Middle Age And The Journey Before

You know you've arrived at this glorious point in life when you really can't decide whether great sex or a nice curry is the best way to spend an evening. When you inspect nasal and ear hair more closely than seems appropriate. When the thought of being in a nightclub leaves you with an unpleasant rash. My transition came into sharp relief during this years world cup. I watched all the games at home bar one, that being the semi final. I'd been in the pub for all of 10 minutes when I become offended by the sheer absence of IQ of the fellow patrons. Grown men were yelling profanities at a wall mounted screen, stumbling around with glazed eyes whilst the few females brave enough to share the space looked on with bewilderment. God, I just wanted to be at home. Heck give me a long walk in the country and a quiet country pub at lunch time any day of the week. I'm also starting to utter sentences which begin with "Back in my day" or "When I was a lad", which fills me with a vague self loathing. I come from an age when the internet didn't exist. When you knocked on your mates door or used a phone to ask if they were "Coming out". Youth club was the central social hub twice a week, and we'd all turn up on bikes and play pool and table tennis and lie about all the sex we'd not actually had. I'd like to think those were the days, but I'm not actually convinced. I was an angst ridden teen, a little insecure having carried a few extra pounds until my 15th summer when I spent weeks doing various sports and grew a few inches. I lost the puppy fat, developed a tight arse, and lo and behold girls began to notice me for reasons other than being the class joker. I clearly didn't have a clue how to be around them. Clueless doesn't even begin to describe it. It was a perplexing minefield and behind my bravado was a fairly shy lad who just didn't know how to be. He still surfaces from time to time. Of course the passing years do, or at least should bring a little maturity, and I recall distinctly walking into town one day a couple of decades later, a husband and father and homeowner, and suddenly being struck by the reality that "I was an adult". I'm 47 now, but I don't think I've lost the drive to explore what life has to offer. I'm very open minded, ravenous to learn things, and determined not to settle into some dreary holding pattern. I mean, surely none of us should allow ourselves just to fade away? To grow dim like one of those adjustable wall lights? I've got a journey ahead of me, ideas and dreams. And of course responsibilities. Both my daughters are older now, 13 and 17 respectively. I want to give them the strongest possible foundations, to encourage them in their hopes and dreams, and above all to give them confidence that they don't have to conform to some societal norm. I long for them to discover who they are on their own terms, to never live their lives as an apology. It's important to me that they both know that Joy and I "Have their back". I started this blog waxing lyrical about middle age, then veered off on the usual nonsensical tangent. That's OK. I've no editor I have to answer to. This is me free wheeling. I'm off to work in a while, during which I'll encounter people at their worst, and occasionally best. My job reminds me that there's any number of ways which a life can veer off kilter. Some of it under our control, some of it just bad life choices. It sounds so glib to use the cliche that we need to learn from our mistakes, yet I see no alternative. Life owes us nothing and comes with no assurance of happiness. We have to carve out the special times, chart our path through the random nature of existence. And perhaps be a little appreciative of when the seas are calm. Treasure the good moments, pause and cherish them. We spend way too much of our lives "Doing" and not nearly enough just "Being". I think if middle age has taught me anything, it's probably that.

The Quiet Place

It’s been months since I’ve blogged. I’m out of the habit. I’ve had little to say. The world seems to be become stranger and wilder, and its inhabitants more intent on self harm. Keeping up with it, making sense of it is quite beyond me. As I type this I’m in a remote farmhouse in the High Peaks, a region on the Derbyshire / Cheshire border. In every direction there are rolling, dramatic, undulating hills. There’s a big sky that wraps around in every direction, and come the evening the sunset illuminates the underside of immense clouds, giving them a tinge that makes them even more voluminous. I feel calm. Calm in a way my life so often prevents me from reaching. I’m breathing deeper, I’m able to reflect. I feel alive. I do a job where I see what insanity is, what cruelty is, what mindless selfishness is. See that every bloody day. I see people in extremis, at their worst, often their least human. I’ve been doing it for a decade and I think it has taken something from me. A little humanity, a bit of hope, the dopey optimism that I once held close. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m proud that I get a chance to make people’s bad days better, and bad peoples good day’s worse. But as I reflect now in this quietest of quiet places I’m aware it comes at a cost. So when I get the chance I seek solitude, the remote places. Blackhill Gate Farm has been perfect for this. I’ve been able to reach escape velocity, to be with Joy and Holly and Lowenna and our idiot canine for several days without having to think whether I’m on an early, a late, or a night shift. I haven’t had to manage my energy levels. It’s liberating. I sometimes wonder whether I should seek another job but I’m really good at what I do. Properly good. And I don’t say this out of arrogance although I get how it must seem that way. I appear to have the ability to perceive, for the most part, when I’m dealing with a scenario that has the potential to escalate, and when I’m dealing with a group or an individual that really doesn’t need us at all. Apparently I also have the ability to insult people without them ever realising that I have done it. Not sure how I feel about that, although it doesn’t sound like a quality when I think about it. I suppose I can be eloquent when I apply myself, although I’m never too far from obnoxious if I’m being honest. You know what? This week has reminded me that I need the quiet places. Solitude. Silence. Ok, the sheep all around the farm rarely pipe down but that’s just a charming ambient. Never realised just how different the various baa’s can sound. We’ve literally walked “Uphill and down dale” most days. I’ve taken in view after view, and my breath has been taken away more than once. I’ve enjoyed the remoteness so very much and I shall miss it when we leave tomorrow. I’ve another week off but we’ll be back in the south east, which is a busier and lesser place. Irrespective I’m grateful that I’ve had chance to breathe, to be, to stop and take it all in. Funny how I only realised just what a conveyor belt I’m on until I get off it for a while. And no. there’s no real purpose behind this blog. I’m just writing again. Just letting it all cascade out. I hope you’ve had a chance to seek those quiet places, too. I think it matters. . .