Sometimes life just needs good ol' shakeup to pull you out of a rut. My particular rut has lasted pretty much since I got to the UK in July, as I had a hell of an introduction to work, hated my flat from hell as it fell down around me, and generally missed all of my pals at home and lost touch with, well, me.
In typical overdramatic Dani fashion, I didn't really feel like anything could pull me out of the Rut. This felt like the Unfathomable Abyss of Boredom, Stress and Dissatisfaction. But over the past month or so, a sea change. I'm cautiously optimistic. I feel like I've got my head above ground again, and that I might be gathering enough strength to pull myself out altogether.
It's happened very organically. The deal that I have dedicated my life to since I arrived, finally signed. We closed not with a bang but a whimper, limping across the finish line weeks after a frenzy of nights without sleep followed by several days of not-much-to-do, and waiting. Several days later, I managed to get what was left of myself back on a plane for home. I was desperate to go and not: the shallow me did not want my friends or family to see how wrecked I have been by this deal. I felt awful and I looked (still do, to me) awful. But my need to go home won out over my pride, and I went.
In the space of a few weeks, I met 19 separate friends for lunch, coffee, dinner, or Baileys in a shoe (H & J. Good times). I had several pedicures, manicures and massages. I ate pancakes made especially for me by my uncle. I jumped on a trampoline. I took a float plane to the Island and choked back tears as the familiar landscape of home approached. I watched my best friend get married. I watched baby hummingbirds out of the kitchen window. I baked in friends' kitchens. I picked up my favorite 3-almost-4-year-old at pre-school. I cried with my best friend about how much we missed each other. I wandered downtown Vancouver with my dad. I giggled with my brother and sister-in-law. I ate a bagel at Solly's while reading the paper. I played Rockband. I drank countless Caffe Artigianno Americano Mistos. I made my god-daughter a birthday cake. I made my best friend a birthday cake. I sat in pubs. I sat up too-late with my cousin talking about life. I caught up on gossip from my old workplace. I got used to bumping into old acquaintances on the street again. I ate creamed stinging nettles. I coveted stationery at Paper-Ya on Granville Island. I dyed my hair blonde again. I rode the bus through familiar parts of Vancouver, and not so familiar, and wondered if I would ever live there again. I played in the yard with my favorite god-doggy.
I didn't write, though. And I didn't sing. The past few months were still too raw. And I wasn't sure if the worst was over, or if I'd come home to London and go straight back to Manchester and the nightmare Groundhog Day of the deal. I couldn't risk letting myself be introspective, or letting myself express joy. The guard couldn't come down yet. I didn't know if it was all really over.
And then, back to London, and a move. Within 4 days I had bundled myself and Currie across the river, to my old stomping grounds in south London, and into a new flat. We live on South Docks now, with nothing between home and the water. I wake up to see swans floating by my window. I take a boat down the Thames to work. I have a proper kitchen again, and I've cooked and baked every day. I've happily arranged my books. I've bought fresh flowers. I've wandered the docks. I've met my neighbours. My landlord, a friend, indulged me and bought me a beautiful new washer/dryer (the luxury of having a dryer...I can't express it), which I love more than one ought to love a household appliance. I washed my oven mitts. Alone. Just because I could. I took the difficult step of taking up running again, trying hard not to beat myself up over how much training it will take to get me back to the level I was at before I left Canada. Old friends who I haven't seen (including ex-loves, but that's another story) have become a presence in my life again. Over the past two weeks at my new flat, I've felt...dare I say it...that I'm home.
Work has been quiet and I have happily taken advantage of that. While it's unnerving to go from being so busy you can't breathe to having virtually nothing on your plate, I have enjoyed going in for 9 and leaving by 7 (yes, I know). I have, in the past few weeks, become, dare I say it? Settled?
And then, of course, the pie-in-your-face. On Monday morning, the email arrived, summoning myself and 284 of my co-workers to a meeting. The credit crunch has come home to roost, and we have now been sucked into the giant redundancy machine. Over the coming weeks I'll have to defend my job and my right to stay.
And another work bombshell: the only client I've worked for since I've arrived no longer requires our services. So I'll be moving on to new clients, new work, uncharted territory.
So, new stresses. But somehow, I feel that they can't wreck me again. As I rode home from work on the boat last night, sunglasses on, enjoying the sun and the spray as we sped towards Greenland Pier, all I could feel was a quiet calm and a sense that whatever is supposed to happen will happen. Amazing. How did I get here, without even realizing it? What a difference a month makes. Or maybe this is just what happens when you hit bottom...it can only get better from there.
In typical overdramatic Dani fashion, I didn't really feel like anything could pull me out of the Rut. This felt like the Unfathomable Abyss of Boredom, Stress and Dissatisfaction. But over the past month or so, a sea change. I'm cautiously optimistic. I feel like I've got my head above ground again, and that I might be gathering enough strength to pull myself out altogether.
It's happened very organically. The deal that I have dedicated my life to since I arrived, finally signed. We closed not with a bang but a whimper, limping across the finish line weeks after a frenzy of nights without sleep followed by several days of not-much-to-do, and waiting. Several days later, I managed to get what was left of myself back on a plane for home. I was desperate to go and not: the shallow me did not want my friends or family to see how wrecked I have been by this deal. I felt awful and I looked (still do, to me) awful. But my need to go home won out over my pride, and I went.
In the space of a few weeks, I met 19 separate friends for lunch, coffee, dinner, or Baileys in a shoe (H & J. Good times). I had several pedicures, manicures and massages. I ate pancakes made especially for me by my uncle. I jumped on a trampoline. I took a float plane to the Island and choked back tears as the familiar landscape of home approached. I watched my best friend get married. I watched baby hummingbirds out of the kitchen window. I baked in friends' kitchens. I picked up my favorite 3-almost-4-year-old at pre-school. I cried with my best friend about how much we missed each other. I wandered downtown Vancouver with my dad. I giggled with my brother and sister-in-law. I ate a bagel at Solly's while reading the paper. I played Rockband. I drank countless Caffe Artigianno Americano Mistos. I made my god-daughter a birthday cake. I made my best friend a birthday cake. I sat in pubs. I sat up too-late with my cousin talking about life. I caught up on gossip from my old workplace. I got used to bumping into old acquaintances on the street again. I ate creamed stinging nettles. I coveted stationery at Paper-Ya on Granville Island. I dyed my hair blonde again. I rode the bus through familiar parts of Vancouver, and not so familiar, and wondered if I would ever live there again. I played in the yard with my favorite god-doggy.
I didn't write, though. And I didn't sing. The past few months were still too raw. And I wasn't sure if the worst was over, or if I'd come home to London and go straight back to Manchester and the nightmare Groundhog Day of the deal. I couldn't risk letting myself be introspective, or letting myself express joy. The guard couldn't come down yet. I didn't know if it was all really over.
And then, back to London, and a move. Within 4 days I had bundled myself and Currie across the river, to my old stomping grounds in south London, and into a new flat. We live on South Docks now, with nothing between home and the water. I wake up to see swans floating by my window. I take a boat down the Thames to work. I have a proper kitchen again, and I've cooked and baked every day. I've happily arranged my books. I've bought fresh flowers. I've wandered the docks. I've met my neighbours. My landlord, a friend, indulged me and bought me a beautiful new washer/dryer (the luxury of having a dryer...I can't express it), which I love more than one ought to love a household appliance. I washed my oven mitts. Alone. Just because I could. I took the difficult step of taking up running again, trying hard not to beat myself up over how much training it will take to get me back to the level I was at before I left Canada. Old friends who I haven't seen (including ex-loves, but that's another story) have become a presence in my life again. Over the past two weeks at my new flat, I've felt...dare I say it...that I'm home.
Work has been quiet and I have happily taken advantage of that. While it's unnerving to go from being so busy you can't breathe to having virtually nothing on your plate, I have enjoyed going in for 9 and leaving by 7 (yes, I know). I have, in the past few weeks, become, dare I say it? Settled?
And then, of course, the pie-in-your-face. On Monday morning, the email arrived, summoning myself and 284 of my co-workers to a meeting. The credit crunch has come home to roost, and we have now been sucked into the giant redundancy machine. Over the coming weeks I'll have to defend my job and my right to stay.
And another work bombshell: the only client I've worked for since I've arrived no longer requires our services. So I'll be moving on to new clients, new work, uncharted territory.
So, new stresses. But somehow, I feel that they can't wreck me again. As I rode home from work on the boat last night, sunglasses on, enjoying the sun and the spray as we sped towards Greenland Pier, all I could feel was a quiet calm and a sense that whatever is supposed to happen will happen. Amazing. How did I get here, without even realizing it? What a difference a month makes. Or maybe this is just what happens when you hit bottom...it can only get better from there.
My Blackberry didn't capture the inscriptions on some of these "family" graves, but there were entire generations, sometimes more than one generation, listed on one tombstone...
