A little darkness

I’m borrowing this one from yesterday, really. But I’ll no doubt be able to experience it again in another half an hour anyway. It’s that final pottering and turning off of lights, closing down the home for another day. And what makes it easier? Low light.

If you’re at the tail end of the day, why do the final before bed stuff in maximum light? When you’re at home, somewhere you can pretty much work your way round by touch anyway, coming a little closer to this by gradually turning off the lights is a lovely way to wind down.

The room feels different this way. You don’t need to see everything to do the things you do every day – whether that’s setting someone’s place for breakfast, rescuing a few toys, or simply putting all the ‘damage’ in one pile for the next day.

I tend to take this a bit further. If I walk into a room, and can see enough from the hall light, I tend not to put any extra lights on. (This skill can be honed further by putting away clothes in someone’s room when they’re sleeping.) It’s not that I wander from room to room in darkness – it’s just that reducing light levels can be very soothing.

Many moons ago, I was a volunteer at a school for the blind. It only took to day 2 for me to realise ways in which the kids there were ahead of me. Sledging by moonlight was one of them – it was no different for them than doing so by day. In fact, they had the advantage, because their watches could help them tell the time in the dark, whereas mine couldn’t.

Power cut? No problem. They wandered through, not because of the dark, but because of other people’s racket at being suddenly stuck in the dark. Their confidence, when others were unsure what to do, was strangely compelling.

Sometimes I would ‘try out’ their situations: seeing if I could wash my hair without once opening my eyes. (Try it. Finding the shampoo, working out how much you have in your hand…harder than you think.) Could I walk straight along a path in the dark? It was a way of empathising, I guess, as well as familiarising myself with their world.

These days, I can still bump into things in my own home, if it’s totally dark. But a little darkness – that’s manageable. When you’re tired, and your eyes are closing, you can relax in lower light. And at this time of year, operating in lower light conditions, it’s a relief to lower the lights at an ‘appropriate’ time.

You don’t need to go around and say goodnight to every Jim Bob that happens to be around. But if bedtime routines work for wee ones, they have their benefits for grownups too. Just put the light out on your way out, would you?

Half way

Not in the month – it’s the 26th November already. If I’m feeling confident, I could say I’m cruising my way to filling the box of delights, and putting the top on. But half way is all about the route to school pick up, and the point that reassures – in lots of ways.

The notion is, I walk to school pick up. Exercise for me, fresh air, clear the head, that kind of thing. Sometimes I set off on time, sometimes I don’t. So the first half of the walk is usually head down and motor. Obviously stop for reversing cars and large buses, but try and get some way into the walk, at speed.

So far, so many calories burned. (I can live in hope.) But then I reach the mid-way point on the walk. It’s half way through the (official) time it takes me to walk, and it’s usually the point I can bring out the tea flask, have a swig, check how I’m doing for time.

It helps that I do this at a point where I get a nice view of the Edinburgh skyline. Close to gardens with roses to sniff, in season. At a large road junction, so it feels half-way. And where I find I’m doing OK for time, I can ramp back the speed of walking for the next bit.

It’s not about glass half full vs. glass half empty. Sometimes, all you need to know is that you’re on track. You’re making progress. Just do the same again, and you’ll be there.

Back in the days of secondary school, one of my form tutors had a simple phrase he would utter when taking register for Wednesday afternoon. ‘Top of the hill.’ This meant that he had gone half way through the school week (ie Monday morning to Wednesday lunchtime), and it was all down hill from there.

I worked out today that half way on my walking route is also about half way through my waking day (from alarm clock through to lights out, that is. I don’t claim to be awake all the rest of the time necessarily.). So half way in more senses than one.

And in writing terms, half way may be enough. If I provide the route, if I suggest a pace, even offer a companion to walk beside…hopefully you’ll meet me at that point. And continue the journey yourself.

Musical chairs

Sometimes it takes something small to set larger things in motion. Anticipating visitors, we do a bit of reorganising of the sitting room.

Then we remember that we have a guest over Hogmanay. So we do a bit of moving things round to allow for that too, now we’ve started.

Then we remember that we’re giving up our room for our guest…so we move some stuff up into the attic.

So far so good.

We’ve been in this flat some time. Several things happen as a result of this:
A) various things have their place, and that works fine.

B) Other things have a place too, and it works kind of OK. C) Further things get dumped in different rooms as a result of …well, living.

But what we forget is D: move things around a bit and get some new ideas.

The space feels different – and so we start using it differently. It’s not rocket science, but it works.

Except that, having been here some time, that’s as good as moving, really – a new perspective on how life works day to day, what we need, where we need it.

A further step: we start to question what we do need. That’s no bad thing either.

The point behind musical chairs is that one person ends up the winner, when all the chairs have been taken away.

In the game we’re playing right now, we gain a new space every time. And we
re-experience our home: a box of delights in its own right.

Doc’ ‘n’ roll

Having confirmed my love of staying in, in yesterday’s post, it’ll come as no surprise that TV is part of the picture. Except. Except. Evenings are actually quite full already.

Washing, dishes, prepping for the next day, trying to push back the waves of paper that come into the house. While someone else is working, working, and…probably catching up with some work. As am I, on occasion.

So when you finally do get to see some TV, it needs to fit in. Not too long, or we risk falling asleep or bailing out before we start. What does that leave you with? The classic 42 minute drama (hello Dr Who et al, in season). And documentaries.

Documentaries are why BBC4 exists, essentially. And thank goodness they do. They may sometimes be heavy on effects, ‘journey of discovery’ and so on. But truly great ones are astonishing.

Think Jim Al-Khalili explaining electricity, via frogs and electrodes, showering sparks, and, finally, sitting (apparently) on top of a pylon, in a metal vest, seemingly becoming a bit like a substation. And living to tell the tale.

Another favourite, in this household at any rate, is building-related programmes. Biggest this. Deepest that. Greatest known load of concrete…and so on.

But they are good, even for those who are less au fait with bending moments. At times, they throw out amazing stats that make you spool back to check what you’re actually hearing.

Because documentaries are ideal catch-up fodder. You might not check the schedules, see a documentary coming up, and change your evening arrangement. But want something to wind down to before bedtime? iPlayer? Yes, thanks.

Down tools

Perhaps I should begin with the candles. To light them, to pass my hands over them, and say a blessing. To cover my hair, and to declare ‘Shabbat Shalom’. Because I understand why Friday night is a thing of wonder, a night when rest begins, when time stretches into another day that also has its peace.

My Friday nights are not about dancing shoes, pubs, chill-inducing party clothes. They are about rest, stopping, anticipating a further rest the next day. They are about pulling back to the home, the warmth, the relief. I may not be cooking cholent, but Friday night meals are, at best, the ones that are short on effort and long on flavour.

In my teens, Friday nights were bath night – for me. (I did wash on other days of the week, I assure you.) But with time ahead, Friday night was the night to commandeer the bathroom, ideally for an hour, to read, to grow wrinkly and steam a little more and then top up the bath again.

On warmer nights, I’d prop open the window a little too, hearing the brass band practise in the little centre across the park from us. I’d make sure not to drop the book in the bath, though I’m sure the pages crinkled a little where I held onto them.

Later, in my half year of waitressing straight after leaving school, I would just about make it to the pub…with my parents. And our neighbours. They’d bring their dog. You could order a cup of tea. Not so rock and roll.

We could probably have just holed up in their kitchen, or ours, but it became a precursor to going home and watching Have I Got News For You. That need for comedy, release of tension, mocking the seriousness of our weeks – let alone those of the politicians.

In my days at the office full-time, I’d make my excuses when others were heading to the pub. Home, weary, looking for space without emails, maybe even the place to myself if I got home first. The night to kick back, eat whenever, linger at the table, watch some QI later, and laugh our way into the weekend.

Now, even though the rhythm of the days has changed, Friday nights are still anticipated. An early easy tea for one. A grownups meal later. There might be vegetables. There might be spices. There will hopefully be a cold beer too.

Friday night. It’s a small, perfectly formed box of delights all in itself. Let there be food. Let there be laughter too, where possible. And above all, let there be rest.