I went for a walk by the river tonight. It was twilight, but not the sort of twilight you get in summer - more the dingy, damp kind that hangs around on a chilly evening.
There was nobody about. Usually down there, I imagine the Sunday Afternoon Victorians with parasols and top hats and finery - I don't know why, perhaps I'm thinking of that painting by Seurat. Though they weren't strictly Victorians were they, the Parisiennes a La Grande Jatte?
Anyway, the cast iron benches were empty. The neatly cut grass and tall trees were silent, and the smart concrete path stretched along the river into the gloom with only the geese for company.
There were lights on on the other side. I often look at those big houses between the trees, and wonder what life must be like over there - tennis courts, huge riverside windows, sloping gardens and boathouses. A big white house looked most inviting tonight with its Christmassy lights strung under the eaves. They rippled from the windows and danced in the water below like river-fairies.
I had a few things to think about. This, I've realised, is exactly what I do sometimes: I walk and I think. I ponder and analyse, letting the rhythm of the footsteps drive the cogs in my head. I feel sure cleverer people don't need to do that, but I can't seem to help being wired up head-to-feet.
Anyway, I did walk. And I did ponder. I pondered how affected we all are by the season, and what this new post-lockdown period might look like. The kids are back at school, things are cautiously opening - we're assembling ourselves where we can and while we can. But make no mistake: it's no party. There's caution everywhere as the threat circles. Making longer term plans is... complicated. And work, at least for me, remains locked at home with a lonely laptop.
I thought about my own life too - how I could do with simplifying things, and some of the decisions I have to make. I thought about how to drink more water and eat less junk, how to cherish time better and be kinder to myself. I thought about what I'm going to say to head off those difficult discussions coming up, and I thought about the pure courage I need, to say true things to people who won't want to hear them.
Someone once told me that one day I'd have a big house.
That was a long time ago - I guess they thought I'd write songs that got everywhere. That hasn't happened. So far I've bought a shoebox (bought with installation guides, not songs) and I've accidentally filled it with recycling. I'm ashamed and embarrassed about it, especially if it turns out I had more potential and failed to use it. And it isn't even about money really - it's more about stewarding things well and living... big - big, not just for me, but for community; for people to rest in the shade of a tree I planted, for starlit conversations on the verandah, or kitchen parties round a huge, noisy table. It was always about more than just me, it really was. But here I am in a shoebox.
The mansions on the other side of the river then, made my heart both leap and sink all at the same time. How can hope be so quantum? So alive and yet so done-with, simultaneously? What is this weird cognitive dissonance, where I'm on both banks looking forlornly across the dark river that separates me from me?
It's not a negative thing. It's a challenge - a quest for change, though to be honest, I just don't know how to make it happen. I need help.
I walked back to the car as the rain started spotting. I had no umbrella, just a hood, so I pulled it over my head and thrust my hands into my pockets. Behind me, the river wound its way like a silk ribbon, catching the light of the bridge and the street lanterns. Perhaps one day I'll cross it.
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