Tipping point

Fumbling fingers dial a number engrained since early childhood; and a voice I don't recognise as my own asks for an assistance seen in countless TV dramas; only this is our drama, unexpected, frightening.... A tipping point on an adjusted scale.

There is a fine balance we seek, as we juggle the complexity of our lives to avoid obvious stumbling points; yet all the while, unseen forces gather at the margins, silent; waiting for that perfect moment to send  the bar plummeting , the balls tumbling and rolling round the floor. As I dialled, I felt that balance tip; shifting a load so carefully spread, my shoulders hung heavy with the sudden weight of it. For an instant, I stumbled; allowing the balls to slowly roll to the furthest reaches; unable to gather the momentum to set them spinning through the air ; shifting the weight back to that elusive midpoint. 

Life rumbles on, as it must, and the scattered pieces have been retrieved to be set spinning once more. There is less weight pressing down upon my shoulders, yet that elusive midpoint evades us still...... the bar forever resting one degree above tipping point, as we inch our way back to normality once more. 

The ties that bind

Like migrating birds we took flight, and journeyed South to our childhood home for an organic gathering; sparked by a landmark birthday, a torrent of to-ing and fro-ing of messages via the web, and a whistle stop visit from a sibling in the states. 

Like all good gatherings, it revolved around food; so we arrived laden with tasty morsels, ready to reminisce and weave our tales over the debris of a drawn out meal. 

There is a warm sense of comfort in stepping through a familiar threshold to be enfolded in the hustle and bustle of three generations reconnecting after time apart. The flurry of hugs, greetings and gentle ribbing, tightening the ties that bind us together once more.

Like every family, we soon fell into our pre-ordained groupings, honed over years of shared events. Our not so small sons, delighted to have cousins to play with, caused gentle mischief before settling down to bragging rights and an old box of Lego. Whilst the eldest, now tall men towering above us all, yet still retaining,with impish grins and tales of risky exploits, some small trace of the small boys they once were; conversed with an ease that comes with youth....  

...and we, the older generations, sat side by side; balancing plates and memories; weaving tales of photo line ups, childhood mishaps and mayhem; finding the natural rhythm of conversation and comfortable closeness which served to remind us why it is we should all meet more often.

These are days to cherish; touched as we have been by a slow fear of dark shadows on light boxes. Our ties that bind may fray a little and stretch with age and distance, but these twisted strands of shared experience and DNA will hold us together, always. 

Ebb and flow

Rippled  mud, as the river ebbs and flows; creating its own patterns to soften a harsh industrial scene etched on the near horizon. 

Super cranes stand sentinel, a herd of clanking dinosaurs; alert, scenting the morning breeze for passing prey.

Along the narrow path lace is fading, til nothing but dry twigs remain; marking a season slowly slipping away

Snails creep through crack, crevice and lichen blooms; then up over the channeled wall; sheltered from the blustering breeze and beady eyed birds

Whilst gulls wheel and cry their mournful songs above slow decaying wood and weathered stone

.... And birds gather to sit like pegs on empty washing lines; gazing at a slow sinking sun

Grey skies

I journey to work under ink blue skies that gently fade to pale grey ; washed out and heavy with the endless fall of rain. 

 Now is the season of dirty cloud banked like week old snow by the roadside; darkened mornings and leaf mulch underfoot. Of relentless, buffeting winds; and morning mists that soften harsh lines and erase the familiar; blurring the the horizon as if viewed behind saggy net curtains.

As the temperature drops, faces pale and pinch, and numbness seeps to our very souls.....

... and  we who dread the slow creeping damp, curl beneath heavy quilts, with soft breathing cats, to dream of warm sun on salt kissed skin. 

Rain stops day

Today I fumble with buttons and slip on the sixth step.. Joints stick like rusty locks bonded tight shut by time and creeping damp. Rain has washed away colour, muting the day.

I drive under grey skies that sit heavy on the horizon; obscuring city monoliths and industrial heartlands. Along busy roads brightened by a single sodium lamp; sadly out of synch with the dead eyed poles that line the carriageway.

Ceaseless rain runs in rivulets down the misted window pane; turning an unending trail of rear lights into fragmented gems; whilst the engine idles, and the rhythmic swish of wipers beats out the minutes.

A glimpse of colour catches my eye. Along the footpath, a man appears, idly twirling an impossibly large rainbow striped umbrella as he saunters uncaring into the downpour. He is the only thing moving, and I can't help but wonder if he really is singing in the rain.

Stepping out

  

As darkness settled around the metropolis, we came; wearing hope and sorrow on our backs, as we stepped out into the city that never sleeps. 

The lights on the river reflected the lights on our wrists, as we wove our way through wakeful streets, past luxury goods illuminated in soft glowing spotlights; silent, shuttered shops....and the shrouded silhouettes of the dispossessed; curled under sleeping bags in shadowed doorways, seeking oblivion in the arms of restless sleep.

We passed pubs, bars and clubs spilling their music  through open doorways, and  revellers out onto the pavement; dressed up, made up, suits, heels and amorous glances... perfume and aftershave mingling with the scent of just extinguished cigarettes, and the fumes of bus exhausts.  

Step by step, mile by mile we trod the paths of a city pulsing with life; pushing fears of death into dark recesses, absorbing the warmth and comfort of strangers spurring us on.... and when our legs grew leaden, voices stilled, and the final miles seemed to stretch to infinity; we watched the sun rise reflecting in the river, reminding us of why we came.... and we shone.

Shadow play

I have never been afraid of the dark. Even as a child it enfolded me like a soft blanket; as cocooned in the comfort of my warm bed, I gazed at shadowy objects round the room - their lines blurred by the coming of night.

 On those damp Autumn evenings, when the dwindling sun cast thin lines of palest rose to bleed into deepening clouds;  and shadows lengthened as the sky turned to indigo; we could be found in the garden, torch in hand, playing  wild games of 1,2,3 home.... The excitement intensified by the threat of being caught in a sudden blinding beam of torchlight. With soft tread, and hearts in mouths, we would creep from deep shadow to deep shadow; smothering nervous giggles as we inched our way past the nominated torch bearer before committing to that final mad dash towards the tree designated 'home'.

Even now, if I wake tangled in sheets, befuddled by unremembered dreams, it is not a familiar circle of lamplight I seek; rather it is the stillness of the dark house and  gentle sound of crickets singing to the moon. Yet lately,  a whisper of dark shadow on light box screen has shaken my trust in the benevolence of darkness... leading me perhaps to seek out those small pools of soft light that comfort and protect; keeping small daemons at bay.