Sadness and hope

For the past few months, I’ve been seeing someone.  Sadly, now I’m not.  It turns out that it’s much harder to get a relationship working when you’re in your mid-thirties with two children and all sorts of baggage than when you’re a student in your early twenties.  And sometimes, even if you try really hard and both do your best, some things are insurmountable.

It’s been interesting though.  And enlightening.  And fun.

Stopping seeing him has made me very sad.  For a while, it felt as if all the joy had gone from my world.  Things I had hoped for are not going to happen.  I woke up at 3 o’clock the following morning with the searing realisation that he is gone from my life forever, that his interesting thoughts and perspectives are no longer available to me.  A friendship I had valued and enjoyed is lost.

However, it’s much easier to survive this knowing that it’s not the most terrible thing to have happened to me.  I know from experience that actually, with time, pain does lessen.  I am waiting because I know I will feel happy again.  And, while I feel sad now, the girls still need collecting from school.  I need to get their uniforms ready for the next day and the dishwasher still needs loading.  I find that if I keep putting one metaphorical foot in front of the other, it keeps me moving forwards.  The act of keeping our lives continuing despite my grief forces me to believe that life does continue.

And, this weekend, while the girls were at their dad’s house, I was kind to myself – and so were my friends.  On Friday night I went to a games night where we played K2 – one of my mountaineers died not once but twice due to bad luck and ineptitude – and ate chocolates.  On Saturday I met my best friend in Leeds for coffee, cake and some shopping, and then spent the evening watching Doctor Who and wishing for a boyfriend like Rory.

Then yesterday I headed into Manchester for a Quaker meeting full of inspiration about austerity, protesting and how we relate to the Tories and state power, then a Quaker business meeting and a silent vigil on the steps of the Meeting House about poverty and inequality.  Finally I joined friends for the anti-austerity march through the streets of Manchester, followed by a rally at Castlefield, hearing Owen Jones speak, and discussion on the way home with my friends about how we can bring about effective change.  Being part of a crowd of 60,000 – 80,000 people who all believe, in diverse ways and with different language, that something better is desirable and achievable, is incredibly uplifting.  Seeing so many people I know, and thousands more that I don’t, being prepared to come out and march and take action gives me a sense of hope and purpose.

My mum says that at least I can have the confidence that there are people out there for me.  I’m not so sure just now – having tried to make a relationship work with someone I really liked, its ending feels more like evidence against her theory.  Despite this, I still look back and think this has been a good experience: I’ve learnt things about myself and what I want, and how to do this relationship thing as well as I can.  So I’m moving with hope into the next good part of my life.

Communing with, well, anyone I can find who’ll join in

A couple of weeks ago I went away for a weekend with my Quaker meeting.  It was astonishingly lovely.  Not that I had low expectations, but I was a bit scared of spending a weekend with people who I don’t really know that well, and anxious about how Big Girl and Small Girl’s table manners would go down.  Fortunately I didn’t need to worry.  Big Girl and Small Girl spent the weekend running riot with all the other children and young people there.  One of the loveliest things was seeing teenagers caring for my two girls – all the children looked after each other.  I really saw the Quaker commitment to equality play out over the weekend.  The teenagers were treated – and behaved – like ‘people’ rather than ‘young people’: they came into the adult sessions when they wanted to, and for the ones they would be less likely to enjoy, there was an alternative.  I never spend time with teenagers and, quite honestly, am usually a bit scared of them – I didn’t have a great experience of teenagers when I was one – and it was such a pleasure to spend time with these teenagers over the weekend.

One of the sessions was entitled ‘What we are rich in’ and was based around a sermon which you can read here (and I’d really recommend it).  We discussed the things we are rich in, and the things we are poor in.  I feel incredibly rich – financially I have everything I need and money for luxuries, and I have two fabulous children, and a lovely house, and we’re all healthy, and I have lots of friends and a supportive family, and all seven seasons of West Wing to watch whenever I want.  So I feel pretty lucky.  But one of the things I feel poor in is a lack of community.  I felt this sense of community on my Quaker weekend, and I felt the loss of it when I got home to a house with just me and no other adults in it.

This sense of something missing was reinforced after spending a few days with one of my university housemates.  She lives in a house with two other women and they practice intentional community – sharing food, sharing resources and sharing their lives.  I loved seeing how they live together, and have interesting conversations, and love one another, and encourage each other to live with their shared values.  And I loved feeling part of it – feeling welcomed and cared for, talking about things which matter to me and my life, feeling accepted, and having fun and laughing.

Community, what I feel I’m missing, is a network of relationships and shared values and intentionality.  I have lots of friends, but my friendships largely work on an individual basis rather than inter-relating.  I want to feel part of something bigger, a group, people who know each other and work together and encourage each other and can be honest with each other.  My hope is that I can find that at my Quaker meeting, as I get to know people and get more involved.  It’s hard because of logistics – I can’t get out so much because of my children – and my fears – I have some issues around trusting relationships after my marriage ended.  But every time I experience community, I know it’s something I want and need.  It’s good to be reminded, every so often, of my poverty so I remember to keep looking for the riches.