When Life Gives You Lemons – Page 13 – Making my best life with MS

The Last Taboo

We have come a long way. So much that was viewed as taboo in the past is now part of modern discourse. The once shrouded mysteries of sex are discussed in the classroom; cancer is no longer spoken of in hushed voices. Issues around race, gender and sexual orientation, though far from ideal, are at least getting the consideration they deserve. Yet, I would argue there is one taboo that still endures that affects the lives of millions of people: disability.

**A painful reminder that even the young suffer** Image: This is engineering on Unsplash

I can already hear cries of ‘No, not at all!’ so let me explain. Taboo is a subject that people avoid because it is extremely offensive or embarrassing (Longman Dictionary). When something is taboo, the person who falls under the prohibited characteristic feels shame. Disability is often not very pretty. Many suffer from bladder and bowel issues that thrust them even further from the socially acceptable. Some children are born with such severe birth defects that when we see them, we wish to look away. Others are victims of terrible accidents that leave them physically impaired. Feeling uncomfortable?

The constraints of shame

This post arose from a conversation I had with the members of my MS group. The group contains those who are barely affected by the disease and those who are permanently wheelchair bound. We were talking about the use of mobility aids and the resistance we feel for them.

**Don’t let them see me** Image: Felipe Pelaquim on Unsplash

One member relayed the funny/tragic story of her father who, blind and suffering with dementia, finally allowed his wife to take him out the only way she could: on a mobility scooter. Once they reached the town centre, he threw his coat over his head. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘I don’t want anyone to see me in a scooter,’ was the reply, to which we all laughed heartily. Despite everything that was wrong with him, he was mortified to be seen to be disabled. Like so many, his absorption of the stigma of disability added a further layer to his suffering.

Vanity! Vanity! All is vanity!

I know any number of stories that are effectively the same and often they make me cross. One person’s ‘vanity’ at being seen with a stick or scooter often leads to the inconvenience of others. It may result in falls and hospitalisation; it may engender an excursion that is painful in its slowness for those accompanying .

When talking to my friends (all of whom were resisting to the last!) I suggested that it was perhaps their egos that were standing in the way of their safety and independence. They nodded in agreement. Further, I argued, that if we ourselves are ‘ashamed’ of our disability, how can we expect others to be accepting? We can only normalise this if we ourselves make it normal. The number of people I see with canes, walkers and scooters is legion. And every time I see someone making the best of their situation, I internally applaud them.

**Out there and enjoying the countryside** Image: Annie Spratt

I also fully understand those reluctant to reveal their disability so openly. One hardly looks sexy in a scooter. Or a wheelchair. Or with a cane.

But we are how we are. Accepting that is probably the biggest obstacle of all.

Are you disabled enough?

My husband is always threatening to buy me a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m only in it for the parking.’

Ask anyone who has used a disabled parking bay and they can regale you with stories of when they have been given dirty looks or worse. Personally, I never use one if I can avoid it or feel fit enough to get to where I need to go, but sometimes, you don’t have a choice. For those with invisible illnesses, it is often excruciating. After all, you look okay and may not even be in a wheelchair or using a cane. But short of having a letter explaining why you need it: you suffer leg pain, chronic fatigue or in my case, legs that work, until they don’t, you just have to accept the withering looks of those who think you are somehow taking advantage of free parking.

The truth is that Blue Badges are given out only very reluctantly and with copious documentation. They are not given out on request. Anyone that has one, needs it.

And the greatest irony of all is that I would love to leave my car behind and walk, as I used to.

Be grateful

Listen to any conversation between a disabled person and a non-disabled and you will probably notice that the disabled person is exceptionally polite. They will say thank you for every single step that is taken to remove the impediments that stand in their way or for any miniscule amount of help given. I am all for politeness, but where we are only easing the passage of someone for whom the world has not catered, I not sure that we should let the world off so lightly. Should someone set a great wall in front of your path and then offer to help you scale it, would you be appreciative or annoyed that they set it there in the first place?

**Always say thank you I**mage: Courtney Hedger on Unsplash

The vulnerability that disability immediately brings means that we have to appease our helpers. This is not a comfortable position and is not one we should find ourselves in. I have been aided by any number of delightful and kindly strangers – when stuck on the Barcelona metro for example, where the disabled entrance did not lead to a disabled exit (!?!) – a sweet father took my wheelchair up the stairs and then went back for his own child’s pushchair, while my husband helped me up the steps. He was a darling, but the system was at fault.

Not making the world accessible is a discrimination as profound as that against a racial group. Disabled lives are important, but I doubt there will be any marches for this cause or wheelchair rallies, for that matter.

Changing the script

If you are reading this blog, I think it fair to assume that you are sympathetic to the cause. As our natural allies, I urge you to treat those with disabilities as normally as anyone else. It’s easy to fall into saviour syndrome and make any assistance more about you than the recipient. We’ve all had those whose relish in helping us makes us feel diminished.

Just as we have learned to treat those who are different from us in ethnicity or sexual orientation, I ask that we do the same for the disabled community. (I am fully aware that mental disability is as crippling as the physical, but my post doesn’t have room for that discussion here.) For me, the mark of true civilisation is in how we treat our most vulnerable and marginalised members. We have come so far in this. Just one more push and we can explode the last taboo.

**Enjoying life – together** Image: Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

Random Idea Generator

Whilst recovering from my Covid booster at the weekend, I confess that my brain has not been working at optimal levels. By Tuesday evening, I was still in a bit of a fog and had not settled on this week’s post. ‘Any ideas?’ I asked at dinner. ‘I need an idea generator.’

Mariia and my husband Googled it and yes, such a thing does exist, but the site was a tad suspicious. My husband then went old school and suggested taking a random word from the dictionary. ‘Worth a try,’ I thought.

For reasons best known to himself, he picked my rather neglected Swedish/English dictionary and fortuitously opened it in the English section. With high drama, he flicked the pages, closed his eyes and then plonked his finger on an entry: Writing.

‘When in need, the universe will provide,’ my husband beamed and I had to agree that this was an especially happy accident, not least because writing has been so much on my mind of late. So, writing it is.

Composition

My first thought was that writing consists of two things: the physical act of writing and composition. I’ll begin with the latter.

**A writer’s desk** Image: Green Chameleon on Unsplash

The myths surrounding composition are legion, but the most persistent and damaging of all is the notion that one cannot compose without the aid of the Muse – for which I blame the Romantics. Writing, like all arts, is 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration. What makes it to the page is often the essence of what has roiled around the author’s brain, been scribbled on now scrunched up paper and selected from a swathe of research. And when inspiration is especially coy, it’s time to do some editing, further reading or even typing things up (as I have done in my slightly addled brain state this week) because it is all valuable in attaining one’s goal. If I sat waiting for the Muse, I would be lucky to write one sentence.

Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it. Action has magic; grace and power to it.
Goethe

I love this quote, because beginning it is all. Unlike in my youth when I was cowed into inaction, because, who could write like Shakespeare? I now just get going. It may be rubbish; it may consent to being shaped and polished or it may simply help me clarify my thinking, but in beginning, I am setting in motion the very things I need to occasionally reach success.

Morning pages

Three journals and several months later, I am still doing my morning pages as recommended in The Artist’s Way. This crazy, morning free-writing works. Once written, my head is released from the worries and fretting that normally clutter one’s thinking. Just writing three pages every day gives you a solid proof that you can always find something to write about – even if only rambling thoughts. But it hones your skills and sometimes an interesting idea or line or image is birthed in these pages.

Poetry revival

With our lovely Ukrainian staying with us, I have become a little time (and often energy) poor. My novel plans have had to take a back seat, at least for the moment, but I still need to maintain my intention to enter a writing competition or submit a piece of writing every month. So I have reverted back to the form I used when my children absorbed almost all my waking hours: poetry.

I’ve written and submitted four original poems. Their chance of success is minimal, but the discipline of writing for a specific audience under specific time restraints is reward enough for me. I’ve also dug out my old poems and dusted them off. Anything worth keeping, I’ve typed up again and I’d like to share one with you which most perfectly speaks to the season.

Indian Summer

Just when I had given up,

you returned,

as bold as Leo, ascendant.

My skin tingled in anticipation,

longed for touch,

the ripe exposure of naked skin.

I shucked my outer layers,

worshipped you,

a sunflower supplicant.

Ignored the warning signs:

packing swallows,

bees humming valedictions

to bleached lavender stems,

pregnant dews,

dawns slow to shake sleep.

Then one morning, I woke,

eager, full of plans

to find you gone.

Writing buddies

Another small step I have made in my writing life is to enlist the help of a writing buddy. A dear friend writes (and performs) the most brilliant monologues and since we were talking about our writing, I asked if she would be my writing buddy – prodding me to create when necessary, rejoicing or consoling my victories or losses. Each Friday, we need to send each other something and I am very excited to have a companion in this often isolating profession.

The art of writing

**Twenty-six letters and infinite variations**. Image: Karen Costello-McFeat;

I have always loved the physical look of words and being taken on by an accomplished calligrapher has made me even more enamoured of the art of lettering. My teacher Mary, at eighty, is never short of brilliant ideas and approaches. She accepts no slovenly work and pushes me to think far outside my comfort zone. I confess that sometimes our lessons descend into coffee mornings, but I always come away enthused to do more. My rather long, current project has been to produce an alphabet for my granddaughter. I am almost there!

**Three to go!** Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Pen and ink

Writing by hand may be a bit unfashionable, but I still find it is the best way to generate ideas. After all, a pen and a bit of paper take up almost no space and can be used anywhere. I prefer to use a cartridge pen with colourful inks. When I make a change, unlike on the computer, I can see the original without erasing it. I can also doodle, make crazy cloud plans and so forth which my computer skills don’t allow.

**Penning thoughts**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Once, I remember listening to an author who wrote everything in long-hand. ‘Why?’ asked the interviewer. ‘Because it is slow,’ replied the author. And she’s right. When you take time to write, you gain a little time to think. It has its merits.

Personally, I mix and match. Pen and ink for thoughts; computer for writing up. This post began with a randomly generated word, progressed to notes, to outlines and then to this. It is a process I am only just about to finish. The idea generator worked this time, but I think I won’t rely on it. Had my husband’s finger landed a few millimetres out, I should have been saddled with: wriggle, wrinkled or wretchedness. They would certainly have stretched my creativity.

The Dangers of Anticipation

The idea for this blog came from my husband. ‘Why don’t you write about the dangers of anticipating a specific future?’ he said.

**One disappointed baby**. Image: Ryan Franco on Unsplash

It certainly sounded an interesting topic and one that we are all too painfully aware of following the endless cancelled plans during the pandemic. My son’s wedding is also on our minds: so much arranging, expense, organisation and energy for a fleeting day. What if anyone gets sick; flights are cancelled or delayed? What if, what if, what if.

Which is when I started to think of the flip side of anticipation – the dark side, if you will, that says that everything will be a disaster. Catastrophising is just anticipation turned on its head. So my musings today will be on the dangers of each and if I can, I shall offer some ways we can curb, if not entirely avoid, these hazards.

The Perils of Perfectionism

Life, as we know, seldom goes to plan, yet still we invest in a future event that we hope to be perfect: a holiday with ideal weather; a new child with exceptional gifts; a celebration that goes without a hitch. What are we thinking?

When we expect or even hope for perfection we are positively taunting the gods into action: that is, to foil us.

**Reality**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

My own wedding day, which turned out to be a very happy one, began on a different note. I will not bore you here with all the things that went wrong, but for a moment there, I thought my husband might be walking down the aisle by himself!

Managing expectations

Here, as in all the other important occasions of our lives, we need to ditch the Hollywood, airbrushed model of life and simply enjoy the moment as it is. Often it is the very things that go awry that break the tension and allow us to laugh at ourselves. More often than the things that went perfectly, they are the stories we pass on to our own children. Not being perfect doesn’t mean terrible. It only means true.

Managing expectations doesn’t only apply to the major events in our lives, it applies to all of it. Has my life turned out as I expected it to? Hell, no! On any objective scale, it is an absolute disaster. Yet, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Whatever I lost: employment, my previous, beautiful home and my health has been compensated. I may not be able to work, but I can write and create. I love my new home even more than the previous one. With poor health has come acceptance and understanding. I could never have foreseen such. How could I when we are brainwashed into thinking that ‘negative’ change is always disastrous?

Aiming high not aiming low

Having said all that, I do think that it is always worth doing the very best you can. If we aim high and fall short, we are just a little off our goal. If, in despair we aim low, we cannot achieve any more than that. Often, when our expectations are thwarted, we imagine there is nothing worth striving for. Such an outlook may protect us from a specific disappointment, but it ultimately leads to a disappointing life. So aim for wonderful and hopefully you will enjoy something good.

**Sometimes you hit the target. Sometimes you don’t.** Image: John-Mark Smith on Unsplash

The Siren Song of Catastrophe

Perhaps it is my age, but I seem to be surrounded by folks who, like Chicken Licken, are always pronouncing that the sky is falling in. The latest news story throws them into a tail-spin of epic proportions. The media, of course, thrives on such and social media is its amplifier.

And the temptation to catastrophise is seductive. There are few things more exciting than a disaster (so long as it doesn’t touch us too closely). The energy crisis, for example, was set to see us all shivering in fingerless gloves in a sort of Dickensian dystopia. Except, it won’t. The Government has taken steps to avoid that. Catastrophe over. What’s next?

Predicting disaster has energy and drama to it. Suggesting that everything will be fine, does not. The benefit to catastrophising is a rapt audience, news to tell and excitement, but the disadvantage is that it skews our whole view of the world. When we are constantly focused on the worst case scenario, we are ignoring all the very magical things that are occurring in front of our eyes. We are not experiencing the now, as Eckhart Tolle would put it, but only an imagined (and terrifying) future.

In the most damaging variant of this, we create a sort of self-fulfilling prophesy. We convince ourselves that our plans will never work or succeed and, sure enough, we are right. For if we act without faith, we cannot hope for victory.

**Illustration for Chicken Little, 1916** Image: Mabel Hill

In the fairy tale, Chicken Licken and his followers are led into the fox’s den. In the original, they are eaten by the fox, thus demonstrating that by believing in the worst, we head straight into it.

In later, more sanitised versions, the chick and his companions escape, though cannot remember what set them on their path in the first place. For who remembers the media-fed terrors that haunted us only weeks ago?

If all the unexpected events in my life have taught me anything at all, it is this. Our control over the world is scant indeed, though it need not cause us to fear, because if we accept what is offered each day with grace and thanks, there is little that can upset our equilibrium.

Of course, I look forward to future events – our trip to Maine for my son’s wedding most of all. However, knowing that there will be set-backs and problems allows me to enjoy that anticipation with less anxiety. And if the sky really does fall in? Well, I’ll just deal with that when it happens.

Autumn’s Arrival

When I started planning this blog at the beginning of the week, my intention was to take my title from an Emily Dickinson poem, ‘As imperceptibly as Grief – The Summer lapsed away – ‘. At that time, it looked like our extended summer would simply segue into autumn without us scarcely noticing.

My only clue as to the change of season was the arrival of my vibrant, autumn crocus and nodding Japanese anemones. Their appearance is bitter-sweet. While I am cheered by their, ‘See? There is yet time for flowers!’, I am saddened by the knowledge that they are the last arrivals. There will be now more new blooms until spring.

By mid week, autumn was striding on stage in the most dramatic fashion. Our Mediterranean blue skies began to fill with deep charcoal clouds and our evenings were a son et lumier show of lightning and thunder. Long sought after rain came down in torrents, tropically, at night and in bursts throughout the day. Gentle summer breezes were pushed aside by howling winds and my collection of windfall apples was soon outstripping my ability to peel and cook them.

**Apples everywhere**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Autumn had arrived. The days are still warm and the garden abuzz with pollinators and butterflies, but the light has changed: The crystalline sharpness of July replaced with the buttery yellow of September.

All creatures, great and small, are hurriedly making the most of the harvest and birds flock hither and thither in search of food to eat and store. Our Austrian pine this year has produced a bumper crop of cones. Sitting in my shed, I was puzzled for a while by the soft staccato coming from outside. I couldn’t see anything doing anything, but later, when I went out, I realised what the noise was. Our resident squirrel had been plundering the tree for the fat pine nuts stored inside the cones and dropping the empty shells to the grass. Perhaps the magpies were joining him – they love that tree too.

**The evidence. Empty shell casings.**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

A few nut casings fell from the pines I had picked for winter decoration and I broke one open to see what it held. Sliding my nail between the shell, I popped out the nut. I thought I would try it. I was rather hoping it would taste like the delicious nuts harvested from the Pinyon pine. Sadly, no. I spat it out. I shall leave them for the squirrels.

I have planted a couple of the seeds, though. They would make the most adorable bonsai. Wish me luck.

**Dark skies** Image: Jack Taylor on Unsplash

Of course, the most dramatic marker of the changing seasons is the night sky. Where not so long ago, we would sit in the garden watching the bats’ aeronautical display at dusk near ten pm, now it is dark by eight.

The shortening days mean winter is on its way, but I savour these evenings of dramatic skies and fierce sunsets. I’m happy also to let the dog out at night and see the moon and stars again. The next full moon is this weekend: moon watchers, take note.

So this splendid summer is over and I grieve a little for its passing. Yet, I am also filled with anticipation for what this autumn holds. After all, as Keats said, it has its music too.

My blogs may be a little shorter for a while as we settle in our Ukrainian guest. She is an absolute delight, but there is much to do to get her settled. Starting a new life requires a lot of paperwork!

Just Say YES!

After the gradual return to normal life this March, my husband and I made a decision. From henceforth, we would say ‘yes’ to anything that came our way that was not completely reckless. Though we had a very peaceful and mainly enjoyable lock-down, it had meant missing any number of reunions and events. We did not regret the time we spent in the garden, practising Wim Hof and swimming in the sea, but it was time to re-join the world and see what it had to offer.

**A word that evokes joy!** Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Escape

The first thing we did was escape to the Highlands we love. The trip required no flights or public transport and would involve spending most of our time outside. It was a perfect way to introduce ourselves to what felt a little bit of a scary world.

I have already written about our Scottish trip, but what made this one different was that we were always willing to go off the beaten track and explore. If there were an interesting tourist sign or intriguing alternative route home, we would take it.

We were rewarded by any number of stunning vistas and fascinating monuments all to ourselves. On spotting the sign to the bell tower (below) we headed off down a very narrow and wiggly path to apparently nowhere. When we reached the destination, we found it was many, many steps above us.

I said, ‘Yes!’ to the steps and ascended – aching legs be damned! The tiny building was adorable and the view breath-taking. Since, of course, we were the only ones daft enough to visit, we were free to explore inside and, with the curiosity of children, we did.

Our trip was filled with such diversions and all the more enjoyable for it. On our return, flush with fresh air and good health, we made a rather more momentous decision. We decided that we were in the fortunate position where we could offer sanctuary to a Ukrainian refugee.

A path filled with obstacles

What started with enthusiasm, soon became fraught with frustration and anxiety. As we had the space, we had offered our home to a mother and son who were friends with a young woman in Eastbourne. So far, so perfect. Sadly, what we had not figured in to our plans was the chronic incompetence of the Home Office.

We did our homework, attended events, cleared wardrobes and cupboards and tried to make our home as welcoming as possible. Then we waited for the visas, and waited, and waited. After about eight weeks had passed and only the son had been granted his, we became desperate. They had already moved out of Kiev at this time and back as things normalised. Then Kiev was bombed. Having a face in mind when you hear terrible news is a very different experience to learning of the anonymous casualties of violence. This felt personal.

Despite going through all the help channels and being assured their case was being expedited, nothing happened. We contacted our MP’s office; nothing. By three months, we were simply angry. We wrote to our MP again, this time with positive results.

Unfortunately, the endless delays and the natural reluctance of the family to leave their home meant that they ultimately decided to stay in Ukraine. We held their place until their visas expired – just in case – then we started all over again.

This time everything went super smoothly and Mariia will join us on Sunday. Armed with a little more knowledge and having the pleasure of Skyping frequently with her, we are really looking forward to her arrival. Taking in guests, no matter how lovely, is never without its challenges. But I’m still very glad we said yes to helping someone in such circumstances. I certainly hope someone would do the same for my children should the need arise.

**Our Ukrainian guest arrives on Sunday** Image: Daniele Franchi on Unsplash

The best yes

Without a doubt, the most wonderful yes I made this year was to attend the prize giving at Chatsworth House. As with many brilliant experiences, it held its fair share of terror (publicly reading my story) and uncertainty (I had not the faintest clue what the day held). By agreeing to attend, there was much to be arranged at short notice and not inconsiderable costs incurred. But all good things come with a price tag: even if that is only courage.

**Magnificent Chatsworth House** Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

The joy of spontaneity

Spontaneous is not a word that I would generally use to describe myself. Up until now, I was an inveterate planner. Every eventuality had to be accounted for before I set forth. My health situation only amplified this. What if? What if? What if? rotated in my mind until the thought of doing anything became terrifying. Anxiety took hold like a boa constrictor reducing my world to ever diminishing circles.

Then we took small trips on short notice and I survived. Our trips got longer and I became bolder. It helps that we live in one of the most accommodating places on earth. Need a drink? Which cafe should I choose? Need petrol? One is seldom more than thirty miles from a service station. Need a rest? Pick a bench. Really, what was I worrying about?

So when our friends asked us to their 60th birthday bash in the Cotswolds, we said, ‘Why not?’ The party was a great success and it was a joy to meet their now grown-up children. The village where we stayed the night was magical and turned an overnight trip into a holiday. When the same friends called on Bank Holiday Monday to say that they had been offered a flat on Hove seafront and would we like to join them on the beach, you know how we answered.

Because saying ‘Yes’ has enriched our lives in more ways than I can possibly describe in a blog. It is not without risk. Sometimes things will go seriously awry. This same weekend, we saw an absolutely perfect bungalow that would future proof our home-life. We spent almost five days in exhaustive cleaning, DIY and tidying only to find the seller had withdrawn her house from the market on the day we had the agent come to see ours. Am I sorry we pursued it? No!

I realise now that I had lapsed into my trying to pre-empt problems. I don’t need to move into a bungalow yet, and may never need to. So I am just enjoying my newly pristine home. Oh, and Mariia will be fooled into thinking that she has arrived at a very tidy household.

Blackberrying

There are few activities more wonderful than blackberrying. It includes the delights of wandering about in nature, a foodie treasure hunt and the gratification of a sweet reward. The fact that these purple delicacies must be reached at a cost: scratched arms, attacks by stinging nettles, and dodgy footing (I once slipped into a mass of bushes and had to be hauled out) makes them more rather than less appealing. After all, no-one waxes lyrical about picking up a punnet of strawberries at the supermarket.

Like all true pleasures, it is transitory. If we delay, we must wait another year. My blackberry obsession starts around the beginning of August when I note those places where unripe blackberries are starting to appear. Sadly, these spots are often by busy roadsides and therefore not ideal, but I know that blackberrying elsewhere will soon be on the agenda.

Never mind the weather

With the very long, hot spell this summer, I didn’t hold out much hope for this year’s harvest. All fruits need plenty of water to plump and thrive and none more than the humble blackberry. Yet somehow, now they are more abundant and juicy than ever.

**Nature’s gems**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

From plant to palate

Much is made of the farm to table movement (which I applaud) but we needn’t go to a fancy restaurant to eat food that is grown organically and recently picked. We need only go to a local, unspoilt area.

I found an amazing clump at the puppy park and was joyfully eating and collecting them under the watchful gaze of a young lad staring out his window. Perhaps the sight of anyone eating anything that didn’t come from a shop bemused him. I waved hello and he smiled and disappeared back into his room.

Similarly, my husband and I were guzzling blackberries on the way home one day when a child, who went to do the same, was told off by his mother. ‘Don’t eat them; they’re dirty!’ she exclaimed. The child pulled back, chastised and went home, no doubt, to foods intensively doused with pesticides, herbicides and other chemicals.

When we miss the opportunity to show children how their food grows and to introduce them to the abundance of wild foods on offer, for free, we disempower them. When we distance ourselves so absolutely from the natural world, we should not be surprised that so few are willing to take steps to protect it.

**Spread the joy**! Image: Elisabeth Wales on Unsplash

Fortunately, on our berry expedition to Alfriston on Sunday, there was a young family introducing their children to the delights of blackberrying and the sight of it made me very glad indeed.

Some for now; some for later

Once home with our bounty, we needed to find ways to eat them. Since I had some meringues left over from the party, I decided to make mini-pavlovas for my friends. The blackberries provided a striking finishing touch.

**Mini pavlovas**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

The rest were added to my cooked apples from the garden and frozen. Wonderful though blackberries are, they have a terribly short shelf-life.

While we were in Alfriston, we noticed that several of the bushes were a week or so away from ripening, so we shall have to make another trip. As for the harvest, I am thinking up all sorts of ways of using them for autumnal treats: jams, pancakes, in yogurt etc. I would like to try drying them like raisins. Who knows? It might work.

But I don’t have long. Probably two weeks at most. So kitted out with my least presentable clothes and ready for purple stained hands, I shall have to get a move on. I hope you will join me.

Party Time

**Jane B’s beautiful bunting.**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

After almost three years apart, my son and his fiancee’s visit seemed all too brief. We crammed in trips to the beach and local beauty spots and arranged to end with a large garden party. Knowing that only a handful of people from the UK would be able to attend their wedding next year in Maine, USA, we decided to have an engagement party here. It would not be nearly so grand, but it would allow all those who knew my son to meet his bride to be and share their good wishes.

Planning such a party for a large number meant starting well before the arrival of my son. I’m sure that I have used several trees with all the lists and notes. As the day grew closer, those notes were put into action and I shamelessly asked for the help of anyone willing to give it.

Preparations

Parties, like ice-bergs, only reveal the very tip of all the effort put into them, as anyone who has hosted one knows. And the trick is to make it look as it has required almost no effort at all. No guest wants to feel beholden to their host nor that they have been an inconvenience, so we practice the trompe l’oeil of hospitality . To do this, everything must be in place; everything ready.

**All set up and ready to party!**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Our first challenge was to find sufficient tables, chairs and places offering shade for up to fifty guests (we had a bit fewer in the end!) My friends came up trumps as always: offering chairs, gazebos and yards and yards of wonderful handmade bunting.

We set up the evening before and just seeing the garden looking so joyful and inviting helped give me the energy for the following day. It also gave me a great opportunity to chat with my future daughter-in-law, Genevieve, as we festooned the trees with colour.

Working together

I’d seriously started baking the week before, storing everything in the freezer as soon as it was cool from the oven. Friends kindly offered to bring their brilliant bakes and I commissioned one particularly able cook to make me some gluten free delicacies. Knowing I had at least a few beautiful cakes to look forward to took a great deal of the stress out of my own efforts.

Multiple shopping trips were made to the supermarket, baker’s and greengrocer’s and when everything was assembled, we were ready.

One couple arrived early and immediately set to making sandwiches and that kindness allowed Greg and Genevieve to say hello to the guests, many of whom had come from afar.

**A very helpful family! Clare, Kevin, Charlotte and Rowan**

In the past, I have always been reluctant to ask for help, but now I say ‘yes’ without hesitation! We can achieve so much more when we work together and for many of us (myself included) participation is half the fun.

Mother’s little helpers

Knowing that there were limits to my physical endurance and that I wanted to see old friends and relatives too, I asked the couple above’s children if they would like a little afternoon job at very competitive rates. They made all the difference. As host, of course, there was still a lot of rushing about and supervising, but their charming and efficient way of running the bar and serving guests made us all feel rather spoilt.

Party time

With at least a bit of time freed for myself, I was able to enjoy the company of my guests. We had friends from my NCT (baby group) days in Twickenham; the leaders of the youth group Greg attended as a teenager and all my old friends who have watched him grow from a toddler to an adult. A cruel twist of fate meant that much of my family were unable to attend – Covid ruins fun once again – but I hope we shall see them all soon.

The stars of the show

But we cannot forget the stars of the show, my son Greg and his beautiful and delightful partner Genevieve. They were full of smiles and I know appreciated the lengths to which some folks had gone to join them.

All the work and all the effort was worth it to see them smiling and happy amongst all those who cared for them. I doubt we shall be throwing a party of that size again, but I’m certainly glad we did this time.

Engagements are such happy occasions, because they are declarations of love. The party was our declaration of love and all those who assisted us in any number of ways showed their love too. Is it any surprise it was such a joyful event?

Farewells

Greg and Genevieve departed the next day and I managed to keep my tears down to a minimum. Knowing that we would be together again next year made it all seem rather more bearable. Genevieve has very sweetly included me in her wedding plans and the venue and event looks quite stunning. I really can’t wait.

A Short Break

As many of you know, my son is over here on holiday from the States. After thee years apart, every moment feels precious. So I shall be taking a wee holiday from my blog for two weeks, but plan to be back on Friday 19 August.

We shall meet his fiancee for the first time next week and then we have the engagement party. I suspect I shall need a rest when they leave!

Enjoy this wonderful summer, wherever you are, and see you again soon.

Love Karen x

An Ending and a Beginning

One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.
Andre Gide

Arrival

Last weekend, I managed to complete the twelve week journey that is The Artist’s Way. Like many journeys, it has had moments of stunning vistas and moments spent in a traffic jam on the motorway. Yet, strangely, I never felt the urge to give up. Each chapter and exercise brought me new understanding and while working through writing the daily morning pages, I was able to take mastery of that knowledge.

Perhaps this is the ultimate self-help book, because it doesn’t offer any answers only questions to prompt your growth. ‘It is intense,’ as a friend who has also completed it said. It is also, if you choose it to be, life changing.

**A productive twelve weeks : two filled A4 notepads**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Accepting the call

After decades of wandering about with a niggling feeling that there was more that I wanted to do with my life, I came upon this book. I love teaching and I have always felt it my vocation and privilege, but hours preparing and being with students (and my children) didn’t leave a lot of time for anything else and my creative urges were always subsumed by a never ending to-do list.

The Artist’s Way proposes that we are all creative beings and to neglect that element in our lives will lead to unhappiness. Of course, she does not advocate that we all become artists (though her focus is on the creative arts) but that we find a way to live more creatively. For some, that may mean spending more time in their gardens, for others a complete career shift.

When I began the book, I wasn’t sure which path was the one for me. After all, I do love art and music as well as writing. However, as I moved through each chapter and my morning pages, I realised that my happy place was sitting somewhere with a pen in my hand and when I was denied that, I was miserable. Other art forms are my entertainment. Writing is my oxygen.

And so I have accepted the call to write: to think of myself as a writer who also teaches, rather than a teacher who also writes. There, I’ve said it. And it matters not a jot whether I am commercially successful or get publication for the novel I plan to write or if people think I am bonkers or delusional. What matters is getting words on the page (or screen), learning my craft and enjoying the process.

Since accepting the call, my mind has been fizzing with ideas. One poem is already sent off to the local book festival and another is in draft form. Yet more are complete. Novel ideas are piling up in my notebook. I can hardly keep up.

**A room of one’s own**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Fellow travellers

Of course, any journey is more enjoyable with company, and though I didn’t have a group to go through the book with, I have found others who have now embarked on their artist’s way – including my husband.

At the very least, it is vital to have someone respect that you need time and space for the enterprise; however, if you can find folks to discuss your discoveries with, it is even more exhilarating!

And if anyone is tempted to start after reading this, let me know. I should love to hear how you get on.

Sanctuary

A sanctuary is a place of refuge, where no-one can assail you. Artists need a sanctuary too – a place where they can create freely and without distraction.

It doesn’t need to be a large space or a particularly elegant one, mine is in my garden shed. But it does need to belong solely to us and our endeavours. My husband kindly built me a beautiful shelf, which I have filled with books and pens and pretty plants. I also have some delightful lights to cheer me during the dark winter months.

Any space can be made into your creative area – even the corner of a room. Decorate it with things you love from crazy plastic toys to elegant objects d’art. Whatever you choose, let it make your heart sing when you see it.

My shed has a comfortable chair, a small table for writing equipment and a soft-back tray on which to balance my notebooks. It also has a magnificent view of the garden and Hermione can chase her ball endlessly while I write. (Between ball tosses, of course!)

**Decorating to inspire and bring joy**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Begin again

Once I had finished my book, the next task was to reread it, which I am doing, slowly. Progress is seldom linear, as we are so often taught, but circular, spiralling up to ever greater understanding.

I have committed to write daily and to keep up my practice of visiting a place of artistic interest once a week.

Reading my artist’s prayer each morning helps to confirm the commitment that I have made and the hope that others will support me in this venture and I them. Above all, it reminds me to be grateful for the gifts we have been given.

Looking forward

In addition to my written journals, I’m keeping a pictorial one. It is a place to doodle and dream – to visualise new adventures and goals.

**Future travels?** Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Somehow, committing them to paper makes them seem that much more achievable. Sometimes we just have to visualise our dreams to make them happen.

The page above reads: ‘”Beware all enterprises requiring new clothes” – or not! When I win my first creative prize money, I shall buy a Gudrun outfit’ (my favourite, affordable designer). The outfit is now hanging in my closet.

Oh the places you’ll go

I love the book by Dr Seuss of this title, because we will all be going places. In an ideal world, we want to go to the places that interest us rather than where we are taken.

Choosing a more creative life needn’t mean abandoning one’s current one, only enriching it. My goal is to do three hours of writing/ creative practice per day. Sounds like a lot? Well, it is considerably less than the amount of time the average person spends on the television or screen.

Put down your phone. Pick up your pen, or paintbrush or needle and who knows what places you’ll go!

Away Days

Sometimes, you just need to get away: from the demands of keeping a home and garden; from work commitments and away, I would argue, from our mundane selves. When we change our context, everything seems possible.

The thing I love most about a holiday is that it gives us time and permission to dream. We needn’t go far or for long, but we do need to enter into an unfamiliar landscape where our senses are challenged and stimulated.

Our few days in Battle did just that. The stunning landscape of the grounds of the hotel provided endless vistas to nourish our very souls; the delightful town offered both history and humour. Here’s a little taste of our days away.

**A place to read, write and muse** Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

The storm breaks

Interestingly, the high pressure building for days in the terrible heat broke the day before we left. It felt like a metaphor for our lives. All the stresses that had been building over the last few months felt washed away in the thundering rain.

We woke to a new world, bright and fresh and alive.

It was still hot, but bearably so. For once, an outdoor, unheated swimming pool in the UK was tempting and my husband and I took full advantage of it. We also lounged like normal people do on holiday (our family holidays invariable involve death defying activities or cultural investigations), so it was truly relaxing.

**A welcome retreat on a very hot day**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

I read a novel, wrote my morning pages and finished The Artist’s Way (more on that next week). We ate fish and chips on the steps of Battle Abbey and I imagined all the history that had passed by this place.

With the exception of checking to see if we had a new prime minister, the news was banished. Our time was taken up instead in watching the world and languid conversations.

Life is more sociable with a dog

Hermione was, of course, a star. She introduced us to so many people that I couldn’t count them all. At one pub, where we were having dinner, I’m sure she was patted and fussed by every single person. In doing so, she opened us up to new encounters with lovely folk, who told their stories and we ours.

Perhaps we need a furry creature to break the barriers of shyness or polite behaviour. The English are normally so reserved, but bring a dog into the equation and they are positively voluble.

One lady, having given Hermione a good belly rub said enigmatically, ‘I needed that.’ Because sometimes, we just need to show affection and have the warmth of a positive response to make us feel human again. Who knows what was troubling her, but I’m glad that Hermione could give her a little respite.

**Great companions!** (Hermione and my husband) Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

A not too perfect life

Our hotel, the weather, everything was verging on perfection. One would expect this to be a good thing, but sadly it was not. Friendly dog patters aside, the hotel had its share of rather grumpy and miserable looking folks: couples who barely spoke to one another; people complaining of the ‘conference coffee’ served at breakfast; and even I fell into grumbling at the buzz of lawn mowers disturbing our peace. I was also feeling a bit frustrated by all my husband’s long walks with the dog and early morning swims in the pool. Why, I wailed inwardly, could I not join him? I hate this stupid disease.

Yes, I had a mini pity party. Then I looked down at my breakfast plate and saw the abundance of delicious food; looked up and saw the glorious grounds; looked across at my super husband and dog. Hmm. How quickly we fall prey to the idea that the world should serve us absolutely. How quickly, when life is almost perfect, does the slightest thing annoy.

It was time to recalibrate, because I realised that the reason the wealthy are often the most miserable is precisely because, like Tantalus, all they want is just beyond. But unlike Tantalus, it is not because they can’t reach food or drink, but rather that no sooner have they grasped it than they want something more, something better. As Westerners, we are all guilty of this to some degree.

Having acknowledged this truth and deciding to keep gratitude always at the centre of my thoughts, I went on a long walk around the lake that very evening. I managed to go much further than I thought possible and unusually did not suffer the exhaustion and burning in my legs that usually follows such exertions. Perhaps, having rested all day, I was better prepared, or perhaps, the universe was showing its approval.

History and humour

One can hardly go to Battle without thinking of history. The place is steeped in it: from the imposing Medieval Abbey to the half timbered Elizabethan dwellings to the elegant, symmetrical Georgian homes. This visit, I had vowed to explore the church opposite the Abbey and of almost equal antiquity. The Abbey had brought considerable wealth and prestige to the area and with it a burgeoning population. This church was where they could go to worship.

Founded 1115, it is classically Norman. It’s beautiful vaulted ceilings with dark beams and plain, pillared arches either side of the nave typify what we think of as an early Medieval church. But I suspect that the churchgoers of the Medieval period had a rather more lively prospect. High above on the left (facing the altar) are faded but once vivid frescoes. No doubt there were more, providing a sumptuous, visual feast for all those attending.

Ironically, the church now provides a respite from the onslaught of image and colour that we all face. The only real touches of colour are supplied by exquisitely executed kneelers with local and historic scenes.

**St Mary’s, Battle**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

**A far from Christian kneeler**
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

And lastly, I am delighted to note that aside from its seriously impressive history, this small town has a wonderful sense of humour. Each season, the yarn bombers do their best to add a little colour and whimsey. This month, in line with the scarecrow festival, they have produced my favourite scarecrow- Ariyarna Grande.

On a lighter note
Image: Karen Costello-McFeat

Immersed for a few days in such exceptional surroundings made me focus on the thread of history and how it weaves through all our lives. This history was expressed through creativity: of magnificent architecture, painting, tapestry and yes, even yarn bombing. All took skill, all took mastery of an art form and all took patience. For the events of history are past, but the work of the artist as it responds and responds again to changing times, lives on.