The most precious of things.

 One moning ( in the days when I was still working )  one of my friends came into our office looking pale and completely exhausted.
" Are you alright?" i asked.
She nodded.
" I've just been awake a long time," she said, "I went running on the beach at 5 o'clock this morning."
" Was it even light enough to see the beach that early?" I asked.
" I couldn't sleep," she said. " I kept thinking about my niece's naynee. She dropped it when we were on the beach yesterday."
" You'v got to be careful with those naynees," I said, " they're easy to drop." 
My friend laughed.
" Sorry," she said, " I'm always forgetting  that no one else knows what her naynee is. It's a scuzzy old, blanket. She's had it since she was born and she can't sleep or eat or go anywhere without it. Losing it is like losing part of herself.It's the most precious thing in her whole world.
 So at 5 o'clock this morning I thought I would get up and go and see if I could find it on the beach."
" And did you find it?" I asked, my heart sinking. 
 The tide had already washed  in and out at least once since naynee was lost, even something much heavier would have been swept away. There was almost no chance it could still be there.
" Well," said my friend, ' I ran all the way along the beach and I couldn't see it.
 So I turned back and started checking in all the bins.
 It's so old and tatty,  I thought someone might have thrown it away. 
It's lucky no one saw me, I must have looked like a crazy person rummaging through the bins at dawn. 
Anyway, I was just giving up when I saw this thing that looked like a soggy lump of seaweed, covered in sand and mud lying in the pebbles.
I went over and picked it up. 
And there it was: her naynee.  I found it. Dripping with slime and dirty seawater, but definitely naynee.
 I ran straight home and washed it.
 It still looks a bit the worse for wear, but my niece never did care about that. Can you believe I actually found it?"  

naynee drying out

And it was amazing that she had actually found it on the unending mile of sand..
But what was even more amazing was the amount of time and trouble she had taken to find an old, falling-apart-at-the-seams-blanket. 
But when something is that precious you will do anything to get it back.  

Because what makes it precious is not how much it costs or what it's financially worth, but what it means to us.
The things we truly treasure are rarely our most expensive or valuable possessions.
Usually the  most precious things in life are valuable because of the person who gave them to us or the memories they evoke.




When our children were still very young, Ninesh ( my husband) escaped for a rare  weekend away 
It was our first weekend away since  moving to Chichester.  
Leaving my mum and dad in charge, we were walking through the drizzling rain towards the car when we noticed that all along our road people were putting sandbags in front to their doors.
" What are you doing that for?" asked Ninesh worriedly.
" To stop water getting in," said our neighbour cheerfully, " Chichester floods every year.  Didn't you know that? " 
An expression of panic spread across Ninesh's face..
" It's OK," I said, comfortingly. " I'm sure mum and dad will cope. The kids will be fine."
But Ninesh wasn't listening, he was already sprinting back across the road into the house.
He found my mum in the kitchen making tea.
"If it floods," he was explaining to her, "Save  my records. Take them upstairs, starting from the bottom shelf."
"What about the children?" asked my mum.
" They'll be fine said Ninesh, " they can nearly swim."

Ninesh's record collection has travelled with us wherever we have been living in the world.. 
 Over the years it has grown to 5 shelves worth.

Ever growing record collection

Individually the records are mostly worth very little.  
Most of them are car- boot -sale -finds or unwanted hand-me-downs.
What makes them precious, is what they represent to him. 
" This one was an amazing bargain," he says, pulling one off a shelf and allowing his eyes to linger lovingly on the cover, " I don't think the guy who sold it to me knew what a classic it is."
Or carefully arranging them in genre specific, alphabetical order he will pick one up and say: 
" Remember where I found this?"
" Is it a test?" I ask, I find it hard to keep track of where and when he has uncovered his added to his trove of vinyl treasures. 
He laughs.
" We were at that flea-market in Switzerland. It was a really sunny day and and afterwards we walked all the way along the path by Lake Zurich."
And suddenly I do remember.
 I remember the blue, blue sky and the boats drifting slowly across the sparkling lake.
" And this one," he will say, " I can't believe I've found it after all these years. There it was, just lying on the groundl at the car boot sale. And it's in perfect condition, look."
And carefully he eases the sleek, shiny disc out of its sleeve.
And while I sit eyeing the ever-growing tower of records, wondering where we can build another shelf, he turns up the volume and air-drums  to the intro.
To Ninesh, each one of those records means something. 
Like the naynee, his record collection is a part of him.
It's his passion, priceless, irreplaceable and of no tangible value, but more precious to him than anything else he owns.
" Why does dad like his records so much," asks Joss, our 15 year old son. " Half the time  they're scratched.  He should just download the songs onto his laptop, then they,d always work properly." 
I am, as usual, floored by the force of his logic.
How can I explain that it is not the perfect sound that makes the records special but everything else about them.
When you are young, it's hard to define what makes something precious.
Hard to know what you will treasure when you are independent and free.
Hard to understand that value and cost are not the same thing.
Once comfort blankets and favourite toys have stopped being the most precious things in the world, there's often a superficiality to what we treasure: designer clothes, expensive shoes, the newest phone, the thinnest television.
In this materialistic, consumer-driven world, it's easy to lose sight of what's truly precious or to really value what you already have.

A while ago, I was running a story writing workshop in a school. 
 The children were all 9 and 10 years old and I was trying to get them to start using their no-limits, anything-goes imagination to write a story
So I took out a golden box.

" Inside this box," I said, " is the most precious thing in the whole world. Because it's a magic box,it can change it's shape and size so what's inside can be as big or as small as you want it to be."
I passed the box to one of the boys.
He stared at it hard for a minute and then said:
" I think It's got the newest XBox inside."
Most of the other boys clapped.
" I think it's got the most expensive football boots you can buy inside," said another boy.
" I think it's full of as much money as you will ever need," said one of the girls.
" I think it's a magic wand," said another.
And so the box was passed around the circle until everyone who wanted to had had a turn.
There were a few who were too shy to try.
One of them was a small, thin boy with unbrushed hair and a jumper two sizes too big.
He'd sat the whole time, shoulders hunched, eyes down, staring at the floor. 
Just as I was putting the box away, he held out his hands without looking at me
" Can I have a turn?" he asked quietly.
I handed him the box.
He took  a deep breath and looked up.
But the words seem to stick in his throat. 
I smiled encouragingly, willing his hands to stop shaking.
" So," I said, " what do you think is inside this golden box? What do you think is the most precious thing in the whole world?"
He hesitated for just a moment, clutching the box to him.
" I think," he whispered, "that  inside this box is ..love." 

It's easy to misplace the golden boxes in our lives.
Easy to forget about them and let them lie gathering dust somewhere.
It's easy to replace them with prettier, more expensive versions.
But in the end, they always come back to us, full of the simplicity and beauty of what we truly treasure.

It's a Control Thing

Lately I've been thinking a lot about control- about how losing it is often harder than gaining it. 
Seems to me if people spent less time trying to take, be in and keep control and more time losing control, the world might be a much easier and nicer place to live in.

I was once on a " just girls," weekend to celebrate a friend's birthday.  As I was loading the dishwasher after breakfast, someone said:
 " It's lucky my husband isn't here to see how you've done that."
" Done what?" I asked.
" Loaded the dishwasher," she said, " he'd just take everything out and do it again. He does it to me all the time."
" Mine does that as well," said one of the other girls, " certain plates go in certain places and all the cutlery has to be sorted into individual areas"
" Mine can't stand it if the plates are facing different directions," said another.
Turns out, a lot of partners have a problem with letting go of dishwasher-control.
" Wow," I said, " in our house we're just glad that someone has actually loaded the dishwasher."

But dishwasher control is nothing to the battles for control that go on in the other parts  of our lives.
It comes in many different forms.
There's the overt, public, assertive kind of control: this is how it's going to be done, no discussions, no questions, no arguments
There's the covert, underhand kind of control:   I know she asked you to to do differently but just do it my way because it's better and no one will mind."
There's the passive aggressive, quietly threatening kind of control: I don't want to be a nuisance but I've been up worrying all night because I don't really agree with what you're asking me to do and I know my view isn't important but I will have to seek further advice if you make me do it.
And then there's the worst kind of control, the personal kind where you are too scared to show or admit how you really feel in case someone uses the information to make you look stupid or feel weak. 
That feeling that you need to be in control, and the panicky feeling that you get when you think you 're  not, is so intrinsically part of being human, that most of the time we're not even aware of it.
But it's a constant and emotionally draining battle.
And it begins from the moment we're born.
I sometimes wonder if the reason why the first noise we make as babies make is a cry not because we are taking our first breath,  but because we're really cross that we've  had no control over when we've been born.
Without consulting us, the warm, cosy uterus has expelled us into a cold, hostile world.
Who wouldn't be mad?
Who wouldn't cry and want to shout out " hey, put me back in.  Let me decide when it's time." 

And that battle for control continues for the rest of our lives.
First we need to control our parents and siblings.
Then we need to control our friends and acquaintances.
Then there's our work colleagues and our bosses.
And finally we have to control our lovers and partners and eventually our own children.  
The more we want control, the more exhausting life becomes because there's always someone who wants it more and will fight for it harder.
Yet the thought of giving up control, or if not giving it up, losing it for a little while, can be petrifying. 
" I can't do it mum," says my almost 17 year old daughter, "I can't just let go, The thought of not being in control makes me feel sick." 
And with all the lessons I have learnt in life, with all my irrelevant experience and unlistened to advice, with all the love I feel for her, I can't show her how to do it. 
I can't show her how it can sometimes be alright to make yourself vulnerable.
I cant show her how the freedom that comes with enjoying the moment without worrying.
I can't show her how much fun it can be to drift without knowing where you're going,
Or how important it is to sometimes lose yourself in your dreams and be ruled by your heart.
All I can do is hope that she will one day find someone who she trust enough to help her find it out for herself.

The history of the world has been dominated by fights for control.
One country trying to control another.
One race trying to rule another.
One religion trying to dominate another.
The hardest thing to say is: " let's try it your way."
The hardest thing to swallow is your pride.
But perhaps, if we spent less time battling for control and more time thinking about how to trust and value each other, then maybe the world really would be a  better, less fragile place.
It won't be easy but it might be worth a try.

So the next time you load a dishwasher, go wild.
Let the plates face different directions, the cups be higgledy-piggledy and the knives and forks be muddled together.
It's a first step towards letting go ....even if the dishes don't end up so clean!

Daydream believing

So it has arrived.
My final day of work.
I have collected my last sign in sheet, filled in my last registration form, answered my last phone call and handed over the mantel of responsibility to someone who wants it more and will wear it better.
I have let the doors of the Children's Centre close firmly behind me..... and the Autumn sunshine has never felt so good.
In front of me lies a beckoning ocean awash with long-wished-for dreams and unspoken hopes.
And I'm ready to dive in, head -first.
No more waking up in the middle of the night remembering all the things I have forgotten.
No more filling in forms that are left unread and filed under " filled-in forms."
No more trying to meet impossible targets set by detached, power-hungry bureaucrats.
No more performance management reviews or self-evaluation frameworks.
No more gathering, inputting and analysing data that never measures what its meant to measure nor tells you what you want to know. 
My life has been given back to me, wrapped in shiny, endless possibilities and full of not-for-sharing-chocolate.

" The trouble is," says my dad when I'm round to visit, " once you've got all-the-time-in- the-world, you usually end up filling  it with nothing-at-all."
'Not me," I say pouring myself a third cup of tea, " I'm going to fill every moment with meaningful somethings."
My Dad smiles indulgently and reaches for the TV remote. 
And I turn away because even though I don't want to admit it, I'm just a little worried that he might be right.  
Things tend to take as long to do as the time you have to do them.
If you have two hours to cook dinner and clean the house, then it takes two hours.
If you have all-the-time-in-the-world, it might take forever.
Perhaps it's only by perpetually racing through life that we create enough energy to reach  our goals.  
But I'm really hoping not.
I'm hoping that by standing still I can still achieve just as much.

My first day of freedom was spent wandering around the Chichester Sculpture Park with an old school friend.
She is beautiful, clever, rich and successful.
But none of that comes with a happiness guarantee.
She has been a constant visitor in our home over the years but this was the first time that I could really give her my utter, complete and undivided attention.
I heard every word, not just the gist of what she was saying.
I truly listened.
My mind didn't wander to the untidy pile of papers on my desk or the emails needing replies or the social worker waiting to be phoned back or the leaflets with next term's dates needing to be signed off.
Instead we admired the modern installations, tastefully and incongruously displayed amidst the ancient woodland and sweeping West Sussex views. 
We admired the clever curve of bronze, were confused by a beautifully designed staircase leading nowhere, let our reflections become part of a sculpture of right- angled mirrors

 and admired a Chinese inflatable pig from inside and out. 

" I take a photo of my friend coming out of its rear hole," explained a German tourist, showing us the photo on his phone and pointing at his friend who has just emerged from    the pig's stomach. 

We laughed and wandered on. 
And while we walked, we talked, soothed by the beautifully strange not-quite-reality of the place,
And at the edge of the Park we found: "It Pays to Pray,":  large, bright blue shapes and words flashing across 4 flat screens.

For a refundable 20p you can choose from a list of chocolate bars: Bounty,, Starbar, Flyte, Delight, Wispa, Drifter, Timeout, Picnic, Ripple, Devour, - all the old favourites. But you put your money into the slot and choose, you are not given a chocolate bar, but a prayer. 
My friend made her choice and her prayer flashed up on the screen: 
" Keep me safe, keep me warm, keep me in the lap of luxury."
She smiled sadly.
" I wish," she said.
And I do too.
I hope that, one day, like me, she is given the freedom and the time to find all those things.
While she carried on exploring a while, I sat on a warm, grey stone slab, part of an installation looking like a miniature Grand Canyon. In front of me was a valley of yellow fields, each straw tip bathed gold in the sunlight , birds swooping across the echoing blueness of a cloudless sky..
Lost in the picture- perfect peacefulness, I wondered what prayer I would use to fill my now-shapeless days.
" Let me find my muse. Let me always have orange ink in my pen. Let me constantly day-dream.  Let me sometimes know, when they ask at breakfast-time, what I'm cooking for dinner.."

Some people say that it's only through work that our lives have meaning. That it's our jobs that give our lives meaning and define us.
Perhaps they're right.
 But for as long as I am able , I'm willing to take a gamble that it's more than that;
that being there to catch your children when they fall, being able to truly listen to your friends, having time to watch your flowers grow, is enough.
And then there are the clothes to wash, the meals to cook, the rooms to clean and the masterpiece to write.
And I'll be doing all that... of course.
Just not right now. 
Monday will be soon enough... and I think there might be an episode of "The Mindy Project," that I haven't seen yet.

Family Holidays and the Search for Courage

So we are back from our holiday.
2 weeks, 1200 miles, 2 adults and 2 teenagers ( Mia and Joss ) in a little VW camper van.
And we are all still talking ( mostly ) although Mia and Joss disappeared for their  
 " teenage fix," the moment our feet touched the familiar wooden floorboards of home.
We have wandered the dusty streets of Toulouse,  gazed through the dark at the spectacular fireworks at the San Sebastian festival and floated through the clouds and tumbling geraniums of the Picos mountains.

The best way to end a festival

The strange thing about the journey from the coast of North West France to the Northern edge of Spain, is that I had travelled much of it many times before..
" We used to come this way on our holidays when I was little," I explained to no one in particular.
" Look, that's the mountain dad made us climb even though none of us wanted to.  We all moaned the whole way to the top and when we got there we had missed the last train back so we had to walk all the way back down in the dark. And when we got to the bottom all the shops were closed so we couldn't have any dinner!"
" Why didn't you just say you wouldn't go?" asked Joss, fixing the headphones into his iPad, " That's what I would say."
" Why would grandad make you do something so stupid and boring?" asked Mia, " Can you turn this song up?"
I turned up the music and carried on sharing my memories with the unlistening ears of my family.
" We used to put all our clothes in big bin bags and pile them into the boot of our car,  tie the tent onto the roof- rack and when we got off the ferry at Calais we would just drive and drive and drive.
We didn't stop until we found the sun because otherwise my sister got too grumpy
 When dad or mum got too tired to drive, they would just pull over and sleep slumped over the steering wheel."
" Your family holidays sound horrible," said Ninesh, without taking his eyes off the road.
I stared at him.
" What do you mean, horrible. They were amazing.`'
Ninesh said nothing, just carried on staring straight in front of him.
I sat back, staring out of the window, watching the scenery roll by, as I silently unwrapped my memories.
Like an island surrounded by weeks, our family holidays were one of the most special things about my childhood.
For a few weeks of every year we were on an adventure, with only the road and the weather as our guide.
And for just a few weeks of every year we were a family, sharing a dream, living in a bubble of togetherness that no one else could touch.
But personal memories have little meaning to anyone else.
Although the thread that has connected all the places we have just visited  is the memories of strangers.
One hundred years since the beginning of the First World War and all over Europe, in enormous cities and lost mountain villages, the men and boys who gave up their lives are being  remembered.
Suddenly we would come across a wall of sepia photos, proud young men in smart army uniforms staring out at us.

And next to the pictures names or sometimes scraps of letters.
We are determined not to forget.
We will never stop searching for meaning in the enormity of such a loss.
And next to the pictures of soldiers there are pictures of others. 
Men and women staring with a passion and fury out of a past tinged with sadness. 
They are part of " The Resistance."
Young men and women brave enough to stand up and fight against what they believed was wrong  even when they didn't need to.
In the Spanish Civil War, in the Second World War, today.
They sacrifice their lives saving strangers, sheltering victims, helping refugees.
 Because they cannot stand by and watch evil win.
My grandmother, a part Jewish refugee from Vienna always used to tell me that it is not the bravery of great heroes that should be remembered from war, but the remarkable courage of individuals who risked their lives each day by giving food and shelter to Jews and other victims. 
I have often wondered if it was me, if I would be brave enough.
I hope so but I know it's just a hope.
As a parent, there is nothing I would not do to protect my family. 
The courage of love is unshakeable and knows no depth or limits.
Years ago, when Mia and Joss were little, we visited Dachau, the concentration camp.
Once visited, the horror of such a place never leaves you.
lt seeps into your bones and scars your dreams.
The enormous chimneys, the " shower," rooms, the kennels where some men were forced to live like dogs.
Past and present collide in a nightmare of ghosts and raw emotion.
For a moment Mia  stood and stared.
Slowly she turned to me.
 " If this happened now, " she asked, " would we be living here?"
I looked into the pools of her dark, 7-year-old eyes and my heart broke.
Because as a part-Jewish, part Sri-Lankan family we would have no hope if such horror were ever to visit us again.
And all I could do was stand there silently, clutching her and Joss and Ninesh to me.
And I knew, right then, that with every bone in my body I would fight to keep them safe.
But fighting to keep your family safe is one thing.
It is innate.
It demands the kind of bravery that comes when you have nothing left to lose, when it is all or nothing, when you are fighting for your life.
Fighting to protect other people's families when you could be living safe and unnoticed, that's a different kind of courage.
I hope that I would be brave enough to do it.
I hope that I would not stand by and watch evil triumph.
I hope that I would have the courage to fight for what I know is right and  against what I know is wrong.
But I know it's just a hope.
And what makes it even harder is that today I find it very hard to know what is right and what is wrong.
Israel, Palestine, Ukraine, Russia, Iran, Iraq.
Perhaps it is my ignorance that leaves me so confused and uncertain.
I understand that the people who are fighting believe with a passion in their cause.
But I find it hard to understand how people can fight and kill in the name of religion or country or race
It is as though the world has lost its memory.
And all I feel  is a sense of loss as I look at photos of the young men in army caps who never came home.

More than 40 years after the Second World War, my 70 year old, Viennese grandmother spent her life fighting for good causes. 
Undaunted by age and discomfort, she would camp out at Greenham Common, write letters for Amnesty, stand outside South Africa house campaigning against apartheid.
And often she would chastise me, her teenage granddaughter for being uncaring and disinterested.
" There is injustice all around," she would say loudly in the heavy accent that she never lost, " why aren't you doing anything?"
And she was right.
I was too busy worrying about the injustice of being a teenager to worry about the rest of the world.
But I wasn't uncaring or disinterested, I just didn't understand. 
I didn't have her compass of memories to guide me.
I had none of her experience of the horror and fear and loneliness of war.
Memories take time and time is what war steals from us.

Now, as I have collected the memories of strangers from our 1200 mile journey,  I understand how fragile and precious memories can be.
It is our memories that give us the courage to fight for what we believe in.
And I think, perhaps today the only thing worth believing in is:  peace. 
Peace to be who we want to be.
Peace so that we will never need to walk in the shadow of fear.
Peace so that we can go on family holidays.
And for as long as our children will come with us, I will wrap them in a blanket of warm memories to give them strength and hope and courage....even if they do involve walking down mountains in the dark.

La Rhune, France- easier to walk down in the daylight.

I

Saying goodbye

It's strange leaving somewhere.
I have one more month of work to go.
I am so excited about the new beginning ahead of me, the blank page bursting with potential, that I sometimes forget to be sad about the goodbyes I have started to say.
" I'll  miss you Becky," said one of our volunteers with special needs as I said goodbye to her yesterday, " Will you miss me?"
" Of course I will," I said distractedly.
" And will you buy a duck to sleep in your bed when you leave?" she asked, " I like ducks."

And suddenly I wasn't distracted anymore.
I was really sad.
Because I am truly going to miss her.
And not just her but the multi-coloured patchwork of characters who pass through the doors of our Children's Centre.
Endings are always strange and saying goodbye is never easy.

I remember meeting one of my university friends as were walking into the common room of the German Department.  
She couldn't talk because her mouth was so full of chocolate.
" Are you like me?" she asked, when she had finally swallowed.
I looked at her, tall, blonde, model-like beautiful.
" I don't think so," I said.
 " I mean, are you one of those people who, if you are eating a bar of chocolate and you know you are going into a room with lots of people, you stuff the rest of the bar into your mouth so you don't have to share it. I think the world is divided into 2 types of people," she explained, " chocolate-sharers and chocolate-face-stuffers. Which are you? "
I tried to kid myself that I was a chocolate sharer but I think the truth is, I would just have bought the chocolate a lot earlier so that I had finished it a long time before I had to consider sharing.
But in the same way as the world is divided into chocolate-sharers and chocolate-face-stuffers, I think it is divided into 2 types of goodbye-sayers:
Those who make it take as long as possible, prolonging the final moment, shedding tears. scattering words, turning back for one last wave and those who make it as quick as possible and walk away without a backward glance.
Usually I am a walker-awayer.
Not because I won't be sad or because I won't miss everything I am leaving behind.
But because goodbyes are not really about the moment of parting.
They are about the ending of shared memories, the loss of a passing comment that brings a smile to your lips, the emptiness of the space where your friend should have been.
And that is too big to be captured in just one moment.
Life is a constantly changing book and saying goodbye is just the end of one chapter.
In front of you is the next page.
And if you spend too long saying goodbye, you might get writers block and never move on.
Life is for living, not standing still.
And the time you have spent working in a place with people you care about is a memory to be treasured and polished until is shines, not tarnished with tears.

"What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from."
From " Little Giddings," by TS Elliot

So I know that in a few weeks, on my very last day of work, when I walk through those sliding doors for the very last time, it will be without a backward glance.
Not because I don't care but because I care so much.
But I know it's the right thing to do and the right time to do it.
It's time to hand over the Children's Centre that I have helped to create to someone else
with new ideas, new dreams.
Time to let it go and watch it fly.
And I will be walking towards a new future full of hopes and dreams.
And on the way, I will pick up a bar of chocolate.
Because for a while, at least, I won't have to pretend to be a chocolate sharer!

Finding The One

This weekend we were, once again, at a wedding.
It wasn't in an art gallery or a church, but in a barn, nestling in a West Sussex Valley, surrounded by wild flowers.

 And it wasn't full of young dreamers christening their future with layers of white lace.
It was a second-time-around marriage for both bride and groom. 
Full of a sense of calm completeness.
Full of the warmth and happiness of all weddings without the anxious edginess of your wedding having to be better than everyone else's.
This was a very important day for both of them but it wasn't their only important day .
The bride and groom both have families and successful careers, their lives have already been strewn with important days.
Their wedding was simply a celebration of the fact that, through all the chaos that life brings, they had found each other.

Strangely, or maybe not so strangely in these modern times, the groom's ex-wife was there, laughing and chatting and dancing the night away next to her ex-husband and his new wife..
I tried not to stare but a little part of me was desperate to walk over and ask them: 
" Does this not feel a bit weird? Are all of you really fine with this?"
But even by my fourth gin and tonic, I was still feeling too politely English to ask.
And anyway, as I stood watching the newly-weds, catching each other's eye, sharing a smile,  I realised that it didn't matter who else was there.
There was something so serenely complete in the intimacy of that shared smile, that for a moment, even I believed the rest of the world didn't exist.
And so I think maybe they have done it.  
Maybe this time they have found their other half, their perfect partner, the soul mate they have been searching for all their lives.
Maybe this time they have, each of them, found The One.

" Where are you going on honeymoon?" we ask as we catch up with them, standing in the doorway to the dance floor..
" Cycling in the Outer Hebrides," they say in unison.
" Really," I say, trying to work out if they are joking. " For your honeymoon?"
They grin, a " nelwy-married, we-don't-care-what-the-world-thinks," conspiratorial grin.
" It's so beautiful there," says the groom, " cycling will be amazing.  I've been training for ages."
" And how about you?" I ask, turning to the bride, " have you been training too."
" Oh," she says, " I cycled up the road by our house last week, it's quite steep. Anyway,I'll be fine, bought some padded knickers."
And arm- in -arm, the happy couple wander off to chat to other guests.
And perhaps that's why it was such a lovely wedding.
There was no trying to impress.
No trying to pretend this was some kind of whirlwind romance that had swept them both off their feet and knocked them sideways.  
Nothing to prove except that they love each other and want to quietly spend the rest of their lives together, padded knickers and all!

But it set me to thinking, pondering the question that Mia, our 16 year old daughter, often asks me.
" How do you know? How do you know if you've met the right person? How do you know when you've found The One? "
And I never know what to say.
Not really.
Because the truth is, the decision to share your life with someone, to marry them or stay with them for ever,  is always a bit of a gamble.
It's easy to get swept along with the excitement of a moment.
Easy to confuse passion with love and infatuation with the real thing.
Easy to believe that you can never feel this way again.
Easy to dream that you have fallen in love when you have really just fallen out of being alone.
Easy to hope that this is it.
Easy to get it wrong.
We've all been there : 
waiting heart-broken and hopeless for the phone to ring or a familiar footstep on the stair.
Wondering why or how or when it all went wrong.
Clinging onto to the shadow of a feeling that is no longer there because even the shadow of a feeling is better than no shadow at all.
Emotions are fickle and dreams all consuming.
But I don't want to tell my full-of-the-future-16 -year -old daughter, any of that.
I want to wrap her in a blanket of hopes and dreams and keep her warm with love and laughter.
" So?" she demands again, "How do you know when you've found The One?"
I try the simple answer: 
" you just do."
She gives me one of her disparaging looks.
 " That's not really an answer is it mum?" 
I laugh.
" I suppose not," I say, " but I think it's the truth. It's just that sometimes the truth is hidden under so many layers of emotion that it's hard to be sure."
" Great," says Mia, " so I will just have to guess.
Is that what you did, you and dad-guess?
 Did you give up your job and flat and your London life to go and be with him in California because you "guessed," it might be a good idea? "
I sense a note of slightly panicked cynicism creeping into her voice.
I hug her tight and stroke a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. 
" There was no guessing involved," I say comfortingly.
And suddenly I am transported back to LA airport, Ninesh and I sitting side by side on warm, plastic seats, cups of watery coffee in our hands, waiting for the last call for my flight home. 
We had spent just 2 weeks as a couple altogether, one week in England at Christmas and this last week at Easter in California.
And as we sat there, the cloud of separation hovering over us, Ninesh said:
" So I suppose this is it, we might as well get married."
And just then my flight was called and I stood up and spilt coffee all over my jeans and the floor.
And looking up at Ninesh I realised that I wasn't flying home, I was flying away from home.
And I nodded and said:
 " I suppose we might as well."

" I think Mia, "  I say, " that you truly do " just know." But there is a reason for why.
 It's about listening to your heart. 
Not the butterfly fluttering, breath-stopping, million-mile-an-hour beating part of your heart
But the so-far-down-you-hardly-notice-it - part.
The part of your heart that always feels a little bit empty.
Only when you meet the right person, it doesn't feel empty anymore.
It's like you've found the piece of the puzzle that you didn't even know was missing.
And that's how you know you've found The One."
I feel triumphant in my poeticness.
But Mia raises an eyebrow and glances at her phone.
" Puzzles are really boring," she says, " and they take ages to finish. Anyway, can I go to a party on Tuesday?  It'll probably be full of pieces from the wrong puzzle but it might have good music."

And I think of our friends cycling through the first weeks of their marriage.
I think of Mia dancing through the beginning of her search for The One.
I think of Ninesh and me, still fitting together the  pieces of our never-ending puzzle of togetherness.
And I know that whoever The One is and however long it takes you to find them, it will always have been worth the journey.
Even if you do have to buy a pair of padded knickers to get there.

Surviving teenage partying.

They're  the words all parents  dread hearing from their teenagers.
The words you know are coming but keep hoping it won't be yet.
Perhaps not until next year or maybe the year after that.
Those 5 small words:
" Can I have a party?."
And you stand, gazing at your tiny house, your shiny wooden floors, the clean surfaces in your kitchen and with every nerve in your body, you want to shout out
"NO."
But there is an inevitable, rite-of-passageness about teenage partying.
And probably, a bit like your first drink, your first day of work, your first time......It is best to get it over with.
I look dubiously at almost 15 year old Joss, with his high hair and his trendy Topman clothes. and suddenly I find myself missing the tiny version of him who used to toddle around the garden chasing butterflies. 

Joss in New York

And suddenly I find myself missing the tiny version of him who used to toddle around the garden chasing butterflies. 
Missing the time when the most exciting thing he wanted to do was pull the cat's tail.
Missing the days When teenager-hood was still a whole decade of sleepless nights away
" I'm not sure Joss," I say, playing for time, " when did you want to have it?" 
" This Saturday," he says, casually.
"But it's already Tuesday," I say, hearing the panic rising in my voice. " You won't have time to invite anyone."
" Oh, everyone can already come," he says, glancing at this phone.
" But we haven't said you can have a party yet.
" I know," says Joss, " but I invited everyone just in case. You said I might be able to have a party for my birthday and you know I can't have it on my actual birthday because everyone will be on holiday and next week there's already a party, so this Saturday is the only day left to have it."  
I am, as usual, floored by his certainty of his teenage logic.
Because it's true, we did say he might, just might, be able to have a birthday party. 
But we thought it would be in the holidays.
We thought we would have weeks to plan it all and mentally prepare ourselves.
Days to organise the best way for it to have no loud music, no alcohol, no cigarettes, 
" This Saturday's not really a good day," I say, " I'm out all day and dad's band has a gig and...."
But already I can hear my voice trailing into indecisiveness.. and at that moment all is lost.
That's the thing about conversations with teenagers - you must never, ever sound like you're not sure. 
Because while they might never listen to a word you say, they never miss the slightest hint of hesitation in your voice and  they will always pounce when they sense the chance of victory.
" It's fine," says Joss. "I'll get everything ready and I'll tell everyone not to be here until 7.30. You'll be back by then, won't you? Can you buy us some cider?"

" It was bound to happen?" say my mum and dad when I go round for a comforting cup of tea, " Remember your first party. Some of the guests stole all the pictures from the hall on their way out.?"
I make a mental note to take down all our pictures.
"Remember that party when people stole all the eggs from your mum and dad's fridge and had an egg fight in the garden," asks an old school friend when I tell him about the party. 
I make a mental note to take all the eggs out of the fridge and hide them in our bedroom.
" It was fine," says my sister, whose 16 year old daughter has just had a party, " the walls just needed a little bit of touching up afterwards." 
I make a mental note to cover the walls with bin liners.

Saturday morning arrives, bright and sunny.
Joss is lying, texting on the sofa, pyjamaed and bleary-eyed, as I get ready to go out.
" Right," I say, pulling on my jacket and trying hard not to sound like I am organising anything because, as Joss points out, that's very annoying  "Is there anything else I need to get?"
Joss looks up form his phone.
" Maybe some stuff for breakfast," he says. 
" I just offered to make you breakfast, " I say, glancing at the clock, " you said you didn't want any."
" Not for today," he says, " for tomorrow."
" We've got a packet of bagels," I say.
" Well one packet won't be enough," says Joss.
" What do you mean?" I ask, " is someone staying the night?"
" Everyone is," explains Joss, returning his eyes to his phone.
" Everyone," I say, swallowing hard and trying to sound calm. " About how many is everyone?"
" Oh not many," he says, "  only about 20, 25."
I gaze around our little house, that is just about big enough for a family of 4.
" Where is everyone going to sleep?" I ask.
Joss shrugs.
" In the garden or the shed or somewhere.  Could you get about 5 packets of bacon and lots of cereal."
And with that he goes up to his bedroom, closing his door firmly behind him in a non-negotiable sort of way.

And so it happened.
Saturday night arrived and the house and garden were full of raucous teenagers, drinking, shrieking, laughing, chatting, dancing and sometimes crying ( but that's a whole other blog ) with the music always being played just a little bit too loudly. 
And when the band all came back to ours for a drink in the early hours  after the gig, they found themselves clambering over the 20 or so teenagers bedded down for the night on our living room floor.
As it turns out, all our pictures were still here in the morning, the eggs remained whole and the walls were pretty much in tact.
As it turns out, our house is plenty big enough to sleep 20.
As it turns out, I  realise as I pick a stray beer bottle out of the bathtub, our house is quite a good size for teenage parties.
I only hope that Joss hasn't realised that too!

Partying in the garden

The absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes

We were at a wedding last weekend - seems to be the year for them.
Not a big meringue-dress, smart-car, complicated-seating-plan sort of wedding.
But a small, quiet celebration of two people's love for one another.
It was in Pallant House Art Gallery in Chichester and it felt very special.
A bit like Night in the Museum without the animals, dinosaurs and historic characters, we had a whole museum all to ourselves
After tea served from beautifully mismatched vintage cups and plates full of pastel iced cakes, we sat under the trees of the flagged courtyard, chatting and laughing until champagne and endless canapés were served in the gallery itself.
And as the notes of a gently strummed guitar wrapped themselves  around us, we wandered through the small, history infused rooms.
I am not usually good at art galleries or museums.
After one room, I find my thoughts drifting towards the cafe or the gift shop or...anywhere else.
But there is something magical when you are the only people there.
Suddenly you have a personal relationship with everything you are looking at. 

Shell - Sussie Macmurray

 I walked, alone and bare-footed  through the historical rooms full of antique furniture, old masterpieces and moder installations, or climbed the elegant, age old staircase made modern by a wall completely covered in mussel shells and velvet.
And  I couldn't  help thinking that everything I was looking at, knew I was there.
And since, without me, they would be completely unadmired, they must be pleased to  see me..
And as I left each empty room or hallway behind me, I wanted to turn and wave goodbye and say  how nice it was to meet  the picture in an old wooden frame or the piece of antique furniture........ or the ball dress made out of 10,000 balloons....

Balloon dress by Susie MacMurray

But despite being surrounded by priceless works of art and clichéd as it sounds, nothing could compare to the beauty of the  bride.
Because nothing can touch the beauty of happiness.
And as she stood, serene and beautiful in her simple 40's style dress, her sparkling eyes matching the deep blue of the the flowers she refused to put down ( hard to see in black and white! )

 I walked up to her.
" You look amazing," I said. " Your dress is perfect, the sun is shining and the food is delicious. Is it all as you dreamed it would be ?"
She smiled.
"Yes  it is, " she said,  "we just wanted to share today with our closest friends.
But can I tell you the story of my shoes."
I grinned.  
There is nothing I like more than collecting other people's stories.
" I would love to hear it," I said.
And so the bride began the story of " the absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes.
" You remember," she said, " how last time we met I was telling you that I had found everything, the dress, the flowers, the hair-do. And that the only thing I missing was the right pair of shoes?"
I nodded.
The search for the right pair of shoes had been long and, last time we met, fruitless.
" Well, in the end, I gave up.  I found some shoes that were OK, not perfect, but OK. And since there was only a week to go until the wedding and since I had hunted in every shoe shop in Chichester, Brighton and much of London, I figured they would just have to do.
It wasn't that I didn't like them.
It was just that they weren't quite right."
" Shoes are never easy," I said, supportively, " they are the glitch in every plan."
She laughed and carried on.
" So anyway, last week, with 2 days to go until the wedding, I was walking to the station from  a friend's house in Chichester, when I passed this tiny, very chaotic, second-hand shop.  Half the clothes were outside, hanging by the road.
And that's where I found them, on the pavement, the shoes I had been looking for, for all these weeks.
My perfect pair of shoes, waiting there beside the road.
They were the perfect colour, the perfect style and when I tried them on, they were the perfect fit."
We both looked down at her shoes and smiled.

" That's a lovely story," I said.
" But it's not finished yet," she said. " because when I took them off and went inside to pay, I noticed something else. The name inside the shoe, look."
And balancing on one leg, she pulled off a shoe.
Inside slightly worn but still clear was the word  " Candena."
" Is that your favourite shoe designer or something?" I asked.
" No," she said, " but it's an important name to me because it's my mum's name. I've never heard of anyone else called that. Who calls their daughter Candena!"  
Lovingly she slipped the shoe back on. 
" My mum's passed away," she said, her eyes glistening "and I know it sounds stupid and I know these shoes might not look special to anyone else, but it feels like they are her wedding present to me. Like somehow she is here , wishing me well."
I looked at the absolutely, completely, perfectly right pair of shoes. 
I looked at the absolutely, completely, perfectly beautiful bride.
" It doesn't sound stupid," I said, " it just sounds true."

And perhaps that's what made the artistic treasures of Pallant House so special that day.
It's not so much about how things look but about what they once meant or will mean to someone.
It's about the stories they are part of and the history they will still make.
Our past is what forms us.
And if life is about anything, it is about finding the absolutely, completely perfectly right pair of shoes when you least expect it.