Willowherb IV

Last day of September

13.16 To Leeds

Did you get that last text? says a woman across the aisle, very loudly into her mobile phone. The couple in the seats in front do not appear startled. An area of Manchester Victoria Station under development is crammed full of cranes and diggers of various sizes, yellow and red with names like Ultra Boom and Liebherr The sky's the limit, Easi Utilities and Speedy. Miles of blue plastic mesh form gentle barriers alongside the track as we head towards Rochdale. We pass Brewery Junction and the Sapphire Garage, the Sharp project (entrance next left via Thorp Road) and the train cleaning and servicing depot.
An announcement describes the train as an 'express' service which merely seems to mean it misses the first three stations, though it stops at a further seven en route for Leeds. It chugs along, noisy and lurchy, at its usual pace, proudly missing Moston, Mills Hill and Castleton.
The trees show areas of changing colour amongst the dusty green leaves of late summer, then the startling red of hawthorn berries.
A strange-looking man with a Frankenstein's monster haircut waits on the platform at Rochdale station, but evidently not for this train, somewhat to my relief.
So many other train journeys are woven into the experience of this one. Other September days, when the weather teetered on a knife edge between summer and autumn, the sky pale blue with fine-spun white cloud, at any moment ready to turn the sunshine hazy, the air cool. The camp young man in Next, where I purchased the only desirable item of clothing in the whole shop - a stripy tee shirt - using the gift card I was given when I left my job, complained of being indoors when the sun was shining. He said that yesterday he'd gone out in his sunglasses for a cigarette break, and it had gone all dull, but he was hoping the sun would be shining today when he got off work at 5.30. I hoped so too.

Stones Aberdaron Beach

Willowherb III

First week of September

Fireweed seed

Godspeed

Wobbly

I click 'new post' because I'm sure there's something I want to say. What can I say about the effects of trauma? What can I say without sharing details I don't want to put up here? About how things play over and over in your mind. About how the present trauma evokes the 26 year old one of my father's death. I can tell you about going into Manchester - a fairly simple trip, about forty minutes on a train, about fifteen on a tram - and feeling just wobbly; wobbled by inadvertently buying the wrong ticket, wobbled by the train being late, wobbled by all the people, and their faces and their voices, their number, their energy. Wobbled by my supervisor not opening the door until the third ring. All ready to cry at any moment, and jelly-legged once again. And sometimes waking up in the night and not being able to find my place in my own mind. Can I explain that? Not knowing what to think about, what I am thinking about, what I was last thinking about. How to be in this mind. Using all the relaxation techniques I know to stop thinking and just let be, and eventually soothing myself enough to sleep again. And the lure of alcohol when it is so hard to manage the fearfulness, the sense of danger even when you know there is no present danger. I who know so well the dead end of alcohol but keep heading off down it, longing for some kind of peace. Peace sometimes available at the allotment, sometimes on walks amongst the beautifully blooming heather, sometimes not.

Willowherb II

Third week of August

Over

G's son has pleaded guilty to manslaughter, and is subject to a hospital order, his actions said to have been 'driven by mental illness'. There is relief at knowing, and it being over at last. Great sadness, and renewed shock at some of the details that have emerged. Eight months since she died. Nothing can bring her back, but maybe her partner and family can have some peace now.