The last of the falling leaves, in St Stephen’s Green

Sometimes I think about how sound travels. 

Of course I don’t have the first notion of how sound travels, but the fact that it does is a joy to me.  Right now I can hear the Friday evening traffic, a tap dripping in the kitchen, a siren, and the quiet clicks of this laptops’ keyboard.

I marvel at many things when I have time.

I love to think about our waterproof skin, and how we were all once unfertilised, microscopic eggs.  I love that my body moves without my consciousness getting involved, and isn’t it magical that when we sleep, we dream.  I love to think about my stomach digesting food and turning it into energy so that I can walk, chat and wave my arms up above my head.  I love how we invented music, and that we can read and write.  I love how it was our brains that invented the concept of reality. 

When I don’t have time, I get scared of things instead. 

I’m not sure if you can isolate one thing over another but this evening my current fears are:  this pandemic, capitalism, the menopause, grief, and getting old. 

One of the strangest phobias I have is of cotton wool.  Or, more specifically the sound of cotton wool when someone scrunches it.  If I’m around someone who is scrunching balls of cotton wool, I have to make my excuses and leave the room.  I hate that squeaky itchy sound it makes, and if it goes on for too long, I stop breathing.  Even typing about it now, on these very quiet laptop keys, makes me hold my breath, and I think it’s for the best if we change the subject.

I would like to reach a balance in my life, where I can marvel at the beauty and be scared of the things that frighten us with some sort of rationality and emotional stability.  Isn’t that what we all want, a balanced perception of our subjective experiences of life?  I’m concerned that my emotional reactions are out of balance and, on occasion inappropriate.

Exhibit One:  I’ve been very weepy this week; this was the weeping week. 

I cried after a semi-argument with a woman in the post office queue.  She thought I was too close to her and she wanted me to step backwards.  However, I couldn’t step backwards because then I would have been too near the man behind me. I tired to explain this conundrum to her, but she wasn’t very responsive.  She became very cross and shouted at me, and quite unexpectedly, I wept.

Then I made the cruel mistake of watching that new David Attenborough documentary and I suggest that you give it a miss. Of course David is wonderful, but there’s a very disturbing walrus scene that should best be avoided if you can.  Then as if that’s not enough, David goes on to explain how our species is coming to the end of its run here on the planet, and how destructive we’ve been to all forms of life while in charge. David gives us all a bit of hope at the end, with some suggestions how we can change the outcome, but by this time it was too late for me.

Then I cried because of Christmas, and because I miss my family, and because of all the changes and because of the last of the falling leaves, in St. Stephen’s Green.

All the same, you have to admit that tears are quite remarkable, aren’t they?  Imagine that we evolved with the ability to cry when we feel sad or afraid and I think that’s extraordinary.

It’s also incredible that our brains produce endorphins to allow us to cope with pain.   Our brains don’t want us to feel too much pain, so they have mechanisms to release chemicals into our bodies so that we experience pleasure instead.  Anyone who swims in the icy cold sea knows this to be true.  In order to deal with the cold water shock, the swimmer will experience an incredible sensation of wellness and happiness and bliss.  You genuinely believe you’re having a wonderful time.

Thank you brain, for happy endorphins.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could release them on command, instead of waiting for them to come in response to a harsh event.  Then we could turn them on during Attenborough’s horror show, enjoy them while people shout at us in queues, and just let them do their jobs when you hear that Christmas music unexpectedly.

So let’s embrace the menopause with curiosity instead of fear. Be grateful for the grief we feel, and thankful for the love that caused it. Let’s accept that politics has always been divisive, mean and unkind and let’s be gracious for the opportunity of growing old, with any wisdom that comes our way.

The cotton wool we’ll leave for another day.