Still a winner - Shakespeare and me

Okay, so I ended up with a dismal showing in the Village Show Fruit, Flower & Veg competition. :(
I did not even place, in a single category. Not one out of four! Oh, well, heigh-ho, there's always next year.

And, it appears that poor ol' Will Shakespeare is being given a bit of a bashing these days too, with the release of yet another (YAWN!) conspiracy theory that "Shakespeare wasn't Shakespeare". I mean, really, why don't these people take up knitting or something! Find a hobby, get a life!

Thankfully, all else seems rosy in Shakespeareland, and my stock as a scholar of said Bard seems to finally (FINALLY, FINALLY!) be on the rise. As I type, I am dashing off to catch a train to London for one of three (!!) upcoming Shakespeare-centred job interviews.

More later, wish me luck!

Love Definitely

Today has to be my favo(u)rite Sunday of the year. Every year, the Sunday before Valentine’s Day, we have a “A Celebration and Thanksgiving for Marriage” service at St. Peter's.

Couples, particularly those who were married at St. Peter’s, are invited to “return to the scene of the crime” and recall their beautiful, blissful wedding days.

We all stand, and once again repeat our vows before God and to one another. *SIGH* 

Lovely.

Today’s service was especially poignant for me as it was a reminder to me of what it truly important in my life. The fact that after years of living woefully solitary lives, the DEB and I found each other, across space and time. The fact of our meeting and marrying is truly miraculous. And, that is well worth remembering.

Sometimes, this very important fact gets a little lost in the daily shuffle. There are times, in the day-to-day slog of trying to “make something happen” on this side of the Atlantic, that I find myself, well, in tears, frankly. Days when I think of how far I’ve come in my life, how hard I’ve worked/struggled/survived, and yet here I am feeling more of a “zero” than a “hero”.

In the past two and half years, I have struggled to get my writing career off the ground, and been rejected by more agents than I can count. I have applied for four (4) full-time Shakespeare lecturing jobs in a 50 mile radius, interviewed for two (2) of them, and turned-down by them all.

The latest blow came on Thursday:

Dear Dr. Smith-Howard,

Thank you very much for applying to the post in Shakespeare in the Department of… at … University.   I am very sorry to have to tell you that we were unable to short-list your application on this occasion.   We received a very large number of responses and the field was a truly extraordinarily strong one.   I would like to thank you for your application, however, and to say how much I appreciate your interest in the Department.  

With all good wishes,

Professor Blah-Blah-Blah

There was a moment, sitting, staring at my computer screen, poised to reply to this message, when I felt as if I were suddenly trapped in a scene from Lord of the Rings.

Allow me to explain.

There’s this bit in Lord of the Rings, I don’t know which one, where the character Smeagol/Gollum is having a debate with himself, or rather the two-sides of him are having an argument... “Kill the Hobbit!” the evil side of Smeagol hisses. “No, no! We love the Hobbit!” the good side pleads.

My internal ‘Bad Smeagol’ dangled a carrot before me: “You could send that cow a short and snarky reply. You’ve got nothing to lose. We’ll show her who is ‘truly extraordinary’!” While my good side begged: “No, no! That wouldn’t be nice or polite at all!”

Every molecule in my body wanted to type venom in an email, it was all I could do to step away from the computer…

It’s incredible how moments of disappointment can overshadow our lives. So much so that we can almost forget the positive, the good, the beautiful, the joyous and the wonderful that surrounds us each day.

Today, I received an email from reader who enjoys my column in Warwickshire Life magazine. The message was short, simple and sweet: “You have a great job!”

In its own way, this, too, was a wake-up call for me. A gentle reminder that it’s not all doom and gloom. Okay, I’d love it if my pay cheque from the magazine had a few more zeroes (noughts) on the end, but, the fact that I am getting paid to write all is a huge blessing!

It is too easy to look at life and lament the things we don’t have, or pine over the things that aren’t the way we’d like them to be. But, to borrow from Shakespeare, “that way, madness lies”. 

The key, I think, is thankfulness.

There was a couple scurrying into church this morning. The man, it seemed, was still getting dressed as they jumped from their car. As he fought with his tie, his wife huffed, rolled her eyes and stomped off without him. How ironic, to be behaving in such a way on route to a service where one of the scriptures to be read was: “Love is patient, love is kind…”

No doubt, by the end of the service that couple had made amends. But, it’s human nature, isn’t it? So easy to get caught up in the details, the minutiae, and to lose sight of why we’re here, and what really matters. Not jobs, or status, or success, being right or wrong, what others think of you, or having the last word.

What matters is Love, definitely.

Belated Thanks Giving


"O Lord that lends me life,
lend me a heart replete with thankfulness." – Henry VI

Thanksgiving took me almost completely by surprise this year. Even though I had stockpiled my tins Libby Pumpkin and Carnation condensed milk quite dutifully, I was caught unaware.

A rare and funny thing considering that Thanksgiving is an all-time favourite holiday of mine. The food, the colours, less hype than Christmas…

This year something changed. A change that was not due to my new location. An internal change.

I am not proud to say it, but I think it is hard to be thankful when life doesn’t seem to be going your way. And I realize it is always so much easier to see things from a “half empty” perspective.

Things just feel so sad right now, with Lucy being injured; and me still slowly, slowly recovering from my bout with flu. (Side note: I was fine before I had the Flu jab; and fell ill precisely seven days after having the job.)

Lucy’s surgery was a success, and she seems to be getting back to her old self. It’s awful to see her in pain, and it is going to be a long road to recovery for her. They say that pets are a good preparation for having children, as the level of responsibility can be just as high. Well, I can see how that works.

Lucy is going to need full-on care for the next 6 weeks. She will be unable to walk unassisted for that time period. That means for us, our holiday plans will need to abridged or augmented. Still, it’s a commitment we are happy and willing to make.

 Along with this very traumatic situation has been my own nearly month-long battle with the flu. I’m not one for just lying around at the best of times, and prolonged idleness makes me quite maudlin.

I find myself thinking far to deeply about things, and brooding about them: “Why are struggling so to find an agent for the cookbook?”, “Why am I even bothering trying to be a writer?”, “Maybe I should just give up and get a proper job?”

In my former life, I was an avid workaholic. Taking leave of that rat race was a joy, and I finally feel like I can breathe. But, it is so difficult when we live in a world that places value on what we do, as opposed to who we are.

I have applied for several teaching positions over the past several months, and have been rejected by every single one. Add those letters to the ones I have recently received from agents and publishers and the pile becomes quite considerable, indeed!

I was even turned down for a job in a local library for having “too much experience.” Is that possible?

Repeated rejection, flu symptoms, a poorly pooch, and rainy November days can really conspire against a girl.

The DEB tells me all the time that he is proud of me. I daren’t say “Proud of what?” He says he’s proud of me for “having a go,” daring to dream a dream, and pursue it with my whole heart.

Some days, I admire me, too. On others, I wonder why I bother getting out of bed. I feel like I am just drifting along, a boat without paddles or a sail.

Even my latest attempts at “doing good” have failed. I organized a charity sale here in Barford, and it was a huge, lamentable flop. If we had had a sale in downtown Manhattan like the one here in Barford, there would have a feeding frenzy. There would not have been a stitch of clothing left after the first half hour.

We had two pairs of Vera Wang shoes, brand new, never worn, each selling for less than $300.00. As a gal who likes a bargain, I thought the idea was heavenly. And apparently, according to The Sunday Times, the “Weekend Bargainista” hitting the second-hand sales is all the rage. In London. It takes a while for trendy to reach the countryside, apparently. Lesson learned.

And that is what this time feels like most of all. A time for lessons. Figuring out who I am, and what I want with and from this life. Pupils are rarely thankful for lessons.

Still, a week late, here I am giving thanks. I am mindful that in the midst of this inertia and seeming inactivity, I have much for which I am thankful. Not least the love that surrounds me on every side.

Post script

Our menu for Thanksgiving dinner last week: Southern fried chicken, succotash, sweet potatoes, stuffing and gravy. Pumpkin pie and ice cream.

Giving thanks

Yesterday was Thanksgiving – the quintessential American holiday. My favorite holiday, in fact. I love its autumnal colo(u)rs, its food, and its focus on gratitude. I did not miss being in the US yesterday, but I was very thankful right here, where I am.

The day began with a sound knock on our door. Parcel Force had arrived with a HUGE package. My mother, god bless 'er, sent over a wildly extravagant Thanksgiving care-package from America. I’m not kidding; there can be no doubt from whence I get my “champagne tastes”. She really outdid herself this time – nearly surpassing the Christmas package I received from her while I was living in London during my undergraduate Junior Year Abroad.

That Christmas my mother sent a 10lb smoked turkey and a homemade lemon pound cake from America, hand-delivered to me by childhood BFF (Best Friend Forever)! Now that is a care-package. My poor friend had to wrestle a 10lb turkey and a lemon pound cake as carry-on luggage through Customs on both sides of the Atlantic. You’d never get away with such shenanigan now, that’s for sure!

My mother is a bit more restrained these days, but not by much. This time, via Parcel Force, she sent two, whole, smoked pheasants from Vermont, Canadian ham, fruitcake, freshly baked Stollen, Christmas pudding, and an array of Tipton’s sauces. Bless her, I have tried to explain, but she fails to listen/accept, that I live in the land of freshly killed pheasants and homemade Christmas pudding; and Tipton’s sauces are available at my local Sainsbury’s. But, as they say, it’s the thought that counts, and what a dear thought it was.

Thankfully, the early parcel arrival helped me to build up enough steam to make it to Morning Prayer at St. Peter’s -- an ordinary event for a Thursday in Barford, but one that held special significance for me yesterday.

As thankful as I am for this new and amazing life, I must confess that I spent most of yesterday in a rather low and melancholy mood. We have guests coming on Saturday for a Thanksgiving Feast—more on that later—and so I busied myself by finally tackling the boxes of clothes that have long overrun the guest bedroom. Luckily, it was also collection day for clothing donations for the Warwickshire & Northamptonshire Helicopter Ambulance unit, so a good old sort out was in order.

For some reason, facing my wardrobe yesterday was like reading through old love letters, or rummaging through old family photographs.  Trouser suits. Skirt suits. Silk shirts. Leather bags. Suede boots that would make Sarah Palin weep. Ann Taylor this, Anthropologie, that.  J. Crew for days. Fragments of my former, sassy, New York, “diva professor” life. 

I picked up a slinky, black, schoolgirl-style jumper dress that I have yet to even wear; I looked at it longingly, hoping, praying it will still fit. My life, before I discovered British carbs. At my smallest, last year, I was a size 0. Those days are long gone.  I stopped, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and what I saw was a chunky, little, Warwickshire hausfrau in comfortable sweats and wild hair. What’s happened to me?

As you can imagine, this line of thinking only led to a larger, more pathetic re-evaluation of my life in general. “What are you doing?” I asked myself aloud. “Get a job, get a life!” I barked at the woman in the mirror.  “I’m doing the best I can,” was her weak response.

One of my very best friends, another sassy New York diva (she would probably say “the” sassy New York diva) left New York two years ago, and now lives in Hong Kong. She recently described to me a scene similar to the one I had, and my advice to her at that time was short, snappy, tough-love: “You’ve got a great life. Get over yourself!” The truth is, leaving the paying, professional world behind to follow your heart and your dreams is actually quite tough. And it didn’t really dawn on me until now. I owed her an apology. So I dropped her an email and said:

You realize, as always, I am about six months behind you. It is slowly sinking into my rather thick skull that my world now revolves around Sainsbury’s, my BBC Good Food Guide, creative ways of making dinner, laundry, pet food, and the Barford W.I. Who have I become? Who am I kidding? I'm still waiting to have the last laugh. But, maybe the joke's on me.  I miss who we were. I miss dressing up for work.

She’s away on holiday, so I’ll have to wait for her reply. In the meantime, I have treated myself to my own short, snappy, tough-love: “If you love that cashmere sweater dress – put it on!” and so, I did. I went on: “Listen. You made the decision to leave the workaday world, so live with it. Now, you work for me!”

I threw off my sweats, brushed my hair, squeezed myself into my grey cashmere sweater dress, and felt so much better! Okay, I work from home. I’m trying to build a career as a freelance writer, and that is work. It is just as much work as my old, “sassy suit” job in New York. Sure, it pays a whole lot less, well, okay, it doesn’t pay anything yet, but at least this time, it’s about me and for me. And for that, I am truly thankful.