A February Diary: Caught between the seasons, robins and cats on the beach... March sees a sudden departure

Everything must evolve - and yet, I am back where it all began, a tale in two parts

Echium candicans

A day in Feb. I remember the day after I took that photo, hell returned, 65mph winds and thrashing rain. I walked the dog, lost him and found him on the doorstep of the pub.

Part One

February Diary - The beginning of the end

I’m just about still here, marooned in paradise, stunned by its beauty, dreaming of wading out, swimming in, but in truth I’ve not braved the sea since new year’s day. Since my December newsletter I have seen giant tuna flying out of the water, dolphins too, racing alongside us, and then just as we came around the back of St Helen’s lighthouse, the boat stopped for us all to gasp as we spotted a humpback whale. I’ll never forget that boat ride, flying through the pond-like sea, a new year beckoned and we were drunk on beer and full of tears. Our flights back to Tresco were cancelled due to low cloud so we had to get the jet boat. A four hour wait in Penzance took us to four pubs. It was James’ 10th birthday, 28th December - and the day we came back after Christmas.

I can’t pretend any longer. I don’t think island life is for me. Ten months in. Not sure how much longer we will last on this rocky outcrop. I miss landscapes. Leaving feels like madness. Staying here any longer presses on my chest. Finishing anything seems impossible. I feel greedy. Contentment always on the next bend. I want, want, want… Want to be on my yoga mat, head empty — whilst making granola, reading an essay on Substack, sharing brilliant posts like the ones from Quantum Nomad. For now, you find me here, driving an electric buggy around in circles, longing to write, still pruning, planting, gone mad as a fish, sea-locked, stirring soup, lower back aching; balancing on one leg, (strengthening my core) while washing sits in a heap, essential oils burning, vegetables roasting, dough rising.

I’m doing lots of things badly with half a mind and all of my heart. I fear the next time you hear from me I’ll be up to my eyes in boxes and bubble wrap again. Family and friends need me. It’s time to stop thinking about myself and think of others. My friends are facing imminent empty nests. They’ve put everything, their entire selves into building these nests, and now they begin again, a new phase of life -who am I now? They are watching their fledglings - late teens, part-time jobs, parties they don’t come home from. I imagine it’s agony; all those years of them needing you, and now, you need them more. My friends find it hard to lean on me, fearful of complaining about the absence of living children. But I so want them to. I don’t want it to be this way. I want them to moan and rant and cry. I am here and want authentic conversations. We must not measure and compare. Must not invalidate. Your feelings are valid, because they are yours.

January? Now a blur of grey and damp. I tried to stay inside that month for as long as possible. Because the year races once it’s over. Never want another March to come - another anniversary of losing James. But other-me - New Self - she is yearning to be held by the warmth of the sun. She is desperate for spring, longing for the Forget-me-nots to burst into life, eager for daffodils, tulips, standing proud.

I remember trying to embrace darkness, walking back from the pub, with my head back, eyes to the black above. We switched off our head torches — and there was The Universe. I was not looking it. I was right there, inside it. Galaxies so close; you could watch the sky all night. It’s worth visiting this place just to experience the stars in the complete absence of light pollution. During the day, wearing so many layers, our tiny home was full of wet weather gear, hanging all around. Clothes on the airer still damp after three days. Water droplets on the ceiling. Damp climbing the walls.

And now, February. Let me paint you a picture: a strange and small land where cats and pheasants mingle on white sand, all is stirring, creatures sensing the promise of more light, longer days; the reawakening. On my side of the island, facing east, watching the sun rise as Ernie sniffs and chases rabbits, there is not a boat or a soul to be seen. No lights dotted on the land. No morning traffic. The beaches look like Barbados, and depending on wind direction, it feels like the Med on one side and the Artic on the other. I’ve nearly done it - a whole winter of 40+ hours of gardening a week. I’ll never forget attempting to cycle across the harbour in 60mph, had to abandon my bike in the end.

Between passing storms the silence is medicinal. Cats sit and watch the tides. By the rocks - heads of seals bob. From the shore you can see them, sleek, soaked fur, catches the light. It never ceases to get me, right in the heart, the stillness, the relief. I love the feeling of being outnumbered by wild creatures. We simply exist, with the few beings on the beach. We walk for hours and might see a figure in the distance, the farmer, (unmistakable young man with long hair, always wearing short-shorts and high wellies.) Pausing to hear the lapping, always stopping to get my around this silence, I try to drink in the peace, because I know I won’t stay here. Somewhere in me refuses to feel at home. I cannot adjust to less land. My eyes are searching for more horizons. All this sea. It’s menacing. A presence I don’t belong to; it threatens me, traps me. Miles away, suddenly I’m frightened half to death by the leaping of a pheasant as it flees in a stagger from the dunes, wings wobble, flying like a plane out of fuel, out comes the ear-scratching shriek. Then I feel another - looking down, a slim black cat, sits calm on the shore, posture to die for, feminine, elegant poise, velvet against the white sand. Its expression says it all - You stupid human, go away, you frightened my prey. She’s watching a robin close to the dunes. They play hide and seek amongst flowering succulents, budding echiums. I don’t move. They forget I am here.

February here looks like April at home. Bronze Fennel with feathery new fronds. Anything daisy related not shy - petals out wide, heart-center open for early pollinators seeking fresh nectar. But it’s not all thriving. Five days of 65mph gales has reduced many shrubs to skeletons. It’s all about micro climates. The more you plant, the more you can grow.

My writing plans break my heart daily. A deadline here, an idea there, they get away, as always, a stream, a babbling brook, a frothing sea; ideas sweep in, a wave towards the shore, it rises, clean as can be - but the collapse is messy. These meanderings, these false starts, they tie me in knots, leave me stagnant. Bringing up children is the hardest job in the world. But bringing up a non-living child, well— that makes no sense... But the young parent in me is desperate to finish the job she started. And I will. I will carry him, all his cleverness, his energy for living, his hopes and dreams, I will carry them all the way, right to the end of my days.

I sit to write, and so often this happens - a bumble bee bangs against the single pane, and then, a pair of ants appear, one on my screen and one on my keyboard. It’s as if they live inside my lap top. No others, just two of them. I won’t get rid of them. I like the company, and they were probably here first.

I want to tell you everything, but why? (I want to scream, this is old news, because I edit this, today - 1st April, I sit in a friend’s kitchen on the main land, I am between hospital visits. Island life had to end, it’s all over, but I’ll get to that later.) This voice inside me needs company, needs air, always searching. We can feel all alone inside. It can’t just be me. Do you ever long to escape yourself? I suppose that’s what Meditation aims for. But the M word is too obscure for what is simply just being a living body, without the bully intent on high achieving. When tension grips me, I am constantly having to feel my feet, feel my hands.

I reveal too much and tonight I shall lie awake cringing afterwards. FFS, Jess, just keep it to yourself. What a strange compulsion this is. Avoidance perhaps. Attention seeking? Procrastination? I write life, rather than live it, rather than deal with it. If I turn it all into a story, well, then I am separate from it. Making it unreal. Making it melodrama.

I want to tell you about how the book is going, about the three Gems in my life, about Little Gem, a secret sanctuary, I can only glance at it as I pass by. It’s a place in my mind, a place back home I miss the most and it’s not even mine. The third Gem that’s come into my life is the new friend I mentioned in my last newsletter. Gem Hansen, Bryher Yoga really good yoga. Sticking to a class is dependent on finding an instructor with a voice that works for you. After years of going to classes that just didn’t feel right for me, I finally found Lisa of MindBodyDanceCornwall Cornwall, and now Gem. The voice, the sound, tone, pace, it’s as important as the words. They both have the mastered the art. It’s like pouring crystal clear water into my mind. Turbulence subsides. Murkiness dissipates.

Fridge Door disassembled again, no idea where my next fridge will be

I’m thinking, I owe my six paying subscribers an apology. (One is my mum, but I am still counting her.) I honestly feel that you six generous people should cancel payments. (If you would like a refund I wouldn’t blame you at all. Please get in touch.) Either way I will make up for my laziness. I am moved beyond words by anyone pledging financial support. It’s not a small thing you’re doing, it’s massive. Nearly three months of faffing over drafts. Just when you think you’ve had your last crisis in confidence, when you are well into middle age and you think you’re winning and ready to face anything, the doubt returns, the chaos comes back, the self-critic wakes back from the dead. Taking life too seriously again, thinking it’s this thing we have to get right and all the fear swallowing time and energy. Waking in debt to the day is no way to live. It’s not zen. It’s chaos.

I’m craving something, trying to get back to life, wanting something wild and crazy. I am surprised because I thought this life would suit me. Itchy feet again. There’s a whole world out there and I keep asking, stuck here, IS THIS LIVING? I am thinking about my parents and how they miss me, and all my girlfriends out there, all over the place, school friends, work friends old and new, brother and cousin’s wives, all the great women in my life - from France to Melbourne, Land’s End to London, Hello, out there, old selves, a life time ago - let’s go back to when we met, when we were not considering botox, when we laughed and loved easily… I love you all, let’s have fun again soon. They are all out there, on and on with life, we go, and we go, and we keep promising to see each other - one day, one day, it will happen, we say. And when we meet - we are ageless, smiling easier, lighter on our feet, remembering who we were before lost hormones and early nights took over.

Late Feb - Ten months in, we have given our resignation. Oh the guilt. Being a let down. Breaking the contract, giving up. But it is time to go home. I want to be there for aging loved ones who ring me and ask again and again, When are you coming home? And then, the next day, again, they ring, and ask the same question, because memories are failing, Where are you now? When are you home? I’ve made myself cry now. Because I can’t do it all. But I bloody want to do it all.

Is it just me, who can’t find stillness? Tell me I am not alone. They say life begins at 40 and I have had a lot of energy in the last six years. But that could be the fighting spirit James left me with. Maybe it’s the chasing of life that begins in our forties. If this is a mid-life crisis, I say, bring it on, because I am more ambitious than ever. Surely crisis is the wrong word. It’s a need be more than one thing. “Crisis” says fear. Maybe I bring these things on myself, addicted to drama, easily bored. I’ve tested my husband’s patience with my hyperactivity. ACHIEVE, ACHIEVE, ACHIEVE. Live for James. Adventure awaits. Come on, it’s now or never… on and on the wanting goes, a new county to live in, a new garden to work in, a private estate, or a national treasure, where next? Who knows whether I’ve got James’ energy inside me or if I am just running from the child-size hole in my life. I’m on a mission to stop thinking so much and just live.

Part Two coming soon - a strange and sad new journey: Back in the real world, where hope is everything, struggling to edit scraps of thoughts. Homeless, jobless. Dad in hospital. I had to leave that tiny bubble of paradise, for good - with the touch of a screen, from one text to the next, booking a flight with trembling fingers - here I am, no time to say goodbye to the beaches and the people, leaving Simon to pack, clean, no leaving drinks, nothing - I vanished, returning to the hell of visiting hours, and that smell - the airless bright wards and corridors, beds on wheels, bleeping machines… but revisiting, although triggering, it shifts the memories on, adds layers to places in my mind, and the thing is, it’s strangely, horribly comforting; the urgency of it all, the threat of tears, emotions brimming, on a mission, firing up; my body knows this feeling and welcomes the purposefulness over the Tresco Show, the perfect holidays. But I must not get comfortable in the rush of it all again. Because it’s a long way down. The ability to relax and soften escapes with the chase.