in their colourful robes.

At the end, the choir sings “Silent Night” as everyone files off the darkened stage. Kings, shepherds, angels and kindergarten cherubs. Joseph, penultimately, exits down the centre aisle and finally Mary, sombre and alone, disappears into a side door. The lights come up and everyone bursts into “Joy to the World.”

*Some of my favourite ornaments, carrying lots of memories*

Can you spot what they forgot? My just-turned-three-year-old self was keenly aware that everyone left the infant Messiah behind. The wooden box-manger only held a doll, but I was inconsolable; to me dolls were as real as anything. I was outraged at the abandonment, sobbing amongst the heavily coated crowd.

My parents found the girl who played Mary, but I wanted nothing to do with that traitorous mother. Then I was introduced to the person who owned the Baby Jesus doll, and that alone calmed me down.

I still wonder at the order of that pageant, unchanged in decades. Through the ensuing years, I loved the pageant, thought it beautiful–but also tenderly sad. That’s Christmas for you, I guess; moments of quiet, of loss, of sudden delight. I was taught that when setting up a collection of short stories, you showcase the best ones first. Maybe it’s our instinct to start strong, but this can result in an anticlimax.

Maintaining Order

Four decades and an ocean now separate me from that distraught doll-defending girl at her first nativity play. I’ve been around long enough to know my ideal festive sequence of events, even if I can’t always control it.

The key is to avoid letdown. You have to hit your checklist in the right moments, before the season over-ripens to wistfulness. Most Christmas films have an element of nostalgia and wish fulfillment that’s too sad the day after Christmas. The build-up is the best part of Christmas, really. Putting ornaments on the tree is a lot more special than taking them down.

*There can be a lot of stress at Christmas, but Obie the Bosscat is keeping on top of things.*

The word anticipate shares a root with capture. It means to grasp something beforehand. That’s quite exciting, isn’t it? Not like the tedium of just waiting, because at least we know that December 25th will, in fact, arrive (unlike a lucrative writing contract, for example).

I get Christmas tunes playing in my earbuds during hikes around mid-November, and the lights and decorations go up at the very start of December, so I can enjoy them for longer. Everything must be in place for the cosy moments between all the running around. At some point, I will be reminded that it matters more to me than to others, and each sparkle will disappear from centre stage.

Heightened Sensations

Christmas forms strong memories because it engages all our senses. We associate smells, tastes, sights, sounds, and feelings with the holiday. When a moment incorporates all senses, I think our memories cohere around it more firmly.

We’ve got Christmas songs, both jolly or deeply moving, we’ve got sparkly lights and shiny ornaments and the contrasts of crimson berries against sharp green holly. We’ve got smells of cinnamon and pine, and tastes of citrus and chocolate. We’ve got the sensations of warm hearths and fuzzy jumpers and the bracing chill from anaemic skies.

Great storytelling engages all the senses as well, which is why Christmas stories and films and songs can be particularly moving. Listening, viewing, reading them, and even creating our own helps us to seize those moments because otherwise, we might forget the bits that turned out how we wanted, when some events inevitably proceed less smoothly.

I wonder if our relentless preparations are partly an attempt to find exactly the right combination of sensory stimuli that make us feel young, make us feel loved and valued as we believe we once did. We are desperate to capture something, maybe that outpouring that George Bailey finds at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, or the kindness and mutual appreciation of a goose dinner at the Cratchit family table.

What are your favourite moments to capture in the holidays? How do you manage to seize them, and do they fall before December 25th or after?