I’ve finally invested in a fully lined, practical winter jumper and I’m going to finally admit after all these years that my Mum was right. Winter is more enjoyable when you have the right clothes.
When I was young I would often complain about being cold. Even though my family home in West Herefordshire was mostly warm and well insulated, I didn’t like moving very much so my body heat didn’t build. I would spend most weekends curled up on the kitchen windowsill with my feet dangling over the radiator, sucking my thumb and reading a book. I apparently started reading very young. Some of my favourite books were The Chronicles of Narnia series. They arrived under the tree one Christmas, all seven books in a box. I’d read them over and over again. I took them to school with me. I was probably 5 or 6. ‘Can you read that?’ the teachers asked? ‘Of course.’ I said. They looked a bit skeptical. ‘Well it’s quite rare to read in your head at your age’, they said. Most of the other children were sounding out the words. CAT, MAT, BAT. Where else was I supposed to read I thought, silently, and put my head back in the book. At lunchtimes I would ask the teachers if I could stay in the classroom and read whilst the other children went out to play. They would look at me in disbelief. ’No-ones ever asked that before’.
I hated the school breaks because in those days I didn’t have any friends and I had no idea what to do in a social setting. I loved books because they were so giving. They took me into their world, no questions asked. They didn’t expect anything from me. So I did a lot of reading, and a lot of staying still. I’d always be turning the heating up. Mum and Dad would come in and turn it down. ‘Put another jumper on’ they’d say. I’d roll my eyes and turn the radiator back to full until it was almost burning my toes.
As a teenager I took to wearing as little clothes as possible, a trait that has continued far into my adult life. I started going to nightclubs age 15. My friends and I would stand in line for ages in the bitterly cold English winter in tiny dresses and towering heels. I’d never wear a coat. It ruins the look I’d say. Some of my friends had fake ID’s but I never bothered. I was tall enough and I relied on my charm. Sometimes I’d get unlucky (or lucky - depending on which way you look at it). There’d be a particularly strict bouncer on the door. No ID no entry they’d say, arms crossed, pointing to the sign behind them. Then I’d have to walk all the way back past the line of people and everyone would know I hadn’t got in. I want to give that teenager a big hug and say ‘please wear more comfortable shoes and put a coat on!’.
Now as Kane leaves the house in the middle of winter in a t-shirt I shout ‘put a jumper on!’
Maybe we do all turn into our parents eventually.
~
I turned 40 in March which still sounds strange to me. It’s not that I dont love getting older, I mean what a ridiculous thing to not want, the passing of time, yet I still can’t quite believe it. I was speaking to a friend yesterday who’s just turned 60. How does it feel I ask. Wonderful! She says. It’s the same! She spoke a little about her Mum who still goes to yoga twice a week in her mid eighties. I’ve been thinking about one of my students Dorisse who’s been coming to the studio for years. She just turned 82. If I’m lucky enough to live another forty years and I turn out anything like her I’ll be so happy.
Dorisse comes in every week with the biggest smile on her face.
She actually sparkles.
‘I’m just so happy to be here’ she says. She’s genuinely pleased to see me and even on those days when I’m tired and irritable I’m always genuinely pleased to see her. ‘If you have positive thoughts and can see the good in others and be thankful for your life, you’ll always age well,’ she says. Her love for life shines out of her like the sun and warms everyone she meets. Thank you Dorisse. Thank you to all the sunshine people.
As soon as the sun hits the grass I’m out there, stripping off layers and balancing my laptop on a plant pot whilst the cats climb all over me. Today Rod and his Dad are fixing the cars that have been sitting around up the top for years. I can hear their muffled voices and engines starting the crack of hammers. Kane is running around the house with a helmet on around trying to find the key for his motorbike. Raven pulls at my hair with her little paws. We’re the only girls in this place, we’ve got to stick together.
As everyone says, when I was (much) younger I thought 40 was really old. I had some vague idea of my life at 40 and let me tell you it was nothing like my life actually is. I thought I’d be sensible. I thought I’d have a couple of kids even though I wasn’t keen on the idea. I thought I’d have a sensible hair cut and savings and a pension plan. I thought I’d read the paper like my parents, and maybe even do crosswords.
I definitely didn’t see myself as I am now. Lying in the sun drinking coffee, in black lycra, writing about my life. I didn’t think I’d wear crop tops every day and go to festivals and paint my face. I didn’t think I’d still want to have fun.
My 20 something year old self saw 40 as the very distant future and I really thought I’d be a completely different person by then, but look! Here I am! Still me. I still bite my nails. I have 3078 unread emails. I still cant get it together to brush my hair regularly and periodically spend hours pulling dreadlocks out and ripping my hair to shreds. I have no plan for the future.
I still want everyone to like me. I still eat peanut butter straight from the jar and say ‘I’m just going to have one more spoon.’ I still cant be trusted to not eat all the chocolate. I still procrasinate and spend too much time scrolling on my phone when I could be writing or doing something useful. I still dont wash the sheets as often as I should and my clothes are never folded.
What has changed is my acceptance of all this. I actually love the messy, imperfect, over-thinking, vain, creative, impatient, silly and kind person I am. I’ve got way better at telling the truth and I can speak in front of people without crying. Im physically stronger and fitter than I’ve ever been and feel more comfortable in my skin than ever before.
If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t. I’m grateful for all the mistakes I’ve made. I’m grateful for all the heart-ache. I would say to my younger self. ‘Hang on in there! It’s going to get so much better!’
~
Maybe it’s age, or maybe I’m getting more patient but after years of telling myself I can’t bake I’ve made two (delicious) cakes in the last week.
Which is two more than I’ve made in my whole life.
I always thought baking cakes was some mystical, complicated thing outside my reach. I thought you needed fancy equipment and obscure ingredients. Turns out you only need a few basic things. Almond flour. Eggs. Lemon zest. Sugar. And very strong forearms.
I kept my expectations low. In the past I’ve got really excited about new recipes only to get frustrated when they didn’t work out. So I told myself, it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t work. What would yoga say? It’s about the intention, not the result (although who am I kidding, of course we bake cakes because we want them to taste good).
The recipe asked me to seperate the eggs. When I mixed the yolks into the flour the whole thing looked weird. My expectations sank even lower. I spent ages ‘zesting’ lemons from our tree. Turns out you dont get a lot of zest from quite a substantial effort but I guess that’s what makes it so rewarding. When it came to whisking the egg whites into ‘stiff peaks’ I nearly gave up. I had no idea making cakes was such a work-out.
In the absence of a whisk or any kind of ‘machinery’ I did it the old fashioned way, with a fork. When I recounted this riveting story to Deepika, queen of cakes, she exploded with laughter ‘you used your hands?’. She thought I’d literally used my fingers to beat the eggs which does sound like something I’d do, but even with the high tech machine, the fork, it was hard work. After a few minutes my arm felt like it was going to fall off and the eggs were still a clear, runny, slightly jelly like consistency. I kept going for what felt like an eternity. The end result was more soggy wave than stiff peak but I thought ‘it will do’ and chucked them in anyway.
I set a timer on my phone for 30 minutes and forgot about it until the house was filled with the smell of caramel. To be honest I would bake just for this smell. My parents weren’t really cake kind of people but my Dad religiously baked bread. His dark, dense Rye bread was the only bread I’d ever known until I tried sliced white bread for the first time at a neighbours house. I came home with eyes like saucers. Mum! There’s bread that tastes like a cloud!
Every couple of months he’d spend half a day in the kitchen, covered in flour, kneading the dough by hand in the biggest cast iron pot I’ve ever seen. He’d bake the bread in batches and would always make two little loaves with the left over dough for me and my brother Robin. He even decorated them with slivers of dough shaped into the first letters of our name. C & R. We’d smell the bread and run from our rooms, taking the stairs two at a time. ‘Is it ready yet?’ We’d split open the first loaf and slather it in butter, devouring slice after slice without pausing to breathe. To this day I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything as good.
I took the cake out of the oven. It looked surprisingly good. The instructions said ‘cool for at least 30 minutes’ but I couldn’t wait. I hacked at it with a spatula. The whole thing crumbled so I ended up eating half of it, leaning over the kitchen bench. It was delicious. I couldn’t believe I’d made it.
I packed the rest up before I ate it all, drove into town and dropped a piece off to Rod at work. ‘Look at me!’ I said ‘I’m spending the morning baking. I’m taking it to my husband in a Tupperware container. How 50’s housewife could I get! ‘
I took the rest to the studio. I gave a piece to Lulu and a piece to Deepika. I got an enormous amount of joy from watching them devour the cake at the front desk with sticky hands and crumbs in their hair.
A few nights later we were having friends over for dinner. I baked again. Deepika’s famous vegetable pie, and another cake, this time double the quantity. I left the cake to cool this time. It came out perfectly. Wow, you baked? My friends said.
So, you could say, things have changed.
The sun has already started to set behind the mountain. I sweep and mop the floor for the second time today. I stack the fire and listen to the wood crack. Soon I’ll be heading to teach. The light will fade and the boys will come in and sit round the fire with the cats. Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice, the darkest day. The world will continue to turn. Winter will flow into Summer. The tides will roll in and roll out and if we’re lucky enough, we’ll be present enough to gaze up at the sky in wonder and say ‘I’m here’.
As a woman turning 40 in September, this was truly beautiful to read. Thank you. x