From the end of March up until now (or ahead, more precisely 3rd June) I bobbed along. I wonder whether it is more appropriate to think of myself as a jetsam or flotsam. The former being something intentionally flung overboard and the latter just something adrift… unintentionally, I guess. It just ended up there. Sometimes I think I must be jetsam, because I consciously chose to return from Japan and dive into the sea of inbetweeness. Then I fancy myself as flotsam, circumstances swirling around and sweeping me out into the distant reaches of the ocean.
Perhaps some of those words or metaphors have negative connotations. Maybe it felt like that at first. Rushing up and down the breadth of the country, my last pay packet withering away, always a welcome house guest but never feeling like I’d arrived home. To my home.
Amore and I headed to London. Caught in icy fistfuls of rainy spells, enduring hoity-toity accented estate agents around. It didn’t matter though. We steeled ourselves for a hard slog with the knowledge that this was going to be our place. It just so happened that our home was the second viewing we had. Old town house, looking out onto green, central, two (one and a half) bedrooms… even an outside terrace. Built in wardrobes, bath, separate washer and dryer, wooden floors, big windows, third floor… the rest of our allotted viewings were really more of a formality. We had decided.
So that was my anchor. It took me a little while to realise it but the pressure was off. This second run in Scotland has let me settle into my happy adrift bobbing. The difference now is that I know I’ve a harbor to return to, this great expanse of time is contentedness. Pleasant.
The air is thick and sweet, seems syrupy almost as I drink it in. The lawn is more daisies than grass, lambs bleat in the distance and starlings dart around the hedgerows. I spend at least an hour in the woods each day. Some days I start with the NHS couch to 5k runs, but my favourite part is bundling up the headphones and pushing them deep into the pocket of my red waterproof. Its sounds a bit 70s and obnoxiously ‘out there’, but I like the sensation of knowing I am a part of the earth. I get to take in things I might miss if I was rushing or bundled up: tiny fragile cases of broken shells, discarded from treetop nests; a red squirrel with tufty ears; birds of prey angling themselves against rising plumes of hot air… everything really.
I think about how much I love him and plan little things for when our life starts together in earnest. Towards the end of the walk, ambling along pine shadowed pathways and stepping through dusty shafts of sunlights, I always think about writing down this filling-up good feeling. I roll through different titles and decide to settle on perhaps ‘Happiness Ahead’.
I finally got round to it today and I’m not guilty about it at all. Writing needs to happen at precisely the right time. I’m sat bare footed at the garden table at the front of Mum’s cottage. I haven’t got any clothes prepared for this Scottish heatwave so it’s a horrific mismatch of a black and white speckled loose shirt and Adidas joggers. I don’t really care though (although who wouldn’t prefer being draped in flowing garments from Versace, Chanel, Gucci… I digress).
The main thing is when I pressed my fingertips to the keys, the title didn’t fit any more. Well, it did fit but it was an unfull true. There is happiness ahead. But it’s right and accurate to say that there is happiness now.