February 2016 Blog Challenge: Blog 16 of 29
As a child I was happy to create stories and loved the escapism that they offered. As an adult, I have now returned to the fiction form and have embarked on writing my first novel (of a trilogy). It is a blend of semi auto-biographical and fantastical elements, which feels to me like arranging a giant patch work quilt of my life: There are some favourite scraps of my own old clothes, which I am adding to, embellishing and turning into a brand new pattern.
Part of my blog challenge this month is to boost the content of this first fiction book. Each excerpt, which will stand alone on this blog – will eventually be woven into the larger fabric of my book design.
The Mermaid Cave
Under Tregorwick Castle lies a cave, which, family legend has it, was fashioned out of dynamite by smugglers several hundreds of years ago… It was suspected that somehow the monks who built the original monastery were in cahoots with their local pirates, and that the two parties lived secretly and symbiotically supporting each other, given safety and storage in return for a tithe of the riches held in the womb of the mineral rich rock.
Now the cave is a playground, a subterranean swimming pool, half filled to its’ shelf like ledges with clear turquoise tidal sea water. It is lit by the very recent addition of electricity, and some how magically over recent decades, troublesome candles and lamps have been replaced with strip lighting over the stone stairs, descending into the oceanic gloom, where you are greeted with fairy lights, covering the ceiling of the cave with a curious Christmas like glow.
The water and the humid air has a strange and natural warmth, hatched as it is in this Cornish stone. And climbing carefully down its curving steps takes you out of the already rarefied world of Tregorwith and into a secret salty new atmosphere.
It has a centre circular sea pool with nooks and niches branching off it, all just deep enough to let you rest on the surrounding sofa rock, submerged up to your shoulders.
Ariel would come down here with Daddy and swim and splash and giggle for long lovely hours. The giggles would echo and reverberate as if the fairies who lit the ceiling were joining in with the merriment. At other times she was allowed to come here alone, as long as some one knew she was down there and she promised not to stay for longer than an hour.
Where she had failed to learn at school, here Auntie Sarah taught her to swim, with stern encouragement.
When she was on her own, there was less splashing and giggling. It was instead a time to dream and play at being a marvellous Mermaid Queen, sitting in her thrown room, half in and half out of the water and there was even a throne – the central most niche, facing the stairs, where she would sit and command legions of imaginary turtles and rainbow coloured fish to bend to her wishes and whims.
-o0o-
Through all the life that followed, Ariel never forgot the cave and often swam through it her adult dreams. In those soft sleeping times it was, for ever, a place of fun, peace and special sanctuary, where she could silently reign supreme.
PS:This blog post is a fiction and yet I also write about my own experiences. In fact a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of my ‘real’ life in all its’ badness, banality and beauty. This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live. In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, whatever it holds for you… It is of course the perfect Valentine gift. You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites anywhere in the world, including on Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)…
February 2016 Blog Challenge: Blog 15 of 29
As a child I was happy to create stories and loved the escapism that they offered. As an adult, I have now returned to the fiction form and have embarked on writing my first novel (of a trilogy). It is a blend of semi auto-biographical and fantastical elements, which feels to me like arranging a giant patch work quilt of my life: There are some favourite scraps of my own old clothes, which I am adding to, embellishing and turning into a brand new pattern.
Part of my blog challenge this month is to boost the content of this first fiction book. Each excerpt, which will stand alone on this blog – will eventually be woven into the larger fabric of my book design.
The Valentine Fool
Picture by claypupperton of Deviant Art
“Just say it to me once” Ariel insisted “and then you can go.”
There was, as ever, an awkward pause, but then he came out with it: “I never understood it, I suppose, but when I think about it, I do love you”.
“My goodness, that was painful and not exactly romantic, but thank you for admitting it. I can make my peace with this now. Have a nice life and a farewell hug, before I kick you out of course” Ariel replied.
Jay clung to her and then she pushed him off and out of the door. “Good bye you daft egghead. May love go with you in your life.”
As the days, weeks and months passed by, she pondered on this strange affair of theirs and what an odd state of affairs it had all been. They had made their decision for all the right reasons. He had an opportunity to have a new life with a family, and she of all people, understood about arranged marriages. They had weighed up all their options, gone over the pros and cons and just couldn’t find a compelling enough set of reasons to stay together.
She’d always known that he loved her in his own understated way, and now he’d said it – that of course would have to be enough for her ego. And he had been very generous to her in so many ways – she could now treasure the expressed sentiment as his parting gift. They were never a romantic match any way. It had always been a matter of convenience for both of them, so now they had made a sad and sensible decision, together.
As time went on though, the feeling that she had been rejected began to gnaw at her. Their conjoined logic hadn’t saved her, after all. Their feigned friendship with benefits had been born out of a hidden desperation and an unsightly loneliness, which somehow had grown into a dependency she didn’t even know she had, till now. For all this time she had kept him at a distance, kept their togetherness as an arrangement, and never really wanted to be with him in any significant way. Now she grieved his loss in her life and still she knew he cared for her – out in the dark ether of incommunicado. He hadn’t wanted to go after all, she made him. Though no doubt – her nagging, gnawing thoughts dictated – he was having a rare old time getting to know his young prospective bride.
With the new year a depression of spirits settled upon her, but she got on with her day to day living with energy and determination. Soon, she reasoned, she would come out of the other side of this resolution and move on to better things.
Jay had sent her a Christmas card and then in January a postcard from his latest business trip, so she knew she was on his mind. These communications were always bitter sweet. Ariel was simultaneously delighted that he had reached out and yet frustrated that his rare contacts with her were tepid rather than torrid. Neither did they give her any news of his impending nuptuals, so she could cut that particular tie from her heart too.
As February came and the calendar clicked down relentlessly towards Valentines Day, she found that she felt it was a simple, sweet inevitability that he would get in touch. She knew that he would somehow just have to make contact with her on that day of all days. It was an easy certainty, so she didn’t need to run the ‘will he / won’t he?’ spin cycle around her head and just got on with her life.
When the 14th of February arrived, she rationalised it into ‘any other’ day… And sometime, around 11.30 am, he did get in touch, with a rare text: “Are you busy today? Would you like to go out?”
He was late as usual when he finally knocked on her door. She flung it open to behold that he held his walking shoes in his hands, rather than a Valentine bunch of flowers. Yet he was there, just as her intuition had predicted. She wondered in a whisper to herself, where it all might lead…
She banished any notions of the future from her mind. Today, she decided was a day for simple silence and acceptance. She would let him say whatever it was he had to say.
So she put on her coat they set off for walk. And because she gave him the space of silence, he filled it with his words. She simply responded just enough to let him know that she was listening and was on his side.
He prattled on about his plans and his work. He complained about his colleagues. “He just needs to get it all off his chest” she thought, “and then he can really speak to me.”
As time passed and their footsteps squelched over the muddy fields of their favourite walk, still he prattled inanely on. She realised suddenly that there would be no lover’s reunion and shut down upon herself, wishing that the walk could be over sooner, rather than later. She even wondered whether to plead illness and turn back. But still her heart hoped and still her feet moved, one in front of the other. And all the time they kept their physical distance – just out of hand’s reach from each other.
They walked and walked and so he talked. She knew having a listening ear wasn’t an opportunity he often had, and that no one knew and understood him as she did, so she let him waffle on. At one point he paused and asked her if she was alright. “I’m OK” she lied.
They made their way back to her house and he asked if she was hungry. She wasn’t, but said she would make him lunch, so that finally he could confess in confidence his love for her or else confirm his wedding date…
Back in doors, he did neither. She fussed and cooked and served to keep her nerve.
When they’d eaten, he put his fork down and said “how are you doing?” She found it hard to respond. Finally she struggled out “I’m a 5 out of 10. But more importantly, how are you doing, have you set a date yet?”
She was angry to learn that he hadn’t even met his prospective bride again yet; he just hadn’t got round to it. She ruminated that it had been over 3 months, since he had left her all alone and yet he had done nothing to move his situation on.
But when she spoke all that came out was “Happy Valentine’s Day”.
“Well, you know that for me, that’s just a date on the calendar” he replied. “It doesn’t hold any special significance. It was a nice sunny day, I thought it would be good for a walk.”
“Right, like it didn’t hold any significance last year when I told you I didn’t want to go out on Valentine’s Day, because we didn’t have that kind of relationship. Why are you lying to us both? Who are you trying to kid? I knew you would want to see me today of all days.”
“Well you let me off the hook then” he laughed.
“Look, I suppose that’s nervous laughter, but right now, it sounds like a sneer” Ariel said. “Tell me truthfully – have you missed me?”
“Well yes” he said and finally her heart lightened. “I’ve had no one to go on walks with or take to my favourite restaurant. I really fancied a Thai meal last week and had no one to go with.”
Now Ariel’s heart tightened and her breathing constricted. She had thought this man was different from most other men; but here he was, coming out with that ridiculous male bravura that they all pull out on occasions like these. He wasn’t going to propose… anything other than a bloody walk and talk.
She glared inwardly.
“I think I should go” he said.
“I agree” she responded and waited impatiently while he faffed around getting his coat on and finding his keys.
“Good bye” she said, stepping away and opening the door as he tried to awkwardly hug her. He stepped out, then turned and tried to hug her again. She pushed him out of the door and made a careful effort not to slam it behind him.
Of course she cried when he left. She felt deeply despondent and incredibly stupid. She been rejected – again. Nothing in her life was going to change. Having felt just a vague grief that he had passed out of her life and would soon return, now she was plunged into the depths of painful despair.
“This is unendurable” she raged. “I can’t go on like this. I can’t go on feeling such pain. This is just insane cruelty. He’s stupid and cruel and yet I’m crueller still. I keep living and breathing through all this agony, again and again. I even try to protect myself from the hurt and still it happens. I can’t do this any longer. I just have to stop trying and failing, over and over again.”
She searched out the hiding place for Martrucio’s dagger and sharpened it purposefully. She placed the point against her heart and judged the thrust and angle it would require to sever her heart swiftly, before she would get scared and change her mind again.
But it was a sharp moment of solitary drama. Snorting angrily, she put the knife safely away and opened a bottle of blood red wine instead.
After several glasses of ruby balm, she ripped out his contact details from her phone book and then sat down to compose her final letter to him:
“Hello Jay (I simply cannot use the ridiculous formality of ‘Dear’ Jay)
Well that was a Valentine Day that felt more like an April Fool…
Today you were cruel. Maybe not deliberately (?) but regardless – insensitive, stupid and very, very cruel.
Our time together today has highlighted our myriad differences – again. We just keep coming back to each other, because we are all the other one has. But that just isn’t good enough, for either of us.
Don’t be in touch again – OK. Just leave me to rot. As you’ve appreciated I’m not worth anything other than the occasional lousy fuck or someone to go on a bloody walk with, just because you want sex or don’t have any other close friends.
Look – I thank you for all you have done for me, really I do and I don’t forget that, but your weak niceness is just part and parcel of the problem.
So do me a favour, if you do actually, really care for me, in any way – just fuck off and leave me alone now. Go get a new life with your young wife and a whole pack of children. I wish you well: enjoy the sleepless teething nights in your 50s, school runs in your 60s and University graduations in your 70s; oh and that is if your babies don’t have geriatric genetic abnormalities which mean you will have to nurse them until you die (you will have a combined age of 87 years between you don’t forget). But at least you get to have the bloody chance to be a parent and to have a future. I have never denied you that, even though all of those particular options in life have always been denied to me.
Somehow, after all the time we have known each other – I assumed that since I’m the only person who really knows you and just loves you because of who you are and what you do, might mean something. But no, a juicy young wife and family pressure are clearly bigger draws. It’s only the rest of your life after all and being a mummy’s boy has to be easier than being a man!!!
But you have my permission and instruction to go ahead and desert me now. Instead, just go on and please those who are related to you, but don’t have a clue about who you actually are and what you really want from life. Compare their love to mine and continue with it. You are after all, as we both know, a clueless, childish fool when it comes to emotional matters.
Life, through no fault of my own, has robbed me of everything I ever wanted and despite all my best efforts, it continues to do so. Just as you get under my skin, and into my heart – this!!! And after everything I’ve been through lately Jay, today’s little visit from you was just a cruel, sick joke. I can only hope that the joke was only on me and that one of us, at least, goes on to get some real happiness.
Happy Valentine’s Day, or should that be February Fool’s Day – a new celebration I hereby institute for the emotionally insane.
Good bye Jay.
Good luck and please just bugger off in to the wide, blue yonder – now and for ever.
Never yours,
Ariel.”
Her letter written, she folded it up and put it into a pristine unaddressed envelope. She downed another glass of wine and wondered if she would actually go ahead and post it. “Happy Bloody Valentine’s Day, indeed…” She thought, raising a glass to the universe, and then throwing and smashing it soundly on the kitchen floor.
“That’ll save on the washing up” she slurred, before crawling upstairs to her ever empty bed.
PS:This blog post is a fiction and yet I also write about my own experiences. In fact a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of my ‘real’ life in all its’ badness, banality and beauty. This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live. In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, whatever it holds for you… It is of course the perfect Valentine gift. You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites anywhere in the world, including on Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)…
Now, as a coach, I love to ask questions – so I am wondering, is this simply another day for you? Or do you have something special planned with a special someone (a trip to Paris, or a box of chocolates, or ..?). Or then again do you wish you had something special planned..? Or could you care less?
In ancient times there were TWO Saint Valentines — one of Rome and one of Tern, who were martyred on this day, and the journey from them to modern day notions of romance, is a long and interesting one.
One of the first historically recorded connections between Saint Valentine and the idea of love comes much later, from Geoffrey Chaucer, who in 1381 wrote a poem to honour King Richard II’s engagement.
Then somehow, through time, tide and tradition the idea of St Valentine and love became linked to today’s date – the 14th of February. So it was that as printing and postage became more widely available, that Valentine cards could be sent, often traditionally ‘incognito’.
And there are so many more components I could continue on – of chocolate, of cupids, of roses and more, but aside from tradition and expectation, what could Valentine’s Day really represent for us all???
Love comes in many forms and can be found in all aspects of our lives, whatever our relationship status may be. Where is the love in your life? Does it start with you, for you, can you see it and perhaps more importantly do you choose to see it?
Love percolates our life in so many ways – way beyond the singular romantic notion, so today, where ever you are in life, let’s celebrate and cherish it.
That is my simple request to you, today, to celebrate love, in all its forms… I wonder, when you ponder love in all its variations and transmutations, where this journey will take you?
For me it led to publishing Peachey Letters ~ Love Letters to Life, the exploration of the love in all aspects of my own life. I’m equally chuffed and humbled that my sharing and stories in that book have touched many hearts, who have been entertained, challenged and who, in turn have used love to heal, to analyse and let go in their own lives too.
It’s 3 years since my book of Love Letters was published and if you don’t have a copy yet, you can get it on Kindle or paperback from Amazon, or get a special Valentine deal direct from me by clicking here for more information on my website – where you can get your copies significantly discounted.
So having got the loving history and the sales opportunity out of the way, it’s time for me to say farewell and to wish for you the love that you deserve and chose on this Celebration day.
With love, laughter and more… Sandie xx Sandra Peachey
Author, Coach and Consultant
* International Book Awards Finalist 2015 – Women’s Issues category * Co-author of ‘The F-Factor’ – the blueprint for entrepreneurial women to have Success without the Stress * Winner at the 2013 ‘Women Inspiring Women’ Awards * Nominee in two categories in the ‘Association of Professional Coaches, Trainers & Consultants’ Awards, 2012 & 2013
As a child I was happy to create stories and loved the escapism that they offered. As an adult, I have now returned to the fiction form and have embarked on writing my first novel (of a trilogy). It is a blend of semi auto-biographical and fantastical elements, which feels to me like arranging a giant patch work quilt of my life: There are some favourite scraps of my own old clothes, which I am adding to, embellishing and turning into a brand new pattern.
Part of my blog challenge this month is to boost the content of this first fiction book. Each excerpt, which will stand alone on this blog – will eventually be woven into the larger fabric of my book design.
The Flying Ballet
Stuck at home with her mother, the summer holidays seemed to last for ever. But now she was 17, she knew this would be the last summer that her mother would have the final say. Her mother knew it too and followed her around the house, constantly talking away at her. Ariel felt like she was the pepper in a pot, with her mother constantly grinding away.
Still she was quietly rebellious and yet, she said nothing to her mother. Ariel knew how it would be. She just had to wait it out and then she would have her adult freedom.
3 weeks into the holiday, her relentless boredom gave way to jangling excitement. She felt that Mariel was soon to manifest. As usual Ariel skulked in her bedroom, slowly waiting.
When Mariel arrived, finally and inexorably, it was a bright, smart day. As usual she was brisk and bristling. And this time she had a very special treat up her gossamer sleeve. “Today my darling, I’m taking you to Covent Garden. Dress elegantly now. We are going to the ballet. I’ve pulled some celestial strings and got us into the latest production at the Royal Opera House.”
Ariel was both excited and bothered. “But I’ve nothing to wear to an Opera House, have I?!” She demurred.
“Oh don’t fuss, we’re off to a sneaky Saturday matinee, not summoned there by personal Royal appointment. Honestly, it’s about prima ballerinas today – not prima donnas! Tiaras aren’t necessary, silly sylph – just throw on your favourite pretty dress and let’s go – come on, do!”
“Well how would I know?” countered Ariel “It’s not the Garsington Hippodrome, is it?!”
“Well then Ariel, this is all part of your continuing education. Don’t worry about the dress code, no one will be judging you. Just dress to be happy – but do it quickly – we have to leave now!”
Mariel took off and indicated for Ariel to follow. “The simplest way to find London” she whispered, “is to follow the rail network. All the local tracks from this place lead to the capital.”
Ariel was delighted by this premise. She could so easily find the station and then fly on to any number of destinations.
“Now don’t think you can just follow the tracks to anywhere” her mentor continued in a conscious contradiction, “as a navigational device this is not always the wisest way. As with all journeys, you must chose the most appropriate means for your purpose. It just so happens that this line to London is a nice direct route that cuts quickly across the country from here to there.”
It was a sunny, clear day and so they cruised high above the London line. The air was thin and clean and there was hardly any wind to either cut across or glide upon. It was gorgeous flying weather.
Suddenly Mariel signalled to for them to drop lower and then sped downwards, making as if to dive bomb the 12.17 to London Euston. Ariel followed with a joyously reckless lack of caution.
Mariel raced to the front of the train, then looped back and round, showing off a particularly stunning reverse spin manoeuvre. Ariel was not even going to attempt that, but she swooped after her and looped over the train up and over from side to side.
When a tunnel came into sight, Mariel hovered over the driver’s cab and held out her hand to Ariel. Together they flew just a couple of feet from the engine, rushing from the outside light into the inside dark.
It was as if they were gripped in a vacuum of time, held firmly in the rush of air between the train and the roof of the tunnel. They were swept along, impelled by the roaring rush. It was loud and dirty and wonderful. Ariel kept her breathing focussed and as light as possible. She knew not to inhale the fowl diesel stink, in that dank, compressed space. The danger was thrilling. They had to balance perfectly between the roof of the train and the roof of the tunnel, with barely a foot to spare. Mariel gripped Ariel’s hand lightly and tightly, showing her best how to balance and to feel the air pressure – using it to guide the slightest of movements that adjusted them and kept them safe and straight.
Then through the dirty darkness Ariel could then see the light at the end rushing towards them and suddenly they were out in the light bright open. Mariel shot upwards, pulling Ariel breathlessly higher and higher, shooting up into the highest reaches of the blue, almost cloudless sky.
Now Ariel breathed deeply and coughed out the tiny vestiges of diesel stench from her lungs. She knew though, that her clothes absolutely stank of it. But she couldn’t care less – her heart was beating with the beautiful adrenaline buzz of it all.
They touched down in a London park and Mariel took her the rest of the way via the more mundane method of The Underground. “You’re getting the full London experience today, sweetie” she said “and that includes shopping.” To Ariel’s ecstatic delight, Mariel took her to a very tiny and trendy boutique somewhere down a side street near Leicester Square; where they both changed into new designer dresses that somehow were waiting to be collected and, needless to say, fitted just perfectly…
With little time to spare, they arrived at the grand edifice of the Royal Opera House. Mariel made for one of the smartly clad male attendants and motioned for Ariel to stand back whilst she talked to him. She wondered what wonderful seats Mariel had organised. May be they were even in a box… Looking over though, the conversation didn’t seem to be going well.
Mariel motioned her over to them. “Ah, Miss, I was just explaining to your aunt that unfortunately the seats I had reserved for her, have now been taken by another party… I can’t find you any seats today I’m afraid”. Ariel was completely crestfallen. “However”, the man in uniform continued, “you can stand at the back of the auditorium and watch from there if you would like.”
Mariel looked quietly cross “it’s your decision Ariel.”
“Well then, let’s stay” Ariel replied.
Their companion walked with them, grabbing a Programme along the way; then took them pass the ticket collectors for the stalls and showed them the sweep of the balustrade at the back of the theatre. “So then, I’ll see you after the show” he said with mock confidence. Mariel sniffed and turned her head from him. He walked stiffly and swiftly away.
“Well, really” bristled Mariel “the absolute cheek of it. He promised me seats. I must be losing my touch. Should have used deeper, more convincing magic, but thought he was a sure thing…”
Suddenly she was aware of Ariel looking at her with wide and interested eyes. “Well, I suppose it is a Saturday matinee on a summer afternoon – what did I expect? Are you alright here darling? We will have to stand for an awfully long time.”
“Er, we can always leave if our legs get tired of standing” Ariel said in lame placation.
“You’re right, my sweet, let’s wait it out and sneak off if we get bored” Mariel responded.
Ariel felt a little stupid, hanging round awkwardly at the back of the theatre, so she concentrated on reading the Programme to hide her disappointment. They had come to see a production of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet and she read that the prima ballerina dancing the role of the 14 year Juliet was 44 years old. It seemed somehow ancient for a dancer.
Standing up for hours on end was not going to be fun either, but out of quiet politeness, she was determined to see it through.
The lights went down and the hubbub of the audience quieted to a reverent hush.
Suddenly Ariel was held in a familiar world of supreme orchestral sound. She recognised the music immediately. It was one of the many classical records her Cornish aunts played to her on the hissing old gramophone in their music room.
Then the dancing started and she was entranced. To the 17 year old Ariel, 44 may have seemed old for a ballerina to be dancing the part of a teenage girl, yet this woman danced and acted like a graceful 14 year old. She was light and flighty and beautiful. Her movements flowed sinuously and gracefully along, partnering the music perfectly. The scenes of the ballet swept by. The stage was filled with sumptuously clad dancers, then faded and honed in to delightful duets and spotlighted solos.
Suddenly it was the interval. “Oh, Mariel, it’s marvellous” burbled Ariel. But before she could say any more, she noticed that Mariel’s male friend had returned with 2 glasses of champagne.
“Thank you Charles” Mariel said to him tersely and dismissed him with a turn of her back.
Ariel giggled, only to be silenced by a reproachful look from her companion. Charles turned on his heel and marched off towards the artificial semi light of the nearest exit.
“What does he expect for standing room only” said Mariel. “Men!”
After the show, Ariel wafted out of the theatre in a semi delirious high.
“Now, I know just the thing – come!” Mariel said, striding ahead. Ariel could barely keep up, weaving in and out of the theatre goers and tourists all around them.
Many walking twists and turns later and they fetched up at a tiny Mediterranean delicatessen. Mariel settled at one of their tiny plastic tables and motioned to Ariel to do the same. The balding middle aged proprietor bustled out and greeted Mariel enthusiastically, looking her up and down and lavishing his greetings with many compliments. They continued to converse in… Ariel couldn’t be sure… Possibly it was Greek…
Next came the business of carefully choosing a number of delicious treats to take home. Selections were made with much discussion, hand waving, sniffing and tasting of the foodie goods, until the chosen items were boxed up and slipped carefully in to paper bags. Proffered coffee the consistency of tar was also consumed by Mariel, but a clean gleaming liquor was roundly and smilingly refused. Ariel watched in wonder.
They flew back home languorously in the dark, back along the railway line. Mariel stopped short of Ariel’s home and handed her a box from the deli. “That is for your dinner, my dancing girl” she said and suddenly was gone from sight.
PS:This blog post is a fiction and yet I also write about my own experiences. In fact a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of my ‘real’ life in all its’ badness, banality and beauty. This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live. In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, what ever it holds for you… It is of course the perfect Valentine gift. You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites any where in the world, including on Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)…
Ever wondered what life is all about? Are you holding onto issues that hold you back in your life? If the answer is ‘yes’ to these questions, then writing letters to the significant people, phenomena and happenings in your life (even if you never send them) can help you get more of the life you want.
The book ‘Peachey Letters Love Letters to Life’, is written by ‘LifeWork’ Coach Sandra Peachey, who is on a mission to encourage us to understand and accept who we are, and learn to celebrate the life we have, by just following the simple, cathartic process of letter writing.
In the fast-pasted technological world of today, writing letters has become something of a distant memory for many, yet it could hold the secrets to happiness, health and well-being.
Featured in Psychologies Magazine and The Lady, the book was also honoured as a Finalist in the International Book Awards 2015.
‘Peachey Letters’ is intensely personal and is made up of the various components of Sandra’s life. It contains her simple philosophies and learnt wisdoms, with the aim of helping people resolve the issues in their own lives, with writing at the core.
It all started in 2012, after Sandra saw people signing up for a challenge to record a video blog every day for a month. For her own challenge, she then started posting a love letter a day for the Valentine month of February on her blog www.peacheyletters.co.uk; and very quickly got an overwhelmingly positive response, especially to her first letter to her father. Since then, her blog has had thousands of hits from over 80 countries around the world.
Sandra explains: “The book is really an extension of this initial writing process, after I saw how it not only transformed my life, but that of the people who read my letters too. I want to encourage people to resolve issues in their own lives, live beyond their past and embrace their future. I want to show people that they can follow the same simple process as I have, to heal, reconcile and celebrate their lives”.
About Sandra Peachey – Author of ‘Peachey Letters’
Although she has spent much of her working life in the Corporate world, Sandra has always considered herself to be a writer and her first degree was in English Literature. She then pursued a career in Human Resources, working mainly in car manufacture and engineering for over two decades.
After what Sandra describes as a ‘happy mid-life crisis’, she then went on a ‘self-development journey’ trained as a coach and subsequently, set up a business as a Human Resources Consultant and Coach – LifeWork http://www.sandrapeachey.co.uk/ which works with small to medium sized companies to achieve their Life and Work goals and to live more of the life they choose.
Sandra’s coaching and consultancy work takes her all over Britain, and, she lives in Warwickshire in the United Kingdom, where she was raised and has lived most of her life.
Interview with the Author
What were your motivations for writing the book?
Since childhood, I always scribbling poems and stories – so felt like a writer, however, this got lost during my corporate career. In January of last year, I saw lots of people I knew signing up for a challenge to either record or write a blog every day for a month. I thought that was very worthy, but I wanted to challenge myself differently, so I decided to start writing again and created my own challenge instead.
As the Valentine month of February was on the horizon, I decided that I would write a ‘love letter to life’ every day for that month, to the significant people, phenomena and happenings in my life. As a coach and writer, this combined coaching my self and finding my creative voice. The writing part was easy, though fitting a letter in every day for 29 days around my busy life was more of a challenge. I started posting them on my blog www.peacheyletters.co.uk and very quickly got an overwhelming response, especially to the first letter to my father. My blog has had over 3,000 hits from over 24 countries around the world.
What do you feel the message of your book is and why is it different from other books on the market?
The process of my book is something that anyone can do. Write letters, to release demons, work out who you are and celebrate what you have in life. Writing letters is a form which allows you to be intensely personal and to really speak in your own voice.
I am a coach by profession and many people may not understand what that entails, yet by going through this process I worked on myself and became my own best coach. I also found a poetic voice and was delighted that I really am the writer that I always knew I was.
My book is different because it is immediate, it is simple in concept, broad in scope, yet it is also entertaining and provokes a whole range of emotions in the reader. It contains my simple philosophies and learnt wisdoms, in a gentle way. The great thing too, is that it is a process that most people can easily follow and people have told me that they have been inspired to write letters too and resolved many issues in their lives.
A year after my challenge, as Valentine’s Day approaches again, anyone and I mean anyone, can bring love into their life. Love is all around them, it formed them and if you are single, in a relationship or separated, love is a huge force which is always there, even when it doesn’t seem patently obvious.
As a child I was happy to create stories and loved the escapism that they offered. As an adult, I have now returned to the fiction form and have embarked on writing my first novel (of a trilogy). It is a blend of semi auto-biographical and fantastical elements, which feels to me like arranging a giant patch work quilt of my life: There are some favourite scraps of my own old clothes, which I am adding to, embellishing and turning into a brand new pattern.
Part of my blog challenge this month is to boost the content of this first fiction book. Each excerpt, which will stand alone on this blog – will eventually be woven into the larger fabric of my book design.
The Argument
“Why” Ariel asked, “why, why, why do you make life so difficult for me? You keep me from my father, from my family. You take his money and you moan on and on about him and about – everything! You just never stop bloody turning the knife do you?”
Her mother puffed up furiously and raised her hand to hit. “Don’t you dare swear at me, you ungrateful brat – you…”
Ariel raised her voice an angry semi quaver: “Just shut up, you evil cow! You pushed my Dad away. You didn’t let me go with him. Why? And you keep me walled up here in this urban shit hole, being lonely and miserable and always trying to make me miserable too.
Why do you always say ‘no’? Why do you constantly criticise? I’m sick of it, I’m bloody sick of it.”
Her mother had rarely seen such angry fire in her daughter since she was a tiresome toddler. She kept the parental boundaries strict – she was in charge – no challenges were to be brooked and things were to done her way or no way.
She was quietly furious and absolutely would not tolerate such recalcitrant teenage behaviour under her roof. “You stop this now, you ungrateful little bitch. Don’t think you’re getting any dinner tonight, after this. And don’t think you are ever going back to Tregorwick after this display. Just one more mention of this young lady and I am going to beat every last word out of you – do you understand?
“Oh mother, you’re pathetic.” Ariel countered. “Yeah – I understand! I understand that all you’ve got is complaints and punishment. And now you’re gonna hit me! Pathetic! If you so much as touch me, I will thump you back. Her voice raised to a scream “I will bloody thump you, you evil old cow!”
Her mother’s fury propelled her hand to slap sharply across Ariel’s face. Ariel screamed in pain and fury. “You stop this” her mother said, slapping again and again with each rising scream.
Ariel shoved her mother away and holding her at bay with her left hand, looked her in the face. “You’re happy now aren’t you mother? Now you’ve made me cry? You’re happy because I’m miserable, you horrible, horrible old hag.” Then she ran to the mirror in the hall and looked at the stinging, red marks the slaps had left on her face – one burning brightly on each cheek.
Her mother was silent, rooted to the spot and breathing heavily.
“I’m going out” said Ariel “I’m showing the world what you are like mother, how vicious and evil you are. I’m phoning my dad. And I’m going to get the police on you” she yelled as she yanked the front door open and headed down the path.
Her mother loomed on the doorstep. “Get back here Ariel Ann Tregorwick. Don’t you dare leave this house.”
Ariel ran down the street, and round the corner to the phone box. There were two teenage boys crammed in it, and she so carried on, parading her slapped cheeks for the world to see, tears still streaming down her face
Through the Sunday evening streets she went and realised that she had no change and would have to get the operator to organise a reverse charge call to her father. Then she remembered that her father was usually out at this time at his Bridge club.
Suddenly she felt stupid and vulnerable. She had the streets to herself. Nobody was around. Nobody saw the pain that she was in and the marks of her mother’s anger etched across her face; but out of sheer stubbornness she would not run straight back to her house.
She circuited the nearby streets a few more times and then had to face the prospect of returning home. Her defiance having now deflated, she slunk round to the back of her home and dragged her feet down the back garden path. As quietly as she could, she tried the handle of the back door. It was locked. Her mother had ensured that she would not be able to sneak in.
Ariel knocked and listened. Her mother kept her waiting. She didn’t come. So Ariel was forced to knock 3 times more, louder and louder each time. All this served, of course as extra fuel for her mother’s bonfire of anger.
Finally she came and opened the door, she let Ariel in, raising her hand ready to smash it down on Ariel’s head. They looked each other in the eye. “No, Mother” Ariel said. “No”.
PS:This blog post is a fiction and yet I also write about my own experiences. In fact a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of my ‘real’ life in all its’ badness, banality and beauty. This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live. In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, what ever it holds for you… It is of course the perfect Valentine gift. You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites any where in the world, including on Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)…
As a child I was happy to create stories and loved the escapism that they offered. As an adult, I have now returned to the fiction form and have embarked on writing my first novel (of a trilogy). It is a blend of semi auto-biographical and fantastical elements, which feels to me like arranging a giant patch work quilt of my life: There are some favourite scraps of my own old clothes, which I am adding to, embellishing and turning into a brand new pattern.
Part of my blog challenge this month is to boost the content of this first fiction book. Each excerpt, which will stand alone on this blog – will eventually be woven into the larger fabric of my book design.
Canal Flying
On the long summer evenings she loved to fly over the canal just as dusk was descending. It was an exercise in extraneous ego for she could see her magnificent reflection flying over the still water, a mirror to her glorious form, backlit by the clouds and vaulted blue sky above; woven into the waving water weeds and the journeys of teeming silent fish, below. It was a stirring sight as she flew boundlessly over endless miles, honing her senses as she listened beyond her ears to feel the rustle of reeds, ducks calling and sheep bleating their bedtime prayers.
She would consciously work all her senses – to go beyond them. Inhaling the smell of damp summer plants and slowly flowing canal ways; endeavouring to hear beyond the wind – blowing its soft swathes through fields of rippling, growing wheat; with wingless creatures scurrying through, under and around; aware of her above, where humankind ignored her.
She smiled as she flew on and followed the sleepy gentle lines and curves of the canals; the water drawing her along it and soothing her in gorgeous tandem with the easy constant rhythm of her wings.
Below her in innocent farms, cottages and narrow boats, somnambulant occupants watched TV and went about their end of the day business; ignoring her beating wings – sighing and sloughing over their heads in the descending darkness. Deliberately she would tease their senses by sweeping and flapping loudly, playing the wind and the mind and the contradictory silence of the countryside.
She loved this time alone and so week night flights ensured that there were less drunken loud people sitting out in canal side pub beer gardens; yapping and smoking their tarred freedom away, cutting into her sweet night fantastical flights with their discordant chatter.
Yet also from below, these solid land marked hostelry buildings offered her loud beacons of light, to navigate her certain way back home.
She avoided the roads, yet still, even along the quietest country lanes, motor vehicles would whizz inconstantly by; and so she was flying over the roofs of busy unknowing passengers, driving loudly and blindly below with full beams on, navigating through country lanes and over bridges, where unbeknownst, she steered high above, softly laughing at their modern, mechanical ways.
With dusk the bats would come out to feast and play, circling and crying whilst she confused their echo location positioning, as they sensed and sized up the gargantuan flying companion sharing their night world. ‘Squee, squee!’ they cried as she swept on by, bringing her out of her meditative reverie – measured till now by the simple soft beat of her beautiful wings.
Drawn by the sunset – she headed back home with the dropping light of day. Then the moon would take over, insinuated now into the sky above her head, having waxed and waned through a succession of watery nights – from new, to crescent and progressing back to a luscious full ball – with each lunar shape changing through and marking those sweet days of summer flight.
~ Sandra Peachey
PS:This blog post is a fiction and yet I also write about my own experiences. In fact a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of my ‘real’ life in all its’ badness, banality and beauty. This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live. In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, what ever it holds for you… It is of course the perfect Valentine gift. You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites any where in the world, including on Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)…
As a child I was happy to create stories and loved the escapism that they offered. As an adult, I have now returned to the fiction form and have embarked on writing my first novel (of a trilogy). It is a blend of semi auto-biographical and fantastical elements, which feels to me like arranging a giant patch work quilt of my life: There are some favourite scraps of my own old clothes, which I am adding to, embellishing and turning into a brand new pattern.
Part of my blog challenge this month is to boost the content of this first fiction book. Each excerpt, which will stand alone on this blog – will eventually be woven into the larger fabric of my book design.
Shrove Tuesday – Pancake Day
That year of 1974, on the Sunday before Pancake Day, Ariel was skulking in her bedroom because she sensed that Mariel would be manifesting very soon. She’d crammed all her chores in to Saturday: laying the fire, scrubbing the kitchen and digging over the vegetable patch – all with such thoroughness and willingness that she would be left alone and unquestioned by her mother, and ready for when her Tutor came quietly to call.
With spring approaching and lighter nights lengthening, they spent much of their time together gazing at, and learning about the moon, and its mysterious influences. As a student in the craft of flying, moonlit nights were perfect for practise, for she could clearly see and learn the landmarks that she needed to navigate by.
When learning her lunar lore, Ariel, who rarely remembered numerical concepts, knew that Shrove Tuesday can fall anywhere between 3 February and 9 March, since it is exactly 47 days before the moveable feast of Easter Sunday, in turn determined by the timing of the current moon cycles.
More importantly to an impatient teenager, it was – for her – the day that started the slow tick down to Easter and her very next stay in Tregorwith Castle.
Now, with lunch out of the way, she dozed while she waited for Mariel to appear. She slept easily as all her chores had made her tired and especially too, since if they were to fly then she would need all her energy. She also did this because Mariel always liked to arrive by stealth and surprise. Ariel would always sense intuitively that Mariel was on her way, but could never expect her – instead Mariel would manifest suddenly at what she deemed to be the least expected moment. Her explanation was, that this unexpected element of surprise kept her movements secretive, safe and untraceable; yet Ariel suspected that her mentor did it more because she liked to keep her student on her toes, and not least because she always loved to make the most dramatic appearance possible.
Ariel could always see the smug satisfaction gained when she would turn around and find that Mariel had momentarily manifested and was smirking behind her, especially if she had made her jump with shock. Today though, she simply felt Mariel’s presence, sweetly through her slight sleep and she opened her eyes to see her feathered friend, fanning her awake, with the whisper of her wings.
“So, my sleepy sylph, wake up – it is time to Shrive” said Mariel. “To what..?” Ariel replied, sitting up and yawning. “To shrive, to absolve, then to resolve and release.” “Oh”, thought Ariel, “it’s going to be one of those lessons…”
“In order to fly” Mariel continued, “we have to think airily and eat lightly. You know already that in the hours before a long flight you must only eat the lightest of meals – in order that you are nourished enough to sustain yourself, but not weighed down by food and fat.”
Ariel’s mind wondered off to an advertisement she’d recently seen on Television, where a beautiful slim woman, ate airy, delicious, bread and was able to float easily away over a beautiful landscape in a sumptuous hot air balloon. She was slim and could float away because she was dieting, but for all that, she could still eat this special bread. Ariel’s mother, typically, would not buy the slimmer’s bread for her, since it was nearly twice the cost of their normal white sliced loaf… Of course Ariel couldn’t counter argue that she needed the slimmer’s bread so she could fly, so she just coveted it with a quiet pout, instead.
Mariel raised her voice to distract Ariel out of her floating thoughts: “So as we eat lightly, so also must we think lightly. For if we have heavy thoughts, then we are weighed down by woe and will not be able to navigate our flying journeys with the necessary elegance and ease. As we come to this point in the moon’s cycle then, starting our preparations for the approach of Easter, it is time to Shrive. To do this perfectly, you must let go of the dark words in your mind, of your fears, and of your cares. You can do this by confiding in me, my child. And you may confess your darkness’s to others too, but be careful as to who; for your confidences can be turned into curses if they are given into the wrong hands.
So tell me now what ails you; tell me what worries you; tell me what you are scared of; tell me of all that is wrong with your world.”
Ariel suddenly felt silently shy and dry of words. She was not used to revealing her thoughts to Mariel. She was used, instead to receiving Mariel’s lessons and her endless wisdoms, but not to share the cares of her mundane, earth bound world.
“I see this has silenced you, my sweet student, so let me ask you, gently and carefully – what was the last thing that you were afraid of?”
Ariel’s mind shot back to the bullies at school and soon she shared her secret tears and stories. More quiet questions from Mariel then came, and more answers Ariel returned. She spoke of the hardness of her mother, of their lack of money, how her mother would complain about her father and kept him firmly out of their lives. She cried and sniffed her way through her wandering woes.
Mariel next said, “So – now say to me of what is wonderful in your world. Tell me your blessings, and tell me all the things that you could ever be grateful for.”
Ariel hesitated and so Mariel said “how about your father – tell me about him.” And so Ariel spoke of Charles and she loved to be with him and all her Cornish family. And on, Mariel questioned through all the sweet areas of Ariel’s life in turn. They spoke of Tregorwith, of her favourite dress, of her dolls, her best friend and more besides.
“Now,” said Mariel “sense how you feel. Are you heavier or lighter in mind and heart?”
“I’m much lighter of course” Ariel smiled back, happily.
“Wonderful my little one, you are absolved. Your cares are let go and so today you will fly easy. But our conversation today cannot cure all these cares alone. To remember the importance of lightness, you must now lean into Lent. You know that in the Christian way, many give up sweets and treats for 40 days. For us this is critical in another way. You have to be lean and light to fly, so for Lent we will spare ourselves the sweets and the treats, so that we can fly light in every way too.
It’s not enough to do this jettisoning on one Lenten day when you have me near, so you must also leave out food treats, in the Emissarriat way, for the length of the 40 days of Lent. This will train you even more to be light of body. It will also remind you, every one of those 40 days, to remain light of heart. Keep this practice, in all the years that you are able to fly through life.
Know too, that your cares can return, so I have this gift for you.” She handed Ariel a small journal, covered in leather, embossed with golden entwining flowers. “This your journal. Keep it close. It is not created to record your cares – but to let them go and so to celebrate the wonders of your world. In it, write down your stories, and scribe out the things that you love. Tell too in these pages, waiting for you, of the things that you would love to be. Set down your dreams and all your airy plans.”
“Thank you. It’s so beautiful” said Ariel. “But my mother will find it, I know she will, she will find it and pry and poke fun at me. She’ll laugh at my dreams. She always does.”
“Look at your book” Mariel replied. “Look at the lock there. Here it’s tiny matching key”. I’ve set some magic over it. Keep it safe – out of sight, and these dreams and schemes, she shall not see.”
All’s well Ariel, so let’s fly, lightly, now.”
Ariel hid the journal under her bed and suddenly they were out in the skies. Mariel took her by the hand and raced her upwards through the flying, rushing world. They soon came to a village and hovered over a Pancake Race, taking place in a field below. Men dressed up as frowsy housewives, with floral aprons and scarves round their head, ran clumsily round a race track, tossing pancakes heavily, as they went. They looked so funny, with their male socks and shoes all at odds with their female garb. Ariel and Mariel laughed along with the crowd of friends and family.
Mariel whorled them round the world, swiftly, to stare at a series of Shrove spectacles. There were feasts and carnivals, fancy dress and bell tolling prayers. Ariel marveled at the speed that she was whisked around the globe, sometimes barely glancing at the happenings below. They spanned through Shrove days, through days of the week, through rushing wind and warm air. Round and through, up and along. Ariel was taken by the hand and swept along with the easy flight of Mariel’s magnificent wings. She beat her own wings barely for practice and to steady herself along the way.
Then suddenly they were back to Sunday. Back in her bland urban home. Landed in the bedroom above her mother’s suburban head.
“Happy Shrove Time” Mariel said. “Enjoy your pancakes on Tuesday, for that will be your final feast before you lighten for Lent. Remember to keep the writings in your journal light too. Show it to me again..?”
Ariel reached under the bed to pull the precious book out and of course when she turned back to reveal it, her tutor had flown and gone.
She looked down at the gorgeous book gift, then held it up to her nose to smell the fine leather. Next she fitted the tiny golden key into the lock and turned it with the sweetest, most satisfying click. She smoothed her fingers over the heavy, cool, cream coloured pages inside, turning them to gently flatten them against the stiff spine, to ready them for writing.
Ariel reached for a pen from her school bag and started to write. She wrote of the colourful sights she had seen that day and how they had taken flight seeing Shrove spectacles across Europe.
She wrote of the things that she had to look forward – to seeing her father and visiting Tregorwith.
She wrote that although her mother did not make cakes and soups and other such complicated things, she always made pancakes for them on Pancake Day.
And on Tuesday evening, there she was, sitting waiting at the table. He mother stood at the cooker and the pancakes come straight off the pan on to Ariel’s plate. Her mother handed her the plastic lemon, so she could squeeze the sharp juice from it and then she unrolled the sugar bag, dipped a clean teaspoon in to it and sprinkled her annual treat, daintily and thoroughly. Her mother then cooked her own pancake and embellished and gobbled it in the same way, until they had happily eaten 3 pancakes each.
So she had Shrove-feasted and now it was time to lighten for Lent. Much to her mother’s annoyance Ariel easily gave up puddings, despite being offered them nearly every evening for the next 40 days.
“You’re a strange one” her mother would say. “There’s no need to starve yourself. I went through the war and would have been glad of even half the food you turn your nose up at now.”
“But Mother,” Mariel thought “you can’t fly…”
~ Sandra Peachey
PS:This blog post is a fiction and yet I also write about my own experiences. In fact a collection of my ‘Peachey Letters’ have been gathered together in to a beautiful book, exploring all the facets of my ‘real’ life in all its’ badness, banality and beauty. This is love seen in every aspect of the life that I live. In it you will find the dark and the light of love, in a way that will make you think, entertain you and let you know that you are not alone in life, what ever it holds for you… It is of course the perfect Valentine gift. You can buy ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ by Sandra Peachey, from book websites any where in the world, including on Amazon (in both Paperback and Kindle)…
Featured in Psychologies Magazine and The Lady, it is also honoured as a Finalist in the International Book Awards 2015.
Here is just a small sample of the feedback that ‘Peachey Letters’ has received so far:
Wow! Beyond words, your writing is wonderful, your insights an inspiration, the gift of a Goddess & an honesty that is humbling … Your bravery is bold & simply brilliant. Thank you. ~ Lucie Bradbury
It’s fabulous the way you are able to express your feelings with sensitivity and humour, a real talent … your writing is so wonderfully poetic whilst at the same time being merrily mischievous, … ~ Liz Ivory
What vivid pictures your words paint. It is never easy to put your feelings into words. Your deep feelings and gut reactions bubble up naturally seemingly beyond translation. Your words have become the sparkle in my eyes and the sun that shines through the window every morning beckoning me to wake, I love your writing. I always have, and I always will. ~ Vaibhav –India:
Rarely have I read such exquisite passion, such positivity, such zest for life has I have in your love letters. You express yourself so well, as you find just the right words for thoughts, feelings and experiences that so many of us find impossible to capture, or even know exist. You have THE GIFT … And you have imagination too. A mind able to fly and to dream. To truly know, to see in your mind’s eye, how beautiful things could be… if only… Yet, even in this imperfect world… a world fall of faults, pain, failings, evil and just plain indifference, you still see and appreciate the beauty. ~ David W
What a gift that is – coming through all your life and coming to this point of deep peace and love. And you’ve had the honesty to share it. I just feel so touched and humbled. Thank you with all my heart. ~ Lyria Normington
Your letters are touching and inspirational – and so amazingly well written, they made my spine tingle …~ Lis Protherough
Making a perfect Valentine gift, the book takes the best posts from this blog, adds new content in and wraps it all together in a satisfying structure – that will make you feel the love, entertain and enlighten you.
It’s an easy yet satisfying read, which sees love in everything we do, crossing the boundries of the huge themes of life, and the tiny, trivial minutiae of it too.
Any which way, you and who ever you give it to, will LOVE it!
With love from Sandra Author of Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life
~ Finalist in the International Book Awards 2015
~ Featured in Psychologies Magazine and The Lady
I don’t feel I can write ‘Dear Victim’ – that is a distinctively un-coach-y thing to do and could (irony alert here) instil dangerous precedents into my neural path ways or invoke the dark side of the Law of Attraction … And as for writing ‘Dear Self Pity’, well that would just be oxymoronically weird… So I’ll just ‘thingy-ise’ this concept instead – firstly to dumb it down and lessen its impact, so that next I can move on to deconstructing and debunking it… Or maybe I’ll just stick some dynamite under it and blow it into smithereens – that would just be quicker and suit my sense of drama…
Well at least I’m laughing about it, now… I’ve had to watch a tight tendency to think that all is bleak, that I have nothing in the past; that I’m worth nothing, that I’m unloved and alone; that everything seems to go wrong or is unfeasibly difficult – and that I’d be doomed to end up destitute, in every possible sense.
Not so long ago, I was in my car, carefully taking a roundabout, when suddenly a horn started sounding. Next thing I knew a motor cyclist had pulled alongside me and was swearing and cursing. The short version of the ensuing exchange is this: ‘You are supposed to look before you pull out’ (is the sanitised version of what) he said. ‘But I did look and I saw nothing’ was what I (actually) replied. I’ve noticed that in the face of someone else’s bland logic, many people choose the path of insults and swearing. He was no exception to that observation… Having delivered his parting curses, he zoomed off on his motor bike. I was left behind, feeling angry that I, the innocent was accused of a wrong doing. Seconds later I wondered if I was really to blame and next I slipped into self-pity mode…
Self-pity has often permeated my psyche. For many years I’d slip into my self-pity pit and be unable to see through the ensuing darkness: Life didn’t go the way I’d planned – so yah boo sucks to all those who actually buy in to the Law of Attraction I thought… No – down in my treacly pit, I gained my significance from the fact that the ‘attract like for like’ theorising was clearly all a load of baloney – since all my life I’d trusted, taken action, had a good heart, and done all the right things… Then to be left with nothing, whilst everyone around me had… more than me.
In my own case there were parental behavioural pity patterns set. My mother in particular had a victim mentality, grown out of a difficult childhood where she felt unloved and unwanted. She felt ignored too, but had a strong determination that she should be heard – so she came out fighting – protecting herself with a loud bravura – by berating her parents and her circumstances and everyone around her. She rarely (as I recall), took personal responsibility, but why should she – it wasn’t something she was aware of – she simply was who she was and got on with life accordingly.
As someone in the circle of her blame, I got very used to constantly apologising for my actions and agreeing that I was at fault. That makes for a quiet life, but not a trouble free one. Blame attracts blame – both the giving and receiving of it – and so people tend to believe the worse of you and so you live down to their expectations, believing also, the worse of them.
I grew up deciding that pessimism was the safest and least disappointing path to follow. Self-pity and pessimism often go hand in hand and so that’s how I lived. I even remember how a university flat mate wrote to me, after we’d moved on to our separate ways into the big wide world and said how they missed my “warm, cheery depressions”…
And this permeated not just my own upbringing – you can see this blame culture in action all around us. There is a definite cultural bias towards ‘it’s your fault, therefore I have the right to be aggressive towards you’.
So – when you are badgered by a road rager – blaming and cursing you because of some real or perceived infraction of their space – the sub text could very well actually be: ‘I’m having a bad day. You have come into my consciousness and now I am going to take all my crappy feelings out on you and put you at fault. And because I deem you to be in the wrong – that now gives me complete freedom to be rude and aggressive towards you.’ You remonstrate and are countered with the following logic – ‘how dare you answer me back or protest your innocence – my righteous anger knows the truth and it’s my truth that is the truth here (whether of course, factually, it’s the truth or not).’
Think about this scenario in any skirmishes you may have had in your life – most of us have been on both sides of that blame fence at different points in our lives…
It’s odd isn’t that that all that aggressive behaviour comes from the ‘victim’ – since such a stance is not what we associate with the territory. That’s because there is a perception that being a victim is weak, when actually, for so many people – it is where they gain their significance and strength.
So as I grew up and experienced blame all around me, it seemed to feed upon itself. I have, for example, spent much of my corporate career in Human Resources (HR) and have smirked sardonically on more than one occasion, that HR is employed mainly to be the point of blame for all the wrong doings of many an organisation – whereas we poor beleaguered people professionals, go into the job to actually do good – misguided and misunderstood souls that we are…
So feeling constant self-pity got to be second nature for me. It was like a default trip switch that flicked on, plunging me into the darkness; just the same way the circuit breaker on my electrical supply at home does, when it detects a blown fuse.
Since this type of victimhood is a stance that we (often) unconsciously take, it can come as a real shock when someone points out to us that being a victim (in such circumstances) is usually a choice rather than a fact. Also that by choosing to be a victim, you decide to give your responsibility away to someone else. That makes blame easy, but means that it becomes really difficult to take any positive action and resolve a situation (what ever the merits of it may be). However, a lot of people are blind to this and will deny it, especially if they are in an emotional state.
I hated this concept of self responsibility when I first came across it. My victim mentality had defined me, so when it was suddenly wiped away with words, I now had the weight of doing something about my life in order to change it, and not to just to sit still and complain about it. It fundamentally boiled down to the truism that ‘with responsibility comes power’. It wasn’t power that I wanted though – it was always far easier to wallow in the self-pity pit.
As I exercised the responsibility though, I grew to love the power it gave me and the freedom over my thoughts. And when I started to choose the direction of my thoughts – that’s when I really started to feel powerful and actually in control – the complete opposite of being a victim.
So now I prefer facts and understanding to blame and criticism. I look for the patterns of thought and action that shape any given situation and choose to learn the lessons.
In the case of my skirmish with the motor cyclist, I mulled over the facts to see if there was anything I could have done better and differently. In this particular instance I really didn’t know. Next I thought about what lessons I could learn from this incident. I then I decided to focus on the positives – neither of us were hurt; there wasn’t a collision; I chose to take more care on roundabouts in future; I’m glad I didn’t get aggressive; and so on…
It’s a principle I like to employ for all of life’s happenings – big and small – accept what has happened (rather than rail against it), take responsibility for whatever my part in it was, and understand what I could do differently and better. Then I can decide and act accordingly, in positive power.
When it comes to where I am in life right now, I’ve learnt that I thrive most when I choose to count my blessings, rather than cuddle my curses close.
And that’s when self-pity crumbles in the face of positive power.
Yours consciously, Sandra Sandra Peachey Coach, Author and Thinker
PS: As Valentine’s Day comes around and youare thinking of a gorgeous gift, a collection of the ‘Peachey Letters’ from this blog have been gathered together, along with new material, into a beautiful non fiction book. It makes the perfect present, for you and for your loved ones … You can buy Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life on my website here or from Amazon (in Paperback and Kindle), order it at any bookshop, or indeed buy it from all good book websites around the world…
Peachey Letters 