I’ve been delaying this first post for the longest time. The first writing of any new project is often a massive headache. But this has been something else.
Since winding up my long-running blog Wyrd Words & Effigies, there’s been an overwhelming feeling of paralysis, an uncertainty of what I should and shouldn’t write about. I’m used to being the most open of books, so this has been the most humungous mind-fuck.
The thing is, a person became uncomfortably obsessed with WW&E, and while I thought it didn’t bother me, it soon became apparent that it very much did. But how do you tell someone that them reading your blog makes you unhappy? I’d become incredibly unsettled when this person would stand before me and read back things I’d written. I’d feel especially uneasy when he recited my sexual encounters. So, what had been my sacred space for going on ten years became somewhere that made me feel, for want of a better word, sick to my stomach.
As well as the above (which is more than enough), there’s been the rather significant matter of time. I used to be so deliciously oblivious to the passing of it. I had what C.K. William calls a ‘benign indifference.’ In years gone by, I rarely thought all that deeply about my age or considered myself ‘an actual grown-up.’ (For instance, I don’t drive and find it ridiculously impressive when someone my age or younger does.) I was excellent at living in the moment when it came to my creative work and was so productive the thought irritates me (‘cos I want some of it back).
But, pressured by my obsession with productivity, I idiotically deep-dived into a sea of literature exploring the finality of time (Oliver Burkeman, I’m scowling at you in particular). When I re-surfaced, I was in full existential crisis mode.
Watching my daughter toy with her wobbly teeth and know that at school, they will be teaching her how to turn on and log into a computer (which I don’t think is ok at five years old) makes me painfully aware of how fast time is going by. And my goodness, this awareness is also highly efficient at paralysing me from getting shit done.
I’ve been questioning my work in ways I’ve never done before. When I embark on something, be it a poem, blog post, story or even just a goddamn social media post, inside my head, there’s a voice screaming, ‘BUT IS THIS WORTH SPENDING TIME ON? WHAT ABOUT ALL THE OTHER PROJECTS YOU HAVE LINED UP? WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO GET YOUR TIME?’ Another voice joins the diabolical chorus, asking me, ‘What’s the point? What’s the point of anything you do?’ What’s the point of you?’ Then, of course, there are the thoughts of that person finding what I’ve written and reading it, which has me feeling all the fury and distress.
Before long, everything gets too loud in my head. I’m as overwhelmed as is possible to be; nothing ends up getting done, and my mood, which may have previously been stable and excited about moving forward with my life’s purpose, plummets to depths that can feel unreachable. It’s a good job I’m not fainthearted; else there would be no way I could drag my mood back up and revive it.
***
It was my 37th birthday the day before the mist came, and I happened to wake up depressed. I’d woken up depressed the year before and the year before that too. I’ve probably woken up depressed more times on my birthday than not. But at some point during the day, in my ‘half-there’ state, I noticed the weather forecast announcing there would be mist the following day, and my being didn’t feel quite as heavy.
Knowing it was a short while until Autumn would make her presence felt and the spider webs would be bountiful, the evening of my 37th year wasn’t spent in bed, as I’d predicted on first waking up. Instead, it was spent in the company of family and a cheekily sweet curry.
I woke up the following day and yanked back the curtains to see if the mist had arrived. It had and was tantalisingly thick. Depression tried to get a claw in, but after almost letting it hook me, I got up and got out.
Spider webs greeted me like gifts, beautifying the grass and garden hedge. As I walked to the spartan woodland on the edge of the industrial town I currently ‘exist’ in, I eyed every web and could almost almost ignore the cars burning past me and the shambling school kids suckered to their phones.
***
September is the month of spiders, with the spiders that hatched in Spring finally grown up enough to build their own webs, so web weaving is in full swing. In the UK, there are 650 species of spider, with the most enormous one living in my mother’s kitchen.
Even at the grand old age of 37, I still think, ‘How can there be so many?! And how do they create such intricate work OVERNIGHT?’ It’s the same every year. My awe never dies.
In the humble woodland, webs were everywhere, and I was soon blissed out on spider silk and mist. There’s little that’s quite so mesmeric or as humbling as studying a web. Sadly, my awe was short-lived, for though nature gives and gives and gives, she also takes, and in this instance, the takeaway was my blood and patience. A band of mosquitoes found me and left me raking at countless bites.
As I stalked home, the sun was burning up the mist, and the spider webs were ghosting away. Later on, as I was bemoaning the bites blossoming on my thighs, my dad told me he never saw mosquitoes as a kid. Worrying thought.
September is a month of new beginnings for spiders and me. My short walk the other day helped me find what it took to start weaving wyrd words again, and though it took me a few days to get this done, I’m finding my rhythm again; I’m back in touch with my nature.
A Wyrd Of Her Own 