How about a new book?
Sometimes turning a page just isn’t enough. Try throwing the book out of the window altogether and picking up another one. Preferably one that makes you feel uncomfortable.
So here I am, more than slightly uncomfortable, having barely read the synopsis of my new book, before skipping the introduction and diving straight into the first chapter.
All metaphor of course. We’re nearly two months in to our new life in a new country (actually an old one in my case) having left behind everything we’ve known and owned for the last decade and more, to move to the UK.
From a constant state of spring/summer, and the sea on our doorstep, to a fairly constant state of autumn/winter, and no open water for 200 miles.
Husband, wife, 2 small children, sharing a house with the grandparents whilst we find our feet and our independence again. After a year of paperwork, we’re finally coming to the end of the adminstrative tedium. By the end of next week we’ll have a car, and then all we need to do is find a place to live, and an income, or two, or three.
Which is where my own personal mini-(mid-life)-crisis comes in. It’s not about the age (well perhaps it is a little bit about the age), but more a recognition and evalutaion of certain things. Such as the hours of my life I’ve spent (or wasted) working in jobs that have been at best, unsatisfying, and at worst frustrating and unpleasant.
I love being a father and a husband.
Distraction… predictive dictionary just gave me ‘fatty’ as an alternative to ‘father’. That made me chuckle out loud, particularly as I look back on my ‘athlete’ era, and marvel at how I struggle to organise regular exercise these days.
Where was I? Father and husband. Wonderful, I wouldn’t change that for the world. Or would I?
No, I really wouldn’t. I love being Papi, and Baby. I love them all every day a little more, but I won’t lie, it’s not perfect. In fact, most of the time it’s exhausting. Even without the self-inflicted complication of changing country. We’re knackered, permanently.
I want (and need) more time for myself, and Julia and I crave more time as a couple.
Writing is one of my escapes. I don’t yet know where it’s taking me, but for now, it brings me back to myself after feeling as if I’ve been pulled in all directions by everyone else all day.
Sometimes I write my feelings down, more often I empty ideas and recurring themes from my head that have been rattling around in there haphazard and confusing for days or weeks. I’ve even played with creative fictional ideas. Pen and paper, keyboard and screen, pencil and the back of an envelope.
I’ve promised myself, and you (whoever you are, if you’re there) many times in the past, that I would publish regularly, perhaps once or twice a week. Up to now, that kind of consistency hasn’t lasted more than a couple of weeks, unless you count the blank weeks, which have been very consistent indeed.
So I’m not going to make any more tired promises. No more crying ‘wolf’.
I’m just going to get on with it.
New book, new country, new life.
A new path to better balance, better habits, better rhythms and routines.
Personal and family fulfilment.
More joy, more contentment.
Because life should be that way, and we deserve it.
Stuart Westwood 