blog, Pat Aitcheson writes

Planning to be spontaneous

tree_JuergenPM
JuergenPM via pixabay

Luck favors the prepared.
Edna Mode, The Incredibles (2004)

I have a few days off work next week. A cough that won’t budge, a sleeping pattern that won’t settle, mild indigestion, are probably symptoms of fatigue and a need for respite. I’m really looking forward to it.

How is it that a week off flies by, when the working days drag on endlessly? Before you know it, Thursday rolls around and thoughts of the work that’s waiting for you seep into the end of the break. By Sunday it’s all but impossible to settle as Monday casts its long shadow forwards.

The more trappings of adulthood we acquire, the less we hold on to the spontaneity of youth. Trappings is quite an appropriate word for how pinned down and limited adult life can become. On holiday I want to discard all that ‘left brain’ hidebound nonsense and just have fun.

And yet. This time is limited. I cannot spend every day gazing at clouds, or I’ll be back at work nursing resentment and disappointment, again. I want to write. My decision to pass on NaNo was right for me, but I still need to create. I want to walk. I want to go for a lazy lunch with my daughter.

I might resist, but the answer is clear. I will have to make a list.

Although my creative child mind rebels at the notion, lists can be useful.  Creating a loose structure should give room to indulge the soft-edged, ‘right brain’ dreaming that I crave.

Plans are of little importance, but planning is everything.
Winton Churchill

This means submitting to the tyranny of the to-do list, with one crucial difference. This list consists mainly of things I actually want to do.

Thinking in advance allows me to get the more out of the limited resource which is time. While it might be true that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy, having one is far better than facing your foe with no idea how to proceed.

Enemies are everywhere. Those tiny but enormous words yes and no often trip up the creative or vacationing person who appears to be doing nothing.

Calendar in hand, I can truthfully say no thank you, I’m painting then, already committed to lunch there, and unavailable to fulfil your needs at the expense of my own. Conversely I can take off to the seaside when a lovely day appears unexpectedly. The plan flexes without failing completely because I didn’t have a grasp of what I wanted.

I’d write more, but I have to go plan my days off. Leaving, of course, plenty of free time in which to get up late, gaze at clouds and dream.

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes

NaNot today

impala_MonikaP
MonikaP via pixabay

In my writing groups, it’s all about NaNo; daily word counts and writing yourself into a corner and plot holes you could drive a bus through. Maybe that’s the answer to the plot problem. Have the protagonist drive a bus through – never mind…

Things I’m doing instead of NaNoWriMo

  1. Wondering if I should have done NaNo, then reaffirming my decision to pass.
  2. Lunch with friends, bonding with one over the recent loss of her mother.
  3. Sitting at my desk, watching a pheasant walk across the lawn.
  4. Wondering why the pheasant is in my garden.
  5. Chatting with the delivery guy and comparing weekend plans (me: not much.)
  6. Writing a fragment of a poem.
  7. Making a new iTunes playlist, even though I find it hard to write to music with voices.
  8. Pouring away my third half-drunk cup of tea.
  9. Making fresh tea and deciding I do deserve a biscuit. (see point 6)
  10. Gathering the last few chillies from the garden before the frost gets them.
  11. Downloading another book to my Kindle. If not writing, should be reading, right?
  12. Looking at the TBR pile of actual books and sighing.
  13. Wondering again about NaNo.
  14. Concluding that I just don’t have time.
  15. More tea.
  16. Staring.

Where did the day go? Time to make dinner…

blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry

sky/light/deep/dark/blue

Creative Cafe Creative Challenge #48.5

man-blue-destruction_intographics
intographics via pixabay

“Depression is being color blind and constantly told how colorful the world is.”
— Atticus, Love Her Wild

 

This is a good day.

Hardly a cloud to mar a sweep of sky blue, warm winds sigh against my skin and tug at my sails. Hardly a shadow, with the sun near its zenith. Up here in the wide above, birds call and all is bright. The sea glitters blue and silver, reflecting sunbeams. Anything is possible. Viewed through the positivity telescope, the horizon beckons.

 

Another day.

Plenty of steel blue sky, but more grey clouds now, not yet weeping fat raindrops. Time to batten the hatches and haul in my sails against gusting winds and imminent storms. Water shivers in the air, cool against skin goosebumped despite my thin coat of hope. The sun hides. It is still there, I think.

 

Days go by.

I crouch in my frail boat, tossed on angry swell, shipping cold uncaring wet. The sky touches the sea and all is grey, colour washed away. Torn clouds shed raindrops to mingle with tears on my chilly face. And when the giant wave finally snatches me into pitiless ocean, I am not surprised. It was always coming.

 

Time passes.

I drift endlessly. No map or compass, no lifebelt. Helpless to fight the long slow slide, sinking deeper into the blue, I lose the last vestiges of light. Down, and down. Eyes blinded, nothing to see. Marble skin, numb to feeling. I could shout at the void, but there will be no reply. The blue darkens still more. It is the black shadow that has chased me every day of my journey.

 

Swallowed in nothingness, I lie resigned on unyielding ocean floor, a certainty of sorts.

Help isn’t coming.


first published in The Creative Cafe on Medium, 8 November 2017

blog

end of autumn

the last fine day

autumn-trees-reflect_skeeze
skeeze via pixabay

Listen to this post:

 

The world turns. Fallen leaves carpet wet grass. It is the last fine day of autumn and sun backlights the red and gold, the yellow and purple, chasing the greens away into wet earth. For a moment leaves ignite in fiery hues, fruits are jewelled with dewdrops, light floods the landscape.

The grey has not yet come.

Brilliant, but not truly scorching, now the sunlight weakens. Still just enough to fool us, without the breeze, that it is warm. We throw off scarves and gloves for the last fine day, hoping against hope that it might come again. We know it will not.

The cold has not yet come.

This shortening day races to its end. Sky painted orange to match the dying leaf, but still clear. No clouds on the last fine day of autumn. Time for a reckoning of what was sown and where we  failed. Pray there is enough to last through the deep and endless dark. It waits patiently, stalking the world as it turns, inexorable as death.

Enjoy your last fine day.
Winter is sure to come.