Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
Waking up this morning, I could see it was a grey day. Focusing on my senses, I tuned in my hearing and listened to the soft sounds of my dog Arthur’s breathing. I instantly understood that all was well.
Yesterday evening, I went to sit on Weymouth seafront with a friend for an hour after a bun fight (not literally!) at Home Bargains. Before anyone complains, yes, I know it’s my choice to go there and, yes, there are bargains to be had, but I find the trolleys problematic and the shelves are often empty. That said, I do keep going so I’ve only myself to blame – and I’m not complaining.
Sitting quietly looking out into the distance, the sea was calm, like green glass, and the cliffs in the distance framed it like the lead in a church panel. The sand in front of us looked clean and soft, a pale, creamy, buttery yellow inviting loose, unbridled toes. But experience warns, should you succumb, you’ll pay for that brief impulse later; those tiny, miniscule bits of grit, rock, and glass rubbing blisters on winter-softened skin.
No matter how hard you rub your feet and believe that you’ve removed all traces of sand, you’ll be bouncing around in pain by the time you reach home, blisters swelling. Thus, impulse resisted, we sat in quiet contemplation, the bench a safe distance from reckless feet.
Easy, comfortable conversation followed; family, the news, politics, the flowers in the planters, and the dogs who came to say hello as we sat there quietly, enjoying the sights and smells of a summer evening on the seafront.
Reflecting on those moments now, looking at my life today, it’s so far removed from the little girl who grew up in poverty in central London, at the top of a dingy block of flats. The gentle, rolling lifecycle of retirement is so vastly different to the enormous stress and pressure that I put myself under for all those years working as a secondary school teacher in Hackney.
In my working life, I’d come to accept that stabbings and murder were appallingly routine, fear and tension constant, like a disease. What’s stranger though, is that although that was my life for over 30 years, it seems like a lifetime ago. It’s like I was a different person and, I suppose, in a way, I was. I paid my dues. I became a productive member of society who went above and beyond what was expected of me, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
We constantly talk about the downsides to getting older, but there are plenty of upsides too. Age has taught me that life is like the brightly coloured threads of a carpet, carefully interwoven by skilled hands. These threads form a rich, vibrant pattern that’s only ever seen as a whole – the finished product – no matter where you are on your journey. New threads that are unknown and unseen at this point will introduce new colours that may change the entire view of the whole. But, at any one point in time, we can only guess what it will look like.
Age gives us perception, wisdom, and experiences that’ll shape our understanding of the world and our place within it, creating ripples that go well beyond our own lives. Sitting on that seafront with everything that my life has brought me up to and until that moment gave me a profound sense of gratitude.
I’m still here. I have friends, companionship, and my two furry beasties are waiting quietly at home for me to return. I still have my mind – my ability to read and write, to imagine and dream, and go beyond the physical confines of my body.
Strangely, though a constant inspiration, I don’t actually like water – I never have. I find it both glorious and terrifying in the extreme. I’ve never wanted to live by the sea, I don’t go on boats, and I generally keep well away from it.
Only recently I was reminded of my trip to Venice when talking to you here, but what I didn’t mention was my abject terror of experiencing the black, inky surface of the Lagoon. My mind spiralled down into its depths, my lungs bursting, and the fear which engulfed me when we went anywhere near its edge rendered me useless.
No, for me water smells of death. Though, logically, I understand that it’s simply another kingdom teeming with life, I think it’s that, for me, we just don’t belong there. It’s terrible – it’s its own master and lives by its own rules. And it’ll take even the most experienced, the most confident, and turn everything on its head, taking them from us.
Perhaps it’s actually because of that contrast that, sitting there on the seafront, looking out at the enormity of the ocean’s breadth and power, I also find tranquillity in its beauty. Paddling at the edge of the shore, feeling your feet sink gently into the soft sand, picking up shells, and chasing white horses, are all wonderful experiences that, found in childhood, never leave you.
So, when I want to find myself again or take a step back, I find myself on Weymouth seafront, alone or with a friend. I breathe in the soft, salty brine of the air and take in the vista; warm, soothing comfort travelling through my veins and reminding me that I’m still alive and, in spite of age, still have so much to offer.
On waking up this morning, the sky grey and overcast, listening to the gentle sounds of Arthur’s breathing, I could see blue skies on the horizon and the white fluffy clouds that will appear, if not today, then tomorrow. My mental clock reset, I can face the day, this and every other, finding my equilibrium so that I can just enjoy, enjoy and surrender, no matter what the hours bring.
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.