Unhurried...

... for Knots in the String.

Nothing I could write about slow living would encapsulate its values as well as this.

I value the concept of slow living and in this screamingly loud world, am glad that we hear more of its value on electronic and print media. It can quite literally save us when life gets too loud, too painful.

I’m reminded of a ball I once went to. It was called a Bachelor’s Ball back in the early 70’s and they were quite pukka and socially desirable events then. And yes, we had Spinsters’ Balls as well – each committee made up of said bachelors and spinsters. On a side note – imagine any 21st century woman joining such a committee. I imagine woke (another term I loathe) society would decry it, reminding us that women, females, girls, whatever, are worth more than the description of spinster! Before I disappear completely down that rabbit hole, can I say all we spinsters were university students and organised a pretty good (and civilised) bash. In addition, in beautiful gowns we all looked lovely (IMO). We were our university’s young women who revelled in how we lived and what we were achieving.

But back to the Bachelors’ Ball. It was held in a country hall and the stage was dominated by one of our local rock bands. The music was ear-splitting, the crowd loud, the crush phenomenal. I just wanted out for a little, and so I walked through the mass of guests holding up the hem of my palest pink and white cotton damask evening gown, stepped through the double wooden doors and out into the night. The humid odour of crushed grass smoothed away the smell of sweaty bodies, perfume, cigarettes and alcohol and I wound between parked cars and stopped at the fence, looking out over paddocks, smelling the sweet fragrance of sheep. The night sky was cloudless, stars pricked the darkness and behind me the music thumped away but it was muffled, as if it came from far behind the hills. I breathed deep and soughed out relief. At that moment, I would have called a taxi if we’d had mobile phones, and if the taxis would have come this far into the country. But life was different then, and so I was stuck, not least because I was a committee member and must stay until the end. I walked along the fence line and found an old wooden stile, gathered my folds around me and just sat on the lowest step. I soaked up the relative peace, whilst knowing that sooner or later I would have to return to the noisy crush of students living in the fast lane early 70’s style.

It was perhaps the first mature realisation that I wanted something different – the ability to do things at my pace, to connect with values I personally believed in, to be me rather than a societal clone. At that moment, I was a 70’s version of someone just beginning to see the value of living slowly. (I urge you to read the link above. It’s surprising what slow living actually means.)

Doing:

Living at my pace, governed by twice weekly visits from the Community Nurse. There may be at least another 3-4 weeks of this, so life is slower which means I really savour what I do.

Two huge events occurred, although probably small bikkies to readers. Last Saturday, I worked all day in my big garden, catching up on 8 lost weeks. I walked 11,500 steps.

I communed with my plants, wrapped them in mulch and sheep’s crutchings, fed them, cut away dead stems and old seedheads. I had forgotten how pretty chive seedheads are, how prolific are borage, bronze fennel and Vietnamese mint. I fossicked in the tubs and found a tulip spike – another two weeks and it will flower. Those of you who have stayed with me on Knots in the String over the last two months will know how my soul sang with the joy of being able to garden.

The other occasion was a full return to ballet class – barre, port de bras, adage and more. Somehow, I pulled it off. I took my time, did what I conceivably could, felt the give and take of flaccid muscles.

Later as some of us stayed behind to learn a new routine, I was bitten by cramp (see image as I grabbed at my calf). But I revelled in the positive communion with a body that has been through so much and which responded kindly when I asked for bigger things. I was chuffed at the arch of my feet, but my turnout has drifted off and I’m unable to fully elevate my right arm as it stretches the wound at my core. Does it matter? ‘Course not! I’m not exactly Osipova or Nuñez! But the sprung floor felt so good and the smooth wood of the barres under my hands, the music, the camaraderie - I had missed it all terribly.

At home, I sat feet up on the couch, a cup of camomile tea on the sea chest, and began to write more of Act III. One word after another, looking for the best word to create an image, to entice a reader to turn the page. It’s never something to be done quickly. Savour, flavour and slowness...

Reading:

I’ve begun Matthew Harffy’s Dark Frontier on Kindle. I’ve been a fan of Harffy’s Dark Age novels since he began as an indie writer. Since those independent days, he has gone from strength to strength. But this latest is right out of left field - a Western, set in Oregon in the 1890’s, written by an Englishman. I started it cautiously because a Western is not something I’ve ever wanted to read, however Harffy’s skill with characters and setting is remarkable, the plot quite magnetic.

On audio, I’m listening to Holy Isle, a murder thriller by LJ Ross, and set on the island from whence came the magnificent Lindisfarne Gospels. That and the fact that Holy Isle is a much-loved and frequented destination of close friends is what prompted me to buy this. It’s a confronting novel, again not a genre I would commonly read. Listening to it via audio and particularly read by Jonathan Keeble, makes the violence easier to bear.

I think about slow-living and so I spend time with my friend, Willie, as we talk winter soups and as she pours a cup of tea in her kitchen, I note the two halves of a fresh Victoria sponge, still warm and sitting on the top of the oven. I gaze out her sunroom window to her magnificent garden all tucked up for winter. I watch her cat, moving (stalking?) slowly through the borders. We talk about her drawing, about health, about limes and lemons (and I think of marmalade), about her upcoming trip to Italy. Unspoken is the desire for us both to move past winter to the hazy days of summer, when we can lay towels on white sand and drift through the hours as lightly as we drift in the ocean.

Later, I hop (!!!) on my old green bike and ride slowly back to the cottage, thinking of the state of the world way beyond our own borders and am fully aware I’m living a ‘meaningful and conscious lifestyle that’s in line with what (I) value most...’ Simply, it’s making time, taking time, and having time.

Seriously, who gets to live like this?