Today is transition day; the day in the five day cycle when I head back to Newcastle to do some hands-on dog care and catch up with Pete and the kids. I was struck last week, as to just how good it feels to have all my (now adult) children in Newcastle again, all in their own separate living spaces and all thriving within their different choices. For the first time in a very long time, I feel that they have each found their own habitat (the natural environment of an organism), where they can flourish and I no longer need to worry about their well-being. I say worry, but for those of you who know me, the choice of word will jar like tripping over an uneven paving stone. I don’t worry! Indeed, I am usually the queen of “laid back”, but what I do experience in bucket-loads is an overwhelming sense of being responsible for the welfare of those around me. To some degree, this has always been my Achilles heel.
Indeed, the reason why the 24 hour presence of multiple dogs in my home, 365 days a year, took its toll was as much to do with the burden of responsibility, as it was the lack of a social life or the gradual destruction of the house. My recurring ‘nightmares’ never featured coming home to find a hole in the arm of my leather settee, or the beautiful blinds that Lloyd and I chose together, a mangled, dog-chewed mess on the floor – though these things were the reality of my daily experience. No! In the divine depths of REM sleep, I could generally be found discovering unkempt and underfed animals in the far flung corners of my home, which had morphed seamlessly into a smallholding with numerous hiding places. Not feeling responsible for everyone else’s well-being is something I am trying to learn. Nurturing my own well-being (which historically has often been neglected), even more so.
Wolf 2 – the motorhome
Which brings me back to today and my journey home along the A690 and the A19. [Aside: I wrote that instinctively, but am now wondering about home and where my home really is. I am pretty certain that ‘home’ is not a house (not mine, nor Pete’s), nor is it Wolfie… she’s utilitarian, a means to an end. I do feel that coming back to Newcastle is a homecoming, but whilst I clearly have an affinity to the city, I wonder whether home is actually wherever my people are?] As I journeyed I listened to a piece on Radio 4 about consumerism, minimalism and our relationship with stuff. This is one of the areas of life that I would like to write about at length this year. Stuff. I haven’t – yet -whittled my own stuff down to only what I can fit into a very small van. I have a few possessions at Pete’s, along with two large boxes of eBay sales stuff. My own house I’m renting to my daughter, Imogen, and her partner, Chris. I’ve rented it furnished, just because that made sense, but in my mind the furniture is part of the house, not “my stuff”. I have a few boxes of things I won’t need in the van – but don’t want to get rid of – left in the garage, plus boxes of Scuttling Gourmet; my book on rat nutrition. I’ve never been materialistic, but I have always had loads of ‘useful’ stuff. Things I would hold onto in case I needed them one day (never). Clothes in every size between the UK16 I am now and the 10-12 I aspire to be. Craft stuff. Dog Stuff. Rat stuff. Kids stuff. Spare stuff. Stuff!
