I Wrote 13 Pages And Then Set Fire To Them

I spent most of Sunday afternoon wrestling with a Virginia creeper. Not a sentence I expected to be writing this week but there we are.

If you're unfamiliar with Virginia creeper, it's one of those plants that starts off looking quite attractive and before you know it has completely taken over. Ours has gone charging off in all directions, merrily ignoring the boundaries of our garden and making itself at home elsewhere. Which, now I think about it, feels strangely relevant.

Paul was outside too, although not with the Virginia creeper. He's currently immersed in what seems to be a never-ending list of jobs on the Oldsmobile. For those of you who haven't heard me mention it before, it's a ‘new to us’ 76-year-old car that is currently occupying rather a lot of space in our lives because he wants to take Lu to her prom in it mid-July.

She's just finished her last exam, left school and is stepping into whatever comes next. Another one of those milestone moments that seems impossible when they're just 4 and starting reception class, and suddenly arrives before you've quite got your head around it.

Anyway, while he was tinkering with alternators and whatever else people tinker with when they're restoring ancient American cars, I was pulling weeds, cutting things back and generally trying to impose some sort of order on our garden. We're not natural gardeners.

Some people seem instinctively to know what should go where and how often it needs watering or pruning. Their borders look intentional, and their planting schemes appear to have been thought through. Ours is more of a "that looked nice at the garden centre" approach. Occasionally things thrive, occasionally they die and sometimes (like our Virginia Creeper) they take over the neighbourhood. Such is life.

By the end of the afternoon, I was covered in green bits, tired and, if I'm honest, emotionally drained. Not because of the gardening, that had actually helped. I've felt emotionally drained all week. It’s been one of those weeks where your brain keeps returning to the same thing whether you invite it back in or not. Just sitting there in the background like an open tab on your laptop that you haven't quite got round to closing.

I've been trying to understand something. Or perhaps more accurately, I've been trying to understand somebody. And I've finally realised that was probably the problem. Because some things simply aren't ours to understand.

Usually, if somebody wants you to understand their thinking, generally speaking they explain it. They have a conversation and tell you what happened from their point of view. They communicate their thoughts and feelings.

When none of those things happen, you're left trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. And no matter how many times you rearrange the pieces you've got, the picture never quite makes sense.

So, after I’d finished in the garden and Paul had gone upstairs for a well-earned sit down, I found myself at my desk with some sheets of A4 paper and a pencil. I wasn't planning to write a stream of consciousness, or journalling or trying to create content. I just felt like there was something that needed to come out.

Thirteen pages of A4 later I realised I was right.

Thirteen!

Which seems slightly excessive now I say it out loud. The funny thing was there weren't really any surprises in what I wrote. No dramatic revelations or sudden discoveries. I'd already cried, felt hurt, been angry etc the words on the page weren't new thoughts, they were thoughts I'd already had that had been circling around looking for somewhere to land.

What surprised me wasn't what came out. It was how much compassion was still there. Despite being hurt, disappointed and feeling misunderstood, there was still compassion, sadness, and love.

And perhaps that's what made the week harder. Life would be much simpler if things were black and white or all good or all bad. But they aren't. We're all just complicated humans carrying around our own stories, experiences, assumptions, and blind spots. Sometimes those stories line up but sometimes they don't.

As I kept writing, something else started becoming clearer. This whole situation hadn't happened because I'd done something awful (at least not in my eyes). It had happened because I'd made a decision that was right for me.

That's it.

I'd honoured my own boundaries, made a choice I could live with and acted in alignment with my values. The problem was that my decision didn't fit other people’s expectations.

Only I didn't know there were expectations. I didn't know I wasn’t dancing to their tune. I didn’t know the music was even playing! And somewhere along the way a narrative has been created in which I became the villain.

Now, years ago, that would have sent me straight into battle. I'd have wanted to defend myself. Explain myself, argue my case and prove my point. Because growing up, shouting was a language all of its own in our family, anger and arguments were familiar territory.

But as I sat there with thirteen pages of pencil scribbles spread across my very messy desk, I realised I didn't actually want to do any of that.

Not because I agreed with the narrative. I don't – far from it. Nor is it because I suddenly understood it, because I don’t. But I no longer feel responsible for carrying it.

When I'd finished writing, I put the pages into a metal candle holder thing that has spent most of its recent life doubling up as an ashtray for smoking guests and set fire to them. It felt a bit spiritual and a lot Funky Diva. As the pages burned, I played a song which felt entirely appropriate.

And as the paper curled up and disappeared, I found myself saying one word. Goodbye. Not to the people or even the situation. It was goodbye to the need to keep trying to understand something I was never meant to understand in the first place.

And that, I think, was the thing I really accepted on Sunday.

·You can't please everyone all of the time.

·You can make the best decision you know how to make.

·You can act with integrity.

·You can honour your truth.

And sometimes people will still be disappointed.

·Sometimes they may even misunderstand you.

·You can deeply care about somebody and still not give them what they want.

·You can hold boundaries and still be a good person.

·You can choose yourself and still be compassionate.

I've noticed this morning that my head feels quieter, the endless circling has eased. The need to keep revisiting the same questions has gone and the Virginia creeper is under control. For now. And whilst I suspect both will need revisiting at some point, today feels a little lighter than yesterday.