Butterflies

Snippets

A straggly buddleia has pushed its way through the asphalt of the residents' car park adjoining my garden, right next to the fence.  Apparently, according to a rather fascinating TV programme on weeds I caught the other week, it is categorised as an invasive species in the UK and is spreading like wildfire, often on the most unpromising terrain.  Wikipedia further enlightens me that in the US states of Oregon and Washington buddleia is considered a noxious weed, something like Japanese Knotweed.  But I will resist the surreal temptation to have at it with a flamethrower and a machete a la The Day of the Triffids; the butterflies love it and that's reason enough to leave well alone.

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More oomph and confidence these past weeks though by evening energy levels are flat. But then I've always been a lark rather than an owl. Pleased that I'm managing to tolerate the full daily dose of probiotics after months of painstakingly building up the dosage.  Slowly does it - each time I've tried to increase the amount too quickly the result has been horrendous, they're powerful little blighters are probiotics. The naturopath wants to put me onto some cutting-edge antifungal magic potion over the autumn so maybe this improvement will convince him it's time.

From childhood until very recently I've eaten badly.  Not all the time, but periodic compulsive - and I do mean compulsive - junk food eating binges were the main opt-out when the anxiety and stress were overwhelming.   The digestive system took the punishment seemingly without complaint.  Not any longer. Some of it is probably genetic; my father had similar digestive issues.

Now the gut has finally said Enough. It's started throwing temper tantrums.  And it's telling me loud and clear how much it's suffered.  So I don't feel self-pity at the pain and weakness and headaches when they hit.  Natural justice.  High time for me to make reparations and look after the digestive system better in the future, which I'm happy to do.  Maybe in time I'll even learn to love it .....


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The taxi driver was middle aged and wiry with a tattoo on his left forearm and had his car radio tuned to Classic FM.  A Mozart symphony welcomed me in.   Nice, I said.  This kind of music keeps me sane, he replied. A pause.  Do you mind if I put a CD on?  You'll love this, it sends shivers down my spine each time I hear it.   He pressed a few buttons and turned up the volume.

As we waited at the traffic lights in the 4 x 4, Noah Stewart's voice enveloped us. Schubert's Ave Maria.  Words would have been out of place. In the blustery afternoon sunshine we moved on when the lights changed, crossed the river and headed for home.

Smell

The smell of cooking garlic floats in through the open window from a neighbour's kitchen.  For an instant I'm back in the 1980s in Paris outside a restaurant on a humid summer's evening.  Never mind the madeleines, it's smell not taste that does it for me.

I read once that smell is the most evocative of the senses, that it accesses the greatest amount of memory stored in the computer that is the brain.  I believe it.  Woodsmoke, oh yes especially woodsmoke. An earlier French memory from my au pair days in 1968 of the host family's chateau (they had aristocratic forebears).    Situated near Troyes, seventeenth century or earlier, there were a multitude of  beautiful but shabby and dilapidated high-ceilinged rooms and, above all, massive fireplaces where logs from the estate had burned for several centuries. The smell of woodsmoke had over time permeated the walls and it hung in the air, even in high summer. I can't describe the intensity of that smell, not that it was unpleasant, rather it was subtly sensual and thus almost frightening to my awkward and dislocated eighteen-year old self.

And also:  Roasting coffee beans. Lilac. Horses. Autumn mornings. New books.  Creosote.  Brief but oh-so-detailed scenes from the past - places, seasons, houses, people - attach themselves to each one.

Hoping for more. Counting on more. Smells and memories.

Movement

Sunshine and brief showers today with a warm southerly wind  that carries along with it these cloud formations that change with the passing second. This is the sort of summer weather I like. 
 
The letting go continues and a lady called Lin is coming to pick up the cat basket tomorrow afternoon. I've tried to live a well-adjusted life.  I mean love and stability and companionship and job and belonging.   Money only as a means to an end. Nothing has worked - and the higgledy piggledy pile of books and possessions that I'm sorting through demonstrate this.   Massage books (can't do massage any more, nor do I want to). How To books. Crafts that were abandoned.  Co-dependency books. Journals.  Detritus all. Being ill has given me the space to understand to that indeed nothing could have worked. Not with me being the way I was and everything and everyone else around me being the way they were.  The fit was never there.

Stripped to the core. Feeling like a newborn at 64 years old. It's a relief to be this age and not to worry about so much that used to distress me. Each thing I surrender - and I do so willingly and with relief - stokes the fire that moves me forward. 

Shopping Trolley

So I signed up with Freecycle yesterday and decided to submit the 4-wheeled shopping trolley as a test run on the list of Items Offered.  A remnant of my London life, when most weekends I would trundle along with it to Sainsbury's in Balham, it's been cluttering up my porch since I moved in here. Online shopping rules these days chez moi.

Two email replies offering the trolley a home.  Both sound nice, sane, non-psychopathic. I pick the first one and he says he will collect this morning.  I'm in the front garden when he pulls up in the car with the family, a wife and two young girls.  He levers himself slowly out of the driver's seat.  Stocky, fifty-ish, a local accent, he walks with difficulty, using a cane.  He's been very ill he tells me and the doctor has told him to begin taking gentle exercise.  He reckons walking to the local shops would be a good start but he can't carry anything.  The trolley is just what he needs.

I hand it over. I've spent the rest of the day feeling enormously gratified.  Liberated even.  Next on the list, the cat basket.

Wheels

Distinctly emotional watching the final stage of the Tour de France. France TV does a fabulous job with their earthbound and helicopter shots and the late evening sunlight set the scene beautifully for the ride into Paris yesterday. Just a quick glimpse of the suburbs that I knew so well sets me off - Meudon-la-Foret, Issy les Moulineaux, Porte de Sevres. The  Champs Elysees and the quais de la Seine formed part of my walk to and from work at one time. Nostalgia and beauty and sadness and regret all mixed; this city pulls at my heartstrings like no other. One day I'll go back, take my time and lay a few ghosts.

Ironically yesterday I decided to put my bike on Freecycle.  In the future I simply can't take the risk of an accident.  Transport henceforth will be two legs or four wheels.  If specific cycling exercise is needed I'll go the gym.  Can't crash an exercise bike.