It’s a sad thing when the highlight of one’s day turns out to be the satisfaction of watching trapped effluent suddenly making a bid for freedom along the waste pipes leading from one’s home to one’s septic tank named PooTin. But that, dear Reader(s) was the truth of today. We had a bit of a blockage, so out came the drain rods and the pressure washer and an hour of fun was had in the semi-gloom of a late afternoon in Winter gently encouraging the blockage to shift and feeling the thrill of satisfaction when it did. Such is the joy of remote countryside living where connection to mains drainage is but a distant dream.
Andy asked me yesterday if I ever felt lonely, now that I wasn’t going out to work. And I admitted that yes, sometimes I do. Some days I don’t speak to another human being aside from Andy. I see a dog named Nell and a cat named Bambino, neither of whom are great conversationalists. Recently, I’ve been seeing hundreds of rooks. I don’t know what it is with the rooks around these parts but they’ve been HUGE in numbers this year and sometimes the sky turns black with them wheeling around in the winds. They are not as organised as starlings or pigeons - in fact, I am surprised there appear to be no obvious mid-air collisions what with their scattered approach to aviation. But I enjoy watching them. Rooks win over starlings every day in my estimation. But the company of human beings? Only if I get in my car and seek it out.
I’m quite good with solitude. I don’t mine being in my own company. When the days are dry and not too cold and I am able to spend them in the garden, pootling around tidying this, pruning that, planting the other, with a break every now and again for a cup of tea, or bowl of soup, well, those are good days and I don’t miss not seeing or speaking to anyone. However, when the days are cold, wet and windy, as they have been more often than not the last few weeks, well, that’s when the loneliness hits. On days like this I have to make sure I crack on with activities or else I find myself sinking. When I am writing fiction or reading, I am never lonely.
Today, I didn’t even see anyone when I took Nell out for her walk.
The thing is I’ve never been one for having a lot of friends. Give me a small handful of people I really like rather than scores of people who are mere acquaintances. Over the years, more often than not, people I have considered as friends have turned out to be not the friends I thought they were. Probably my fault, through misjudgement, naivety, or being over-trusting. Either way, when you are let down too many times, you stop trying at friendships through either fear of being hurt again, or of becoming fed up with being the person who puts in all the effort for no return. I find it odd to read my old school reports describing this ‘popular girl’ because she doesn’t sound like the person I recognise. The same with ‘popular work colleague.’ No, I think that was just me being polite, cheerful, welcoming and helpful, because that’s how I try to be with everyone, and everyone is not necessarily friend material.
I have a really good friend, Jane, back in Kent. We’ve been friends since our children were small - around 35 years now. It is a sadness to me that we are no longer near neighbours who can ‘just pop round’ but we speak regularly and put the world to rights. She is, and always has been, a proper friend and I am blessed to have her in my life.
Anyway, yesterday I agreed with Andy that perhaps it would be good for me to at least find ways of getting out again and mixing with people - and in a positive way instead of just being annoyed with people in supermarkets. It’s been nearly a year and a half since I gave up paid work. And really, a lot of the time I don’t mind that I am in solitude because I am an introvert and natural hermit. I thought perhaps, when the season starts again, I would join the local beekeeping association, to refresh my beekeeping skills before setting up a new hive or two. And then I could talk to thousands of bees because it is the lore that you have to tell bees EVERYTHING. I could join the local W.I but that feels a bit cliché and I feel they might have too many rules that I would immediately feel the urge to break. I could join a writing group or book club, or volunteer to do something useful somewhere. At the moment, though, all these things feel a bit like too much faff and effort.
Tomorrow, I am celebrating Imbolc which is the old pagan festival that marks the start of Springtime. It’s a time to remember there is still no need to rush or to hurry but to take time to look out for the first signs of new growth, like embryonic leaves on trees and hedges and sunshine bright daffodil buds daring to burst from their papery sheaths. And to take hope from what you see, because these dark, wet days too shall pass. Andy will be at work, so I shall celebrate alone. Or as alone as one can be when surrounded by the awakening energies of new life. All is well. Even the drains.
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