Post No.5

I've been 'gunna' write a post for over a week now. 

Sorta tried. Sorta didn't. 

Despite having a shiny new laptop.

Despite being in a whole new world.

Despite wasting so many empty hours that Level 100 of both Bubble Witch and Panda Pop are both well within sight.

And when I look at my 'reasons', I find myself not just back on The Rock but right back in my youth. Back in my insecurities, back in my need to please, stuck in the back of my own mind. 

Having people read my posts brings me happiness. It keeps me connected, reminds me of what I value and, I guess, helps me feel I have worth. Or perhaps worth is not quite the right word. Maybe a more accurate way to express this is to say that having people read what I write helps me to feel that I have a point. That there is some sort of point to me. 

To my being. 

To my being at all.

Domed roof of the ancient cold store at Kew Gardens

Before we left The Rock, I was full of ideas about what might inspire my blog posts: objects in museums;  shows, exhibitions and plays; restaurants, cafes and shops; architecture, gardens and people-watching.  I even thought I might call the whole blog Wendy OFF the Rock while I am here on the other side of the globe.

But then I got stuck. 

After a mere four posts from London, I became bogged.

And what was the mind-cement?

'Are you going to write a funny one again this week?  They're the best.''I especially enjoyed your post about the lights... it made me laugh.''I always read right to the end of the humorous ones.'

I got stuck in my need to please.

I paralysed myself with the desire for approval.

Nothing funny about that.

So here for your enjoyment...

or not...

are some of the things I haven't written about:

The walk home from Marks & Sparks food hall

Celadon bowls that survived a shipwreck in the year 1100

Inside the Apollo Theatre

Bulgogi tacos at Jin Juu

I think I'm unstuck now. 

A Teaspoon of Dragon

I fell into a hole.

Which is not to say that I’ve been buried.

Or living under a rock.

More that I’ve sort of been making my way clumsily through summer, stubbing my toes on awkwardly rocky conversations and bruising myself mightily by thudding into me-made walls and barriers as I try to navigate the generally normal social interactions that dominate the holiday period... especially when you live in a big-mother of a house by the beach like I do.

The universe has been trying to throw me a rope to haul myself out. A human rope. So maybe it was more of a life-sized 3D paper doll chain than a rope. I think I saw it there. I did try not to ignore it. But I lacked the courage to grasp it. In truth, I was frightened I might tear it by tugging too desperately, damage its integrity by dangling my substantial frame from its fragile fabric.

Luckily for me, there was magic about : the sort of magic Roald Dahl knew how to find, and make, and spread.

It all started when a little dragon rode a pewter friendship spoon all the way from the other side of the world to land in a sheltered corner of my dining room. He settled happily there amidst other small treasures that remind me of the beauty and wonder outside my hole. And he quietly set about reminding me of something very important.

Never underestimate the power of a dragon.

Soon after his arrival, week by week, message by message, visit by visit began a parade from my past. People I thought lost to me came calling. Friends from earlier times and other places dropped by bringing memories and smiles, champagne and deliciously gooey French cheeses to share.

The evil bitch at the bottom of the hole, the one who holds fast to my ankles and laughs at my attempts to free myself, filled my head with her malicious whispers:   

these people knew you when you were someone worth knowing… you used to be successful… what are you now?

she remembers you as a strong competent woman… you used to be worthy of her respect… what happened?

he hasn’t aged a bit: can’t say the same for you… look at yourself…be ashamed... be embarrassed

But the small dragon was there. Tangible. Textured with truths. Weighted with veracity.

These people had sought me out.  All of them had thought of me, for whatever reason, and followed that thought with action. They had come to spend time with me. Not the person I used to be. Not the person I think I should be. Not even the person the whispering bitch wants me to be. Just me.

Y Ddraig Goch is his name: the Red Dragon of Wales. To me, he will forever be Y Ddraig Goch: Slayer of the Whispers. 

It wasn't a rope I needed, or a chain of hands to drag me out of my hole, it was the wings of a small dragon.