Preoccupied by shallow-growing roots

I long to let my roots grow deep and strong. I long to belong, to feel truly grounded; but I feel lost, and I am left the wonder: where is my true home? In the nearly 20 years that have passed since I left Sweden, I have lived in Toronto; on Vancouver Island; on one of the Gulf Islands; in Haarlem; in Amsterdam and now in Brighton, but I wonder why I’m more reticent now than ever to let my roots become truly... rooted. To allow a place to feel like home.

Despite my weak and shallow-growing roots, Brighton has been my base for nine years, longer than I've lived in any one place before (excluding the house where I grew up). So I started thinking about what keeps me here...

• My god son. Although I don’t see him as often as I used to, he and I have a very special bond, and I feel a responsibility towards him that is impossible to ignore. He roots me here more than anyone or anything else
• The sea. It’s only a few minutes away from my house, and I walk along the shore nearly every day. It never looks the same. It always looks beautiful
• I’m starting a 10 week taster course at the Shiatsu College in Brighton tomorrow, and I’m hoping to like it so much that I will want to enrol in their three-year course starting this autumn
• I can walk to work in less than five minutes
• A selection of drop-in yoga classes are readily available for me to choose from – every day of the week, day and night
• Walking through a bluebell woodland at this time of the year is magical, I can almost believe I live in King Arthur’s England
• Rosie. She depends on me and I doubt I could ever leave Brighton as long as she's still here
  

But there are so many things that prevents me from becoming completely anchored to the British soil: the unsophisticated drinking culture; the chavs; the insanity that doing drugs is considered cool; the fact that cafe's don't stay open past 7pm; the obsession with reality TV shows; the exorbitant housing market; the exorbitant cost of everything...

I suppose for the time being, the pros outweigh the cons. But for how long I wonder?

Photo by Adrian

Fury

Every Saturday afternoon I spend with Rosie. She lives nearby and I usually walk over sometime between 2 and 2:30. After I arrive we sit and chat for an hour or so; we talk about her health, about what she’s been doing during the week. Then she calls a taxi and we head off to the supermarket where I help her do her weekly shopping. After we get back to her flat and put the groceries away, we sit down with a giant cup of tea each and a jaffa cake or two. And she tells me tales of her life. She’s a fantastic story teller and has had an incredibly rich and interesting life.

Rosie is 88 and was always very active and independent. But when she moved to Brighton 10 years ago, she became quite depressed when, for the first time in her life, she felt that nobody actually needed her. She started feeling useless; a burden on her family, on society. She still takes a daily anti-depressant and something to help her go to sleep at night, and usually when I call during the week and ask her how she is, she answers “not very well, dear”. And there are times when she opens the door to let me in, when I can tell that she is indeed quite down. But I like to think that she enjoys our visits as much as I do.

Rosie suffers from severe osteoporosis; she is almost completely deaf; she is registered blind; both her hands and feet are badly twisted from rheumatism, rendering them almost useless at performing simple tasks like opening a jar, or getting through the impossible plastic wrapping that covers most food items. Things I do mindlessly, can take her the best part of an hour. In many ways she is a prisoner, both in her body and in her flat.

When I called her after I returned from Istanbul on Tuesday, she told me that last Saturday she was robbed in the supermarket. Someone distracted her and while her back was turned, his accomplice snatched her purse from her bag, which was lying in the supermarket trolley.

How anyone could do something so cowardly is beyond me. I feel absolutely furious. At 4’8” she is clearly deemed an easy target. She is quite unsteady on her feet and walks with a cane. “Pick on someone your own size”, I feel like shouting. I still want to throttle them.

The smile

In my neighbourhood walks a man of indeterminable age. He patiently ferries his belongings, all contained within an infinite number of bags, along the quiet residential streets. Whilst his route appears random, I suspect that if someone was to map it, a pattern would emerge. What thoughts occupy his mind as he treads the streets? What treasures and memories are held in those countless bags? Some of the bags are partially open, the zips ripped; the seams torn, and although I’m dying to peek, I’m just too afraid.

He is a big and sturdy man, and I suspect his hair may once have been blonde, but now it looks yellow, and he reminds me of a Cornish fisherman. His face and clothes are beyond grubby and most people give him a wide birth, carefully avoiding the possibly unpleasant risk of accidentally inhaling his stale scent.

In all the years I've seen him walk the streets, I have never seen him drunk or with a drink in his hand. I have never heard him raise his voice or seen him exhibit any signs of aggression or violence. Often, when it’s raining, I see him reading, sitting somewhere sheltered from the weather (he’s careful never to choose a residential doorway). What does he read?

A few days ago we found ourselves on the same street corner. Our eyes met and he gave me the widest, kindest smile. That smile made my day.

Yet my feelings towards him remain the same confused mess of fear and caring. I would desperately like to stop and ask him what he’s reading. I want to know his story, where he came from. But I know I will never dare.

This entry was inspired by a wonderful post written by Lacithecat called The Old Man.

Love Thursday - spring

On Saturday I refrained from turning on my computer for a whole day as part of shut down day. Instead I decided to grab the camera and go out hunting for signs of spring, which on that particular day still seemed eons away - it was bitterly cold and miserably grey.

I bundled up with hat and gloves and a big winter coat and headed off to the nearby park and I guess most people were either hiding indoors or running around doing errands, because it was almost empty. It was wonderful to wander around the scented garden all alone, noticing all the fresh shoots and bursting buds.



From the park I continued down towards the sea and came across a glorious cherry tree heavy with blossoms. I lay down on the bench beneath the canopy and stared up at the grey sky, watching the branches dance in the wind.



After a walk along the sea I turned back up and crossed a field full of daffodils. I couldn't resist lying down in their midst - careful of course not to crush any - and got almost high from their heady scent. I love the way their heads nod in unison, like they're all grooving to the same music. The daffodil head-bangers...



It was a very quiet and introvert afternoon, and I felt reconnected not just with nature, but with a part of myself. The fact that the weather wasn't very inviting actually made the whole experience more complete, it felt as if I was part of the elements again.



To finish off I went to a little cafe and had a pot of green tea before I went back home. A day spent in the slow lane of life. I felt so carefree and so happy.

Photo hunters - broken

The skeleton of what once was the glorious West Pier

This is my very first photo hunter challenge. I'm looking forward to having a weekly theme to work with, which I'm sure will really help get the creativity flowing, and make me look at my surroundings in a different light.

Broken... one of the first things that popped into my mind was the once beautiful West Pier in Brighton (where I live). I see what is left of her nearly every day when I walk along the seafront, and as this photo shows she is still magnificent in a way, but her spirit seems broken and she has also come to represent the broken dreams of those who have tried to restore it.

The pier first opened in 1866 and in her heyday she played host to over 2 million visitors every year. The pier became a cultural destination, sporting both a theatre and a concert hall. The famous Russian ballerina, Anna Pavlova even performed here. In a way she became the perfect representation of Edwardian England.

The pier was forced to close during World War II, and when it reopened it had been transformed into an amusement pier, complete with ghost trains and a games hall. Her popularity faded over the years and was closed for good in 1975. In 1985 she was purchased for £100 by the Brighton West Pier Trust, and they had grand plans to restore her to her former glory. In 1989 the restoration project ground to a halt after the pier was badly damaged following the severe storms of 1987 and 1988. After finally receiving a grant in the late nineties things looked up, but it was not to be. In December 2002 the pier was again badly battered by another storm and partly collapsed into the sea. Only four months later, in March 2003 a fire ravaged what was left of it.

And now only the skeleton of her former glorious self remains. She plays host only to the tens of thousands of starlings that nest there and every night put on a dazzling aerobatic display as they cartwheel in perfect unison across the sky (if you look carefully you can see them in the photo just above the pier). But if I sit quietly on the water's edge on a calm night, it's not difficult to imagine that I can still hear the laughter, the music, the singing echoing across the water.