The Unknown

Two mornings ago I woke up to a headache that thrummed like a bass guitar and bones that ached like a ninety year old's - the dreaded lergy had hit. After dragging myself out of bed, making myself breakfast and eating it in bed, I couln't quite face opening the curtains so dived back under the duvet for some more 'rest' (Does something sound different? Perhaps being able to do this? Yup, Andy and the girls had driven to his parents in Basingstoke the previous night so I was home alone). I was meant to be going to London to run a creative writing workshop at one of CRISIS's Christmas homeless shelters and I knew how annoyed I'd be with myself if I didn't make it, lergy or no lergy. So I forced myself into the shower, dragged a brush through my hair, drank a lemsip and ordered a taxi to the station.

Walking through Finsbury Park towards the shelter I was completely and utterly absorbed and fascinated by my surroundings. I've lived in London before but I think being ensconced in small-town, parrochial Godmanchester for 3 years is long enough to make me forget what a colourful melting pot our capital city is. On my 15 minute walk from the station, the only time I heard English being spoken was when I stopped to buy some food in a cafe. Unknown languages and dialects were buzzing through streets awash with halal butchers, tacky fashion shops with skinny jeans pulled over mannaquin legs, men with chunky gold rings standing on corners talking in conspiratorial tones and window displays filled with tinsel and sequined stilettos. My hammering morning head suddenly felt like a long time ago and I could feel my senses being stimulated. This is what makes me feel alive, being somewhere different, experiencing something new. Okay, I was only in Finsbury Park, hardly a million miles away or anywhere that exciting, but experiencing the pulse of city life ennervates and inspires me.

Which leads me to my next point...I don't have to be in a city to feel this. I don't have to be somewhere that nobody is speaking English or even somewhere I've never been before, but at the moment I must confess it seems like I need to be away from home. What I desperately don't want is to start associating insomnia to where we live and to my home; my room. My previous night of being alone, in the stillness, I found myself taking in small details of our home: the beautifully emboidered Guatemalan huipil hanging on the wall; the shadow that is cast from the long leaves of the spider plant in our bedroom; the pretty little dresses hanging on a wooden rail in Maya's room; the downstairs shelves dripping with glorious books...and I thought, this is my life. This is our life that we have created for ourselves, first as individuals, then as a couple and now as a family. And I am so, SO lucky to have this. But my point is this: all these posessions are just that - material possessions. I feel comforted looking at them because they give me a sense of history and security, but do these objects really make me happy? Do they help me sleep? No.

The last two nights I've slept at my parents in law's house and then my brother in law's house and I know it's still very early days away from home, but both mornings I have got out bed and the first thing I've thought is yes, I'm alright. I've slept enough. And this, even with Maya having two over-excited, over-tired Christmas tantrums in the early hours and sleeping in much smaller beds than I'm used to. Because, you see, what I'm used to isn't necessarily what I need. I've always thrived on the unknown. My whole life I've been driven by the excitement of not knowing what's around the next corner. I know that just because the minutes of one day tick into the minutes of a new day, turning it into a new year, this can't guarentee any huge changes, no matter how many new year's resolutions I make. But it can make me feel hopeful, and here's the ingredients I hope for, for 2009: a sprinkling of adventure, a handful of surprises and a great dollop of the unknown.