Nourish your hopes, but do not overlook realities.- Winston Churchill
Hats off to the magazine editor who approved one of the most striking images I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t just the classic lines of an old brass and iron bed, or the pristine white linen sheets and counterpane; plump pillows with their Oxford pillowcases standing to attention, and bedspread turned back invitingly. It was that this image of potentially blissful sleep was standing mattress-deep in bluebells.
I have always been a lover of that blue-purple smudge that hovers above the English woodland floor in April and May, reassuring us that Spring is really here. It’s the colour I wanted for my bridesmaid’s dresses back in the day, and the same flowers I wanted for my wedding bouquet… Unsurprisingly, November failed to deliver on that one; shocker.
The photograph was probably in a magazine in the dentist’s waiting room, but it’s been in my mind for over thirty years since. Walking through the English woods this past week I was reminded of it as I stood surrounded by more bluebells than I think I have ever seen in any one place at one time. The fragrance was intoxicating and the photos I took will never do them justice.
As I allowed myself to simultaneously walk down memory lane, along the paths Dad used to take us on the Saturdays of yesteryear, hoping to ‘take the tickle out of your feet’ and let Mum watch afternoon rugby in peace, I realised how absurd that magazine picture was. Would I really want to spend the night outside amongst the trees in utter darkness? The bed looked comfortable for sure; the covers luxurious and the pillows perfect, but what if I woke at 3am, as I so often do these days? The sounds of the night might feel more malevolent than benevolent then: the wind overhead causing the branches to groan and the leaves to whisper; the unnerving sounds of snapping twigs and scurrying creatures; the silent shadows of owls out hunting – all great in theory, or even at a push, from under canvas, but significantly less comforting than during daylight hours. The call of nature might demand that I swing my legs out from those protective covers and then what? The woodland floor might be live with bugs and who knows what. No rug, no slippers, no accessible facilities – again, and if required, we do what we need to do – but without a light it would be a perilous and footsore foray, stumbling in the unknown.
I was irritated with myself for thinking this way since it threatened to ruin the idyllic nature of that original snapshot which I’ve carried in my head for so long. Truth to tell, I can’t see a swathe of those beauties without also half expecting to find that exact bed inexplicably placed in the next glade, beckoning me into a shaft of illuminating sunlight and somnolent bliss.
It’s another example of the seductive nature of an image over the, inevitably, harsher realities of life.
If we’d been told six months ago that the majority of the populace could be on an extended period of unpaid leave, perhaps we could have embraced it with enthusiasm. An opportunity to catch up on all that DIY, re-landscaping the garden, re-designing the house, clearing out the attic, exploring the dark recesses of the garage and/or the cupboard under the stairs. The chance to hunker down for some quality time with fellow house dwellers, children, parents; all those books you’ve never had time to read; the projects that have always been just out of reach. But the truth is that many are feeling the pinch, particularly those on low or no income, those stuck in confined spaces with demanding fellow residents, especially those in ill physical or mental health. There are only so many times you can tidy your sock drawer and, let’s face it, once we come out the other side of this, charity shops are going to be deluged with all the detritus we’ve cleared from our collective shelves, cupboards and hideaway spaces.
I like the post that did the rounds on social media, demonstrating that while we are all in the same storm, we are certainly not all in the same boat. For many, their ‘boat’ has multiple leaks and threatens to go under imminently, while others recline on their metaphorical luxury yachts.
Dancing through chaos is not only the name of this blog, but a constant challenge I face pretty much daily. I am seeing increasing numbers of people face similar obstacles now as life throws down the gauntlet in their faces. In a sense we are all victims of our current circumstance; some find it easier to navigate than others for all sorts of very valid reasons, but the element of choice is still there for all of us in regard to our attitude within the circumstance. Stress and anxiety are not conducive to laughter and dance. Mind games and wishful thinking will not pay the bills. It has been a helpful reminder for me to reflect on the elements of the dance about which I first wrote here: pace, pattern, purpose and partner.
As we celebrate the 75th anniversary of VE Day today, I can’t help but be reminded of the way that people pulled together, helped one another out, sang songs of hope, prayed like never before and fostered positive attitudes. I am heartened to see the same spirit alive and well in so many communities in the current crisis. On that day in 1945 there was dancing in the streets; perhaps there will be again when lockdown is truly over and the world is Covid-free. Forget blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover, I’ll be happy with more bluebells in the woods and the sound of laughter. That amazing, pristine bed taking centre stage and offering peace-filled refuge is a fantasy, but those simple flowers are a reality which prompt my heart to dance even when my feet are reluctant to do so. However, it’s their Maker who really makes my heart sing, through all the seasons and despite the chaos.
dancingthroughchaos 