Deep Clean Summer

I can hear somebody chainsawing up wood, in a garden across the street from my studio. I have my window open, the revving motor transporting me back to afternoons hearing my dad sawing wood up in our yard, while I languished inside with the zero responsibilities of childhood. 

Here the day is warm. A laburnum tree wavers; hollyhocks breath lightly. A dog-rose beneath them holds on to its final ballerina-pink flower. The town is quiet, pigeon coos more prominent than traffic or pacing feet.

I have been trying to start writing a book. I take my pen to my moleskin. Every day it hovers there, confused. The themes that arise this morning are female body hair, and my semi-cured anxious attachment style. I cannot for the life of me work out how to format, where to begin, how to move it on from snippet after snippet of jangling thoughts on journal pages. I am now on my third journal pertaining to this novel (or poetry collection, or illustrated memoir, or possibly even album of songs). It feels limitless and undefined. One minute I am eloquent, the next I have nothing to say. The fog of summer is upon me for sure, a weightiness of muggy days and sweaty sleep. 

Yesterday I carried our Henry hoover upstairs and set about deep-cleaning my spider-strewn bedroom. A washing up bowl of soapy water, a bottle of chemical-blue Windowlene for the mirrors. I bagged up small clothes for a friend with a new baby - a wrench to see how quickly Holden has grown out of a favourite oatmeal cardigan and tiny socks. A wrench to feel the time has come to pass on to someone who now holds the miracle of brand new life! I folded up unloved toys for the charity shop, re-hung my dresses and cleared five bags of crap out of my living space, then vacuumed ‘til it felt like I’d just arrived in the house again. Afterwards I was tired, and wished I’d spent my childfree hours sat in a chair reading a magazine. But when I returned in the evening to put Holden to bed I couldn’t stop looking around, reviewing the new space, marvelling at cleanliness. I felt so calm. The gaps between furniture where Jim Reeves records and my dirty running kit had gathered were now empty. Maybe this is the material equivalent to a daily meditation practice for your mind. 

Each morning I wake up and try and write something. I channel ancestors looking for ways in, I rename the blog and reframe the narrative. Showing up each day in small moments is all I can do for now, as I try and birth something into the world again.