Moomin Medicine

Last night, five minutes after turning out the light, I started to cry.

Not a delicate, ethereal, movie-style cry, but a full on ugly and snotty cry that made me feel like all the water in my body was cascading out of my eyes and nose.

The cry started for a lot a lot of reasons – and I came up with more and more reasons as I went along (thank you, brain!) – but somewhere down the melodramatic, tear sodden line I actually managed to have a good idea.

Read the Moomins.

So, in between disgustingly hideous sobs, I hauled myself back out of bed, switched back on the light, and found some Moomin medicine*.

It came in the form of Moominpappa at Sea, and in one chapter I was cured.

Moominpappa at Sea by Tove Jansson.

First, I laughed.

“I’m going to stay here,” said Moominpappa. “I shall stand guard over it. I’ll stay here all night if necessary.”

“Do you really think,” Moominmamma began. Then she just said, “Yes. That’s very good of you. One never knows what will happen with moss.”

No. One never really does. Moss is tricky like that.

Then I nodded like a congregation at church.

“It can take a terrible long time before things sort themselves out.”

Hallelujah, praise be.

And then I found myself wondering if Tove Jansson had broken directly into my brain.

“…only nice thoughts came into his head, thoughts of islands in the sea, and great changes taking place in all their lives.”

It’s good to cry sometimes. All of us need a good old fashioned tear-fest every now and then. And maybe, seeing as last night was Halloween, I was simply exorcising a few emotional ghosts.

But I was certainly grateful for my Moomin medicine.

*side effects may include: laughing, smiling, marvelling, a warm happy feeling in your heart, and forgetting all your woes.

Secret Diaries of a Shy Girl

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Top secret ramblings of an angsty teenager.

I found some old notebooks at the weekend and it was a strange and eye-opening experience going through them. The oldest one is from almost ten years ago, from when I was sixteen, and it made me smile, frown, and cringe all at the same time. It’s a bit of a mash up – part diary, part story about an Edwardian suffragette, part sketchbook. You can definitely tell I had been reading lots of classics for my GCSEs from the writing style of the fictional bits, and you can absolutely tell I was a teenager from the diary parts (holy moly, the angst!). And from the sketches, I clearly had an obsession with drawing trees and eyes.

The more recent ones still make me cringe a little, though I’m super happy to report I ditched the faux old-fashioned writing style.

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Moody sixteen-year-old me self-portrait.

I’m so so tempted to get rid of them because the idea of anyone else reading them actually mortifies me down to my gooey and very messy core, but I also know I’ll want to read them again in the future – even if it is just for something to giggle at. It’s nice also, maybe even helpful, to see the progression of my style and my ideas.

So it’s back into hiding they go, ready to embarrass me in another ten years.

Snapshots

One of the habits I’ve been trying to get into this year is to write down at least one moment, one little snapshot, from every day before I go to sleep.

It could be something that made me happy or sad, something I overheard or eavesdropped, a decision I regret, the gist of a conversation, an idea. Anything.

I haven’t actually managed it every day, but I’ve managed it enough so that reading back over some of them – even though it’s only February – has reminded me of things that I otherwise would probably have forgotten. (The good things especially – for some reason the less good things seem to stay in my head of their own accord.)

Some are a description that I’ll use again. Some are feelings I can plunder. Some, to be honest, are pretty boring. But then maybe they’ll become less boring as time goes by – maybe they’ll be something that’s randomly significant – or maybe they’ll just become more boring. I don’t know.

All I know is that I’m really enjoying it.

And my snapshot from today will more than likely have something to do with feeling happy about finally writing another blog post.

Have a lovely weekend!

Bluebell Time of Year

Spring is bluebell time of year in England.

Woods and gardens bubble over with purple-blue droplets, speckled against a background of the brightest green.

English bluebells in a bluebell wood on the Kingston Lacy estate, Dorset, England.
Bluebells on the Kingston Lacy estate, Dorset.

There are those who say it is dangerous to walk amongst the bluebells. They say some never return from their wanderings, snatched away by fairies.

And if you hear the bluebells ring, it is said, you’ll die before the next morning.

I say, I’m willing to take my chances…

What I’m Reading: I am Malala

The sun has been shining, the birds are singing merrily, and there’s blossom on the trees – hello spring!

I’ve been making the most of all the lovely weather we’ve been having, sitting out in the sunshine with cups of tea and a copy of ‘I am Malala’ by Malala Yousafzai (with Christina Lamb).

I am Malala by Malala Yousafzai and a cup of tea. Reading in the sunshine. What I'm reading.

Like most people, I had heard of Malala – but there is so much more to her story than I had ever realised. The book is brilliant at showing how Pakistan’s turbulent history and events beyond its borders combined and blurred into a terrifyingly perfect storm – a storm in which Malala and her family found themselves at the centre of and resulted in Malala being shot by the Taliban on her way back from school.

Although there is lots in the book to make your heart sink, I’m finding it to be an inspiring and fascinating read. Both Malala and her father are incredibly intelligent, eloquent, and wonderfully feisty.

We are lucky to have them fighting for a better world.

A Life Lesson From a Little Girl

There’s something calming about going for a walk – heading off down lanes and paths and tracks, just letting your feet lead the way. It always makes my head clearer and my heart lighter.

A few weeks ago, after Sunday lunch, my mum and I headed out for a walk along the banks of our local river. It’s a good place to natter/confide/joke/argue/not say anything at all, and I’ve walked the paths there so many times for so long I’m sure they’ve actually moulded the shape of my feet.

It wasn’t very busy – the clouds were very grey and the ground was still sticky from weeks of rain – but there were a few other families out for a Sunday afternoon stroll.

At one point we passed a little family. The parents were timidly picking out a route as far from the mud as possible (which wasn’t that possible) while their little girl was striding ahead through the puddles and marshy ground.

The mum said she thought they should go back, and the dad didn’t look too keen to go any further either. But the little girl wanted to carry on and refused to budge.

The mum said it was too muddy, the little girl said she wanted to get muddier.

*high-five for little girl*

Me and my mum carried on our way. When we snuck a glance over our shoulders further along the path the little family were nowhere to be seen.

Obviously there was no more getting muddier for the girl.

But it got me thinking – isn’t it funny how children can be braver than grown ups? They look at a muddy field and want to keep walking, keep striding forwards, keep getting muddier.

Because who cares about a bit of mud?

I want to be more like that little girl in my everyday life. I want to be more adventurous and less worried/nervous/afraid. Even if it’s just in small ways that seem insignificant. Small things add up.

If I fail, at least I tried. If I fall flat on my face, I can get back up. If I make a mistake, I can learn. If people point at me and laugh at me, I can get over it and move on even though it might (will) hurt.

So thank you, little girl. You’ve inspired this bigger girl.

It’s time to get muddier.