Brain Dump

 I'm not sure that this will be a terribly coherent blog post, but there are a few things I wanted to share, so I thought I would put them all together here.

First of all, an update on my current shopping ban - it's not going too badly. Have I been perfect? No. I have granted myself some loopholes here and there, generally where I've been visiting different places, and of course I have had to replace some items that have worn out. But I'm at 200+ days, and have spent less on clothes, books and cosmetics so far than I have at any point in the previous four years. I'm happy with the way things are going.

One thing that's made a difference this year is that, as I mentioned before, I have been attending therapy to address a traumatic period in my life when I was young. It's not exactly been what I expected - I thought I would be lying on a couch intellectually analysing my feelings in nitty-gritty detail, but actually it's been really frustrating and intense because I haven't been able to think my way through it, which is my default way of doing things. It's the first time I think I've really had an inkling of the power of the subconscious and also how the body stores trauma; my conscious thoughts are just the tip of the iceberg, which has been alarming and humbling but also pretty awesome. I don't know how much my past trauma has led to my difficulties with overspending, but I do suspect it's at least one large contributing factor.

I've also been embracing my inner space cadet this year. I've developed a morning routine that includes yoga, earthing, time at my altar, and tapping (so far my yoga practice has been pretty much a daily thing this year, and I'm seeing differences in my strength and flexibility physically as well as mentally). Full disclosure, I felt a bit daft embracing more esoteric practices, as I was raised in a very sceptical, atheist family, but giving myself permission to try things out and risk being the butt of one or two jokes has been worth it! I did a free online retreat earlier this month that involved loads of workshops, and discovered Tap With Brad. My therapist had already recommended that I try EFT so it was very timely, and I was pleased to find some specific videos for bad habits, addictive behaviours (my husband jokes that he gave up smoking easier than I've been able to cut down shopping), and even shopping specifically - linked in case anyone else might find it helpful!

I have found that since I started working on myself as part of the original shopping ban, my confidence has grown year on year, and I'm feeling happier and more comfortable in myself, so I do hope that trajectory continues!

That said, I have been struggling to slow down this year. Social media and random internet browsing remains a problem for me, as for many people in our hyper-connected, productivity-driven society, but I rarely shop online now unless I need something specific, so that's an improvement. But I'm still looking to free up some time and headspace, and I'll be working on that. 

Otherwise, this is just an intensely busy year - two of my best friends are getting married, so I'm a bridesmaid twice within a fortnight at opposite ends of the country. My other best friend is also expecting a baby (soon!) so I'm hosting and planning her shower. There are also lots more big birthdays, parties, hen dos and other events than usual - I actually don't have a free weekend between now and October, which is really strange for this self-professed hermit. So I've just had to accept that this will be a more high-energy year, and normal service can resume on the other side.

I also had a weird couple of months where I became completely fixated on losing weight, and I'm glad I was seeing a therapist at the time because I think it could have quickly have spiralled into a pretty bad place. As it was, I dramatically quit my slimming club (I know, don't ask) and posed for a nude portrait in the same week, which was hilarious and slightly surreal. The whole experience definitely contributed to this feeling that the year hasn't been the introspective, contemplative time I was planning/anticipating.

On the plus side, I was invited to a local Pagan moot, and although I've only managed to attend once so far because of childcare issues, I've really enjoyed being more active in the local community and making spirituality a bigger focus.

A lot of people I've met at book events have been asking about a second book. My friend Topaz and I have been noodling around on something together, but as I'm now a full-time carer for a family member and she's working, it's slow going. I'm also thinking about different ways to put a possible book two out into the world - I have really enjoyed working with Moon Books on The Anti-consumerist Druid, and it's reached a much wider audience than I could have achieved alone, but as a deeply shy and introverted person I've found a lot of the promo work very anxiety-provoking. So - just brainstorming here - if I wrote anything new, would you be interested? And if so, would you download it from Ko-Fi, or would you prefer a physical book, maybe from a print-on-demand service like Lulu?

I'd also like to finally get round to working on some fiction again, but - please let me know this is a universal problem or a me thing - I'm still finding that all this shopping and browsing and instagramming seems to have really atrophied my imagination. I even find daydreaming a struggle. I'm hoping that eventually, when I can carve out the time, a few months of wandering in the woods, sans phone, and reading poetry, will reset me a bit!

I think that's everything I wanted to say! I apologise for the very sporadic, unstructured nature of this blog currently, thank you very much if you're still here reading.

Lessons From A Style Icon... Me, Aged Nine

I originally intended this post to be a light-hearted and humorous look at my childhood fashion sense, but when I broke out my mum's photo albums to get some ideas, I was surprised to find that to the eyes of my adult self, I wasn't the style disaster I seemed to remember. With one or two exceptions, notably when I started to approach my teen years and started to seek out weird items for the sake of weirdness itself, I actually really liked the items my younger self chose and the way I put them together.

I started to think, perhaps the problem isn't my tendency to drift towards the quirky and eclectic, but simply the fact that I haven't allowed that inner style to grow and mature. I seem to think the options are 'dress exactly as I would have dressed circa age ten' or 'morph into someone else'. I wondered, would it not be possible to take such style staples as tie dye dungarees, paisley harem pants and bags made of rainbow fun fur, and use them to create a look that is just a little more polished... but still, essentially, me? I've been trying to make myself stay the same as I would have at eighteen (or even eight), but eight-year-old me would have relished the opportunities I have as a grown woman to expand my repertoire, style different things in different ways, be elegant or glamorous. I certainly wouldn't have wanted to stagnate out of fear and self-consciousness. I feel like it's time for me to accept my true tastes on the one hand, but also to let myself grow and appreciate the stage of life I'm in.

My childhood outfits and individual item choices were not nearly as bad as I had thought. The problems, such as they were, only came when my criteria changed from a simple 'I like this', to 'this is really weird, I'd better get it'. This is similar to something I find myself doing now when I worry about whether my look is still recognizably 'alternative'. So the lesson for me here is to let these kinds of distinctions go, and to recentre the simple question, 'how much do I really like it?'. 

One thing I really miss from my childhood outfits was that I didn't ever feel like I often do now, as though there's a right and a wrong way to put together an outfit. Sometimes I find this feeling so paralyzing that instead I don't bother and just sling on whatever's clean. It's not so much a feeling that other people will judge me, but that I can never quite reach an image in my head, so that however hard I try, I can still catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and feel gut-punched - all that time on hair, make-up and styling and I still don't like the way I look. Why make the effort, if I'm going to feel rubbish anyway? 

Yet as a younger person, I always enjoyed the outfits I put together and felt like a badass in them. So why had I developed this negative perception of my own style and stopped trusting my own judgement on clothes? I can't say for sure, but I do remember that secondary school was a bit of a shock to the system. Before that I had muddled along happily enough in a village primary that wasn't really big enough to have an 'in crowd' and an 'out crowd'. My taste was already verging on the wacky - I do remember turning up to a school fete, aged nine or ten, with crimped hair, silver-blue lipstick, gold moon and star earrings, hiking boots, and a black faux leather high-collared mini dress with a chunky zip down the front. I don't remember anyone commenting, either, which tells me I might already have had a reputation for somewhat theatrical outfit choices. I love the confidence I had back then. I thought I looked cool in what I was wearing so I just assumed that everyone else did too.

Secondary school was very different. It turned out that the popular kids didn't much like my look, and whenever I made choices that I thought would impress them, I ended up making it worse. I got this electric blue pleather jacket that I thought was absolutely the bee's knees - it got worn once, as I was laughed out of the cafeteria. So I plumped for the total opposite - a cream corduroy trench - and got picked on for that instead. My hair cuts were even worse. In the early 2000s, I was taking my inspiration from the media I loved, so one summer holiday I opted for the hairstyle Mary Stuart Masterson had in the film Some Kind of Wonderful. I guess my peer group weren't enjoying 80s teen romances during their holidays, as the reaction when we went back to school was... not good. Even some of my friends would ring me up and let me know I'd been seen on the weekend "wearing black tights with a tweed miniskirt and white running shoes - what were you thinking?!" or, in a dubious voice, "my mum said you were dressed... sort of funky." I ended up feeling that I couldn't get it right. It never occurred to me to just do what everyone else was doing - I think I'm actually grateful for that character trait.

But even if I had been the worst-dressed child in the history of the planet Earth, why did I feel that that affected my ability to dress myself as an adult? Loads of us have some regrettable style choices in our pasts and dodgy photos in our family albums. Children aren't supposed to be miniature style icons, after all - they're supposed to be kids, snot-nosed, grubby, and covered in mud. But speaking personally, I chose my own clothes from a very young age. My mum often reiterates that I wasn't interested in fashion as a child, but that's not quite the full story. I wasn't interested in how other people saw me, but very early on, I really loved clothes. I fell in love with fabrics and prints, I pored over catalogues, I loved raking through the aisles at Tammy Girl. I wrote detailed outfit ideas and packing lists in my diaries. It never occurred to me that clothes expressed something about me to other people - I just knew that they made me happy.

I get a similar feeling looking through these old photos as I do from street style sites with a certain aesthetic, like Hel Looks and NYC Looks. I don't necessarily like all the looks, although some are very inspiring to me, but I feel like they have the same vibrancy and playfulness. I also love reading the little snippets about what inspired each style or outfit, and I get lots of ideas for new ways to layer and put together outfits with what I already own.

Sometimes lately I've been convinced that a makeover, or a final, curated iteration of 'my personal style', will make me happier and more confident. But I've also noticed that everyone claiming that the right clothes will change my life is also selling a book, or a course, or a series of personal styling Zoom sessions, etc, etc. I remain unconvinced by any style guide that breaks women into categories (Timeless Classic! Eccentric Vintage! Androgyne!) or provides a one-size-fits-all list of things everyone's wardrobe should have.

The "life-changing makeover/style is important because it controls how other people see you" narrative is very alluring - much like a diet. I want to believe that my most contented, ideal self is only a personal styling session away. But honestly? I'm starting to think it might be bullshit. This makeover narrative fuels everything from personal shoppers' careers to reality TV, and seems to bring women so much joy and confidence, and yet I'm starting to wonder if the whole concept is a con, a scam designed to make the already-insecure feel dissatisfied with what we have. I've changed my whole appearance a lot of times, and still felt not pretty enough, not cool enough, not enough in general. I'm beginning to doubt that 'becoming stylish' will make me any happier. I don't always feel great in my clothes, but maybe I need to try changing the feelings, not the wardrobe.

Valhalla: A Walk Through Fire

At the very tail end of July, I went with Dai and the Spud to Valhalla Viking Festival, just for a day. Whilst booking the tickets, I'd done something slightly out of character and signed myself up to take part in a firewalking ceremony, which I then proceeded to be incredibly nervous about for the next few months. It felt like the next chapter in a series of occurrences which had started with my energy healing at Goddess House, as well as being something I could never have done even as recently as a year ago. I am very afraid of fire, but I am also devoted to a Goddess of the Forge, and I decided to place myself on her anvil and let her shape me as she would.

The festival itself was tremendous. The day was sunny and warm, and the location was fantastic. It was too hot for me to wear the slightly more historically-accurate outfit I'd originally planned, so I simply wore my favourite dungarees and kicked off my shoes to walk barefoot on the dusty grass. Our first priority was lunch; I enjoyed delicious fresh pizza in the shade of the woodland temple while the boys shared a burger. This was idyllic in itself - there were lights strung between the branches in the shade of the trees, which we could just see from where we sat on the outside, and when we finished our meal and ventured into the hushed interior, we discovered that the cardinal directions were marked by carved wooden statues of Norse gods and goddesses. 

Dai and the Spud quickly went off to play with axes while I had a peruse of the stalls. Some necklaces of amber beads caught my eye, but I tore myself away and we met up in the mead hall for some live folk music. The Spud wanted to get as close to the stage as possible to look at the instruments.

The day passed in a similarly laid-back manner. The people-watching was on point, the atmosphere was friendly. We spent a magical hour listening to a storyteller in the lantern-strung woodlands, and even the lively Spud was captivated by his tales of gods, giants, shapeshifters and trolls. I didn't break my no-buy; despite the abundance of stalls, there was so much to see and do that consumption didn't feel like a necessary entertainment.

Then at last the time came to proceed to the firewalking arena. There were about a hundred people taking part that day, and I felt a tremor of anxiety as I left Dai and the Spud outside the circle, watching. 

A sacred space was defined; as an Earth sign, I was told to find myself a space in the North quadrant. I had been seated a few moments, when a blue-haired elfin person in a linen tunic, Viking leg wraps and hand-forged spoon earrings sat down beside me with a friendly smile. We soon got to talking, and I forgot to be nervous. This was Jenna, who had come all the way from Sydney for the festival. Soon I also met Amelie, a striking presence in a long green dress and impressive armour, who bounced over to us exclaiming, "I love both your clothes!", and in between helping to build the fire, we chatted about cosplay, our favourite fantasy authors, and all kinds of other things.

I had intended to keep myself to myself, anticipating a meditative and solitary experience. But I figured that when the universe hands you kindred spirits during something you've built up in your head as a pivotal moment in your story, you should probably take the hint. 

Once the fire was lit, a circle was cast, and the ceremony began. During the calling of the quarters I could already feel the heat of the flames on my back. As the fire roared, we began by walking around the circle and acknowledging every person there, with a nod, a hello, a handshake, even a hug. I hadn't anticipated hugging strangers as part of my experience that day, but found myself surprisingly open to it. 

The next step was something that I had been particularly worried about for a while after seeing it mentioned online - an arrow-breaking ceremony. As the arrows were handed out we were encouraged to try to bend them between our palms - well, all that happened was that I got sore palms. We had the option to sit out, and honestly I did give it a thought, as I was pretty convinced I would be the one person who couldn't break my arrow, but in the end I stood in the queue with Jenna and Amelie.

At first, with the point of the arrow against the hollow at the base of my throat, I pushed as hard as I could, and it wouldn't bend, never mind break. I resigned myself, took one more deep breath, anticipated serious injury or at least great embarrassment, and walked into the damn arrow as hard as I could. I heard the snap like a gunshot before I registered what had happened.

The lead instructor recovered a piece of my splintered arrow from near the fire, and as he handed it to me, he said quietly, "That was powerful."

The firewalk.

After the arrow, I wasn't afraid. In fact I surprised myself by stepping forwards when they called for someone to go first, and in the end I was the second to set out across 600-degree coals. 

I'm not going to tell you too much about the sensation, in case you ever have the chance to experience it for yourself. The coolness of the dampened grass on the other side was almost startling. I felt like I could take on anything, anything at all.

They laid down more coals, made the pathway longer and wider. Jenna, Amelia and I queued together again and walked across on each other's heels, casting handfuls of oats into the still-burning fire as an offering.

On the third walk, we were invited to make our offerings to a lost loved one. My father's death still felt very recent. I made my offering to the fire, then had to step back and get my tears in check. We had been asked to be silent at this point, so I couldn't explain to my new friends why I was crying. They each offered me a hand, and we strode out on the longest walk yet, together. On the other side of the smouldering coals they both gave me a hug. Two kind, beautiful souls whom I was so grateful to meet. 

After the circle was closed, I went to find the Spud and Dai, and get a much-needed drink of water. The soles of my feet were peppered with black marks, but undamaged.

As someone whose thoughts recently have been very much concerned with concepts like personal style, I also had some unique takeaways from this experience and the day as a whole that may or may not resonate for anyone else.

Firstly, the variety of styles and goods for sale I saw throughout the day reminded me that I like and appreciate a lot of different things, which is why I have so much difficulty minimising my wardrobe or editing it down to a 'core style'. For the first time in a long time I was able to see this as something to be grateful for. I might not have a signature look, but I am able to gain a lot of pleasure from aesthetics and material things without limiting myself to one set of criteria.

Secondly, the people I saw and met showed me that there is a lot of scope for finding joy in your personal expression that goes above and beyond 'being stylish'. I met cosplayers, LARPers, historical reenactors, and people who either liked to dress up for festivals or just feel comfortable, and it reminded me that there is much more to dressing than trying to make your parameters as small as possible in order to define yourself. I realised that I'd recently been looking at clothes and dressing through quite a narrow lens as I tried yet again to 'find my style', and I went home feeling a sense of happiness and excitement about my fairly random wardrobe that I haven't felt in ages. Dressing is not just about encapsulating yourself at a given moment, it can also be about creating a character, creating a feeling, expressing a moment or connecting to something else (a sense of connection to your ancestors through the fabrics they wore, for example). 

In the weeks following the firewalk, I was aware of subtle changes in my thoughts and attitude. The day after, I came to a decision on something I'd been dithering about for years (more on which at some future point). When I found myself angsting over makeover shows, a calm voice in the back of my head said, this is just a racket to make you feel like what you already have isn't good enough.

I had proven to myself that I could be vulnerable and open, but I had also shown that I could be brave and strong. It changed slightly how I see myself and how I respond to the world, and I look forward to seeing where this new perception leads me. My broken arrow still sits on my altar. I am so thankful for the experience, to the instructors, to Dai for his support and encouragement, to my Goddess, and to Jenna and Amelie. 

Did I Photograph A Ghost Ship?

In September 2015 I was in a cafe on the beach at Ventnor on the Isle of Wight. I was enjoying a large bowl of seafood and half-listening to Demi Lovato being cool for the summer on the music channel in the background. It was a horrible day; there was a cold wind carrying a stinging rain, and it was nice to be inside The Beach Shack warming up after a long walk along the coast from Bembridge, where I was staying on a boat.

The cafe boasted large windows looking out onto the sea, and I remember being mildly surprised by how misty it was outside, given the wind. Then I spotted three tall masts emerging from the fog. How cool, I thought, it looks like an old-timey pirate ship. I'd never seen one like that actually in use before, and I wondered if there was a special event going on. I offhandedly snapped a picture, went back to my mussels (or was it crab?), and thought no more about it. I didn't notice when the ship sailed away, but by the time I'd finished my lunch it was gone.

I probably would have thought no more about this, except a few weeks ago, Dai and I were talking about historical ships (we have a large model of the HMS Victory - the kit to build it was my first Mother's Day present), and I mentioned this nice ship I'd seen on a foggy day off the coast of the Isle of Wight.

I kept talking for a while until I realised that Dai had gone quiet and was just staring at me. "Do you still have the photo?" he asked urgently.

"Well, probably," I said, and spent a fruitless half hour searching, but couldn't find it. 

Dai then told me about the HMS Eurydice, which sank in a storm off the coast of the Isle of Wight in 1878, and 364 lives were lost to the sea. Since then, many visitors to the island have reported seeing the Eurydice on this part of the coast, and their sightings have been blamed on "light reflecting on mist". (From Haunted History of HMS Eurydice - BBC Hampshire.)

Obviously I was extremely excited by the possibility that I had seen and photographed a ghost ship, but as I couldn't find the photo my dreams of a mention in the Fortean Times would have to remain dreams.

Except that last week, trawling through old photos on Facebook to try to decide whether I should cut my hair short again after the wedding (help?!), I finally found the photo.

At first I was a bit deflated. It doesn't look very ghostly. Then I did an image search for HMS Eurydice and... well, see for yourselves! I'm not entirely convinced... but it's not a bad likeness, is it?! What do you think?

An Ecosia image search for HMS Eurydice

(Dai suggests this may be something to do with a Sailing Trust rather than a paranormal encounter. Disappointingly, he's probably right.)

Grief

The sudden loss of my father didn't affect me quite the way I expected it to. The pain - yes, that was there, manifesting in the main as a tightness like an iron band around my chest, so that at times breathing felt arduous and moving a struggle. First thing in the morning I found myself lying in bed feeling not sad, exactly, but sort of blank, and it was an effort to tip myself out of the sheets and get on with the day.

Momentum carried me through the tasks of sorting out Dad's estate and arranging the funeral. Dad was a well-known author and a popular man who had enjoyed female company throughout his life, so I found myself receiving messages from journalists, ex-partners and step-siblings I'd never known, which in its own way was a blessing, as I got to reminisce endlessly with people who had known him in a different context than I had.

I had expected to feel like I was breaking inside, but instead it felt more like a forging, a hardening. I refused to cry in front of people - an abrupt departure from being the girl who has sobbed through everybody's wedding for the last decade - and I found myself standing taller, as if the backbone I was suddenly growing was literal as well as metaphorical. I felt as though my skin had become a suit of armour, protecting a fiery core as internally I raged at the injustice of his sudden departure, and determined to do him proud. He may have been as flawed as the rest of us, no saint, occasionally driving me crazy, but he was my dad, my son's grandfather, and very much loved.

Sitting on a tired blue hospital sofa beside my uncle as consultants and nurses gave us awful news and talked us through consent forms for organ donation was the first time I had ever really felt like an adult, and not like a teenager pretending. This feeling continued in the aftermath of that brutal day in the relatives' room, as I shed my people-pleasing skin and learned where my boundaries were. Words like, "That is my decision, thank you," and, "What I need from you is..." suddenly began coming out of my mouth. 

I wanted to do the best I could for my dad. In the absence of a will I had to guess at his wishes, but I knew what I felt would be appropriate, and I clung to that even when well-meaning friends and family offered different advice. I was also determined to speak at the funeral myself, even though I once had a panic attack reading a short story to four people at a writer's group and we were expecting a minimum of forty people to attend the memorial service.

I bought a new dress, too, mindful of my dad's appreciation of aesthetics and pride in being well-dressed. I knew he had always thought I could be more elegant, more sophisticated, more feminine, but that wasn't really me, although I scrub up all right when needed. I'm too plus-size for many sustainable brands and couldn't find quite what I wanted second-hand in the time frame I had available, so eventually I bought a black and white patterned wrap dress from a high street brand's 'eco' range, made from a fabric made out of wood pulp. I wanted to represent the family well to all those attending the memorial, but I also wanted to be true to myself, and in the end I felt I struck the right balance.

Families are complicated and ours in some ways particularly so, and at times I became stressed about feuds, finances, and other things which were out of my control. But one night I got a clear message that Dad, at least, knew I was doing my best - I was settling down to try to get some sleep when I felt, plain and solid as anything, his hand upon my shoulder. It jolted me awake, but the feeling remained, and I was grateful to him for letting me know that he was there.