Brassicas, netted

I’m one of the many people who has been gradually giving home and garden a glow-up while COVID-19 does weird things to the shape and content of our lives. Those are my brassicas, being shielded from the attentions of Cabbage White butterflies (there’s a Sacrificial Broccoli elsewhere for them to feast upon, don’t worry).

It’s not a new journey for me, the growing of things and the honing of home, although it is, perhaps, one to which I haven’t typically given quite such frequent attention. It feels more like a coming home, though.

I was fortunate enough to grow up with parents who grew a good chunk of the fruit and veg we ate, and I dug out and created herb and veg patches in a previous house, too, so while this year has seen the energy go that way, these are plans I already had. I doubt I’ll take on an allotment – I’ve a feeling that that would be too much of a time and volume commitment for the vast majority of a normal year – but I do get a huge amount from growing things on even a small scale.

It’s not about eventually ending up with sprouts, broccoli, squash and courgette, though.

It’s about connecting with the earth and with the food that I eat more closely. There’s no berry sweeter than the one you grew yourself and picked a moment ago, and there’s no shorter food mileage, too. You can’t get closer to the land than when you’ve got a good chunk of it in your fingernails and you’re figuring out what grows well in your little corner of it.

It’s about nurturing something. Trying things and seeing what works. Being patient and putting in consistent effort rather than seeking quick results. In growing as in fitness, there’s no shortcut that’s worth the taking. You can force things a little bit, extend the growing season a touch, grow under glass if your climate isn’t quite right for things, maybe. But you can’t really shuffle nature’s timetable all that much, and you have to go to considerable effort to grow things that aren’t cool with your climate and soil. Plants have preferences of climate, soil, light, water levels and so on, and they grow in their own time. Keep an eye on them, tend them, and if something isn’t working, try a different thing.

It’s about going with the flow. So much of gardening is entirely down to something you can’t control: the weather. You have to let go of the specifics – you can’t decide in April that you want to harvest x amount of y produce in August and have that happen. You can look at what you enjoy eating and what grows well in your soil, light conditions, and area, and give it a reasonable go. But you can’t do much about an unexpected late frost, or a particularly dry May, or an especially wet June, and they’ll all affect your plants. So, growing things is a continual lesson in accepting what you can’t change, adjusting course if necessary, being philosophical if things don’t turn out quite as you hoped, and having the resilience to try again.

Sometimes, it just ain’t a good tomato year.

And then there’s the ‘what the heck is behind that?’ stuff. Sometimes, you try it by the book, by a different book, by a YouTube channel, and by feel and you still just can’t get a particular plant to grow. Ain’t happening. Your neighbour can, but you? That thing is noping out of wherever you put it. Never mind, there are thousands of others that you can try, and your neighbour is probably wondering how come your rosemary looks so enthusiastic when theirs doesn’t.

Let it go, and focus on what you can actually help to thrive – because that’s where you can thrive, too.


"Shadows of a Sunburnt Mind" by cogdogblog is licensed under CC0 1.0

Abruptly, the shadows appeared.

Yesterday, the ghost of a past relationship came to haunt me from an unexpected direction. It’s the only relationship I’ve had where I feel it ended badly – however unpleasant endings are, I’ve usually felt that either things were mutual or that everything possible was done on both sides before calling it quits. I’d certainly have no qualms about running into exes – they’re all lovely people. But this one instance…

It’s fascinating the way that past pain you thought you’d dealt with still has the power to side-swipe you. I think in this case, the association of something that has been so wonderfully and unequivocally positive with one of the most difficult experiences of my life was so dissonant that it knocked me for six. Sleep lost, floods of tears – those still haven’t stopped – wondering if I’ll even be able to continue with the positive thing – the whole woeparty shebang.

All those feelings of realising I clearly hadn’t been as important to someone I loved as I had thought came crashing back. All the pain that was repeatedly poked as they ghosted me but tried to carve a friendship with my partner, putting everyone in a difficult position. All the things I should have seen sooner, the questions I should have asked, the ways I was misled, the inability to talk things through with a ghost. I felt stupid for trusting where I should have questioned, for not seeing what was hidden from me, and I felt unchosen all over again.

I didn’t handle it perfectly, I know that they also were hurting terribly, and I do have regrets, but I did think that I had learned from the experience and that it didn’t still have power over me. I guess the pit that I’ve been in since the conversation that brought it all back (which, incidentally, was a model of transparency and very much appreciated by me – I’d always rather know the difficult stuff than not – just tough territory) says I have more lessons to learn and more shadows to face.

I suppose there is always more to learn about ourselves, and plants grow back stronger when they’re cut. Time to get my emotional game face on and figure out which bits of my psyche are about to grow new shoots.

Lockdown and Flow

One of the things that the COVID-19 Lockdown is really highlighting for me is the way energy and mood – they’re connected, I think – ebb and flow.

After a super-productive and energised day yesterday, today I have been mostly feeling… flat. Not sad, but glum. There’s no particular trigger for it, but there is a general background of racial injustices being brought – once more, thanks to the persistence of Black Lives Matter activists – to the forefront of thinking, and of living a pandemic and all the associated worry, concern, and just extra thinking that that brings. Who else here is missing just… deciding to go wander around an art gallery and being able to do that, without worrying about what the safest way to get there would be, whether such a trip would be irresponsible, and when it might even be open?

And, of course, there’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes from going months without being able to so much as hug your partner and friends, or even, really, spend more than a couple of hours talking with them because no-one has the patience for Zoom calls longer than that. Even now we’re able to see people outdoors and can in theory use the bathroom if needed (Imagine a senior government minister having to clarify that a trip to your friend’s bathroom is acceptable, if it’s really necessary and if said bathroom is properly wiped down afterwards and then you go back to socially distancing in their garden. 2020 is wild.), we tend to keep visits short-ish because we all feel funny about it because other people’s houses remain otherwise off limits.

There are day-to-day niggles, things I’m waiting on or hoping for that haven’t happened yet, and things that are waiting on me that I haven’t got to yet (I’m sorry, seedlings – the weather has been awful and I’m a fair weather gardener. I promise I’ll take up that turf and give you a proper veg patch soon.). There are myriad reasons and no specific causes for this particular glum.

I’m actually content with the work I’ve done and the changes I’ve made during Lockdown, both internal and external. My home office is looking much better, and so is my garden. I’m feeling physically stronger and fitter than ever thanks to my amazing personal trainer. I’ve kept my professional skills sharp with some courses, and I’ve revisited and refreshed my career goals. I’ve felt some huge positive shifts in my personal growth and mindset. There’s plenty more to do on each of those things, but I’m seeing the things I’d still like to get to as iterative improvements rather than as additional pressures. I’ve put in both literal and figurative spadework and I’m genuinely feeling the journey.

Just, sometimes, you’re in ebb rather than flow.

And that’s normal. Not the New Normal we’re all talking about these last few months.

Just… normal. Human.

Sometimes we are concerned that glum feelings should be fixed, when really, they should simply be felt. Look for correlation and causation, sure, but they’re signposts rather than encyclopedia: don’t spend forever trying to read them.

Feel the feeling, take the lesson if there is one, and move on.

You’re 60% water; flow.

Writing Rhythms & Lockdown

I’ve been reflecting recently (who hasn’t?) about the various ways I’ve written out my world over the years. I know, this blog is sparse – more so, if truth be told, than was originally the case, as Past Cat quietly pruned away things that felt just a little too vulnerable and left only those things that felt the most important, for self and/or others. It’s also one of several I’ve had over the years since 2002, when I cobbled together a simple HTML site and did the daily blogging thing that was so common at the time – moving to Geeklog when that was what those of us in tech industries used when the rest of the world was MySpacing, before flirting briefly with Blogger and finally discovering WordPress.

The thing that all of them had in common was that I was trying to maintain an awkward balance between having a space for my thoughts and having all of my thoughts on the interwebs. So, they faded away as I moved through different phases of my life – different jobs, different relationships, different living situations. All of the differents made me reassess what I was putting out there, and every significant life shift had me going back to paper and journalling old-style rather than pouring it out here, where the rest of the world could see my thoughts before I’d finished processing them. I still journal now.

I’ve never had a job that was compatible with openly blogging about work-related themes, so those were out – a shame, because I have Thoughts, but professionalism comes first. And while I briefly attempted to review books, ultimately, it felt a little too much like revisiting my Lit degree. I prefer to read them and to have conversations about them, and Goodreads already does a sterling job of sating my tracking instincts.

When you think about it, removing all of those potential subjects results in a reduced pool, and for long periods my energy has instead gone into, well, talking. I’m more active on Instagram and Twitter, and, well, in person WhatsApp.

But I have missed this. Missed the longer form writing and the blog commenting and the place to express an opinion that can be engaged with and the engaging with others’ opinions.

So when I feel the urge to write online, what am I writing for?

The same thing everyone writes for: connection, conversation, and community.

Those things are more readily accessible via social media now than they were in 2002, so it follows that the old style of blogging daily thoughts and habits doesn’t really exist in the same way now – the blogs that I followed then are often still going, but have shifted in tone and content. But there’s still a need for connection and for community and conversation, and now, as we navigate a two-month-and-counting lockdown courtesy of COVID-19, more than ever.

That we are social creatures is proven more clearly than ever when our ability to be social in the usual ways is removed from us. After an absence borne of the depression mentioned in my last post – which was two years ago, incidentally, things are fine now, and I’m feeling healthier than ever – I’ve wandered back onto Twitter and started participating more. And been welcomed back, because people are wonderful. Instagram had to some extent filled the gap, and I remain active there because pictures aren’t just pictures – they’re conversation sparks.

I’ll always keep my most raw thoughts for my eyes only, and maybe this will continue to be a place for occasional opinion pieces and explorations rather than a regular window on the world. But… I’m planning to shift the rhythm, to make those occasions more frequent.

Stand by.


It’s a strange, brittle and highly personal thing, the Out.

It’s been a week of discussion of outs and privilege and
intersectionality. I’ve talked with polyamorous folk who aren’t out to their entire circles, non-heterosexual folk who are out with nearly everybody except their parents, friends who have fought a thousand fights in other ways.

All of us have our own ways of managing our outedness, our own worlds we protect when we make the choices we make on how out to be about what and with which people, and we may therefore blink and worry if someone unthinkingly circumvents that little raft of calculations we make each time and outs us instead of allowing us to out ourselves. These moments may be no more than a passing comment or a surprising but unproblematic revelation to you, but depending on the potential cost to us if you are less than cool with this part of us, we may be holding our breath and wondering if we will suddenly have to start hefting a defensive conversational axe or, more likely, Dealing With The Inevitable Questions.

Because the thing is, there *are* myriad calculations involved in each revelation to each person of each way in which we colour outside the lines. When we don’t get to make those calculations ourselves we can feel unsettled. Because there is shit at stake for us. We’re risking – every time – the disapproval or withdrawal of a person who makes up a part of our life to a greater or lesser degree. Some of these things may be relatively minor, but some of them, for some people, in some places… well, the flicker of a shutter of disapproval coming down in an acquaintance or colleague’s eyes is hard enough to deal with, but at the more extreme end we can end up losing jobs (oh come on, even where it’s hard to kick people out directly people’s prejudice operates on their interactions and career decisions), losing friends, with splintering families. Losing life and liberty, even, because this global village has some houses that ain’t so fond of certain things.

So even where there’s an assumption that Most People Will Be Cool With It, we may get twitchy when the control is taken from us and we don’t get to assess the threat level ourselves. You might have, all innocent and unknowing, just pitched us unprepared into a battle.

Outing other folk – not cool.

And then there’s the other side of things. The side which says if you *can* be out…

A group, a few drinks into the evening, as the conversational depth increases.

Michelle used to put a fake wedding ring on when she took her child to events with other parents, a decade older than her, because when they clocked it they relaxed around her in a way they didn’t when they thought she was a young *single* mum. Clara is black, and while mostly people aren’t so unaware of the conversational norms in this corner of this world as to be super-blatant in their racism, micro-aggressions are everywhere and she’s developed a thick skin and a tendency to make notes of dates, times and comments and judge when the time is right for more. I was a bisexual kid who was confused only in that there didn’t seem to be a word for me, and that the prevailing rhetoric wanted me to ‘pick a side’ or called me greedy, or worse, and so I didn’t tell anyone and I didn’t challenge the homophobic and biphobic comments I heard and so carried on feeling… unsafe, along with everyone else who must have been doing the same thing I was doing. I’m not even sure I told the diaries I wrote as a teenager – the conversation never really snuck outside of my head. At that age so much is an AmINormalShouldIBe dance, and that was one of a few ways in which I felt I must be wrong or broken. Never ashamed, as I know some people were made to feel. Just… like I couldn’t be totally honest about various aspects of myself, and never understood or supported accordingly because how can you be when you’re so hidden? All of that? If you didn’t know what the word ‘othered’ meant, there’s your heap of shifting definitions.

Our experiences are not directly analogous – some of us have privilege(s) that others don’t and have had an easier ride of it accordingly. But we found a degree of common ground in having each had to defend key aspects of our selves from stupid questions, vapid assumptions and hurtful behaviour at one time or another.

The conversation meanders around these things for a while as we each poke at and share the places in which we’ve developed extra layers, and then at some point, Clara asks why I bother labelling my sexuality, since it doesn’t matter. And to anyone in that room, in terms of how we relate with people, it doesn’t.

But. It does matter.

It matters to me, because it matters to other people. The label is needed for (or is it by?) other people, because other people are the ones who make the unthinking assumptions that result in people feeling othered.

I am a white, middle class, well-educated, cis woman in a reasonable position in my career and with the constructive support of my family and the only aspect of that which doesn’t have inbuilt privilege is that I’m a woman. And yes, parenthetically speaking I’ve turned a blind – well, wincing – eye to some of the sexist crap at every workplace I’ve ever worked because when it comes down to it, no-one has the energy to be a warrior all day every day and it’s even harder to find that when you’re young, powerless in one sense and not fully aware of your power in others and at the start of your career with credibility battles to fight as well.

For the rest, though. I have power in ways that some don’t. I work somewhere where although there’s a flicker of surprise and not knowing quite what to do with the information when senior management ask what the pink, purple and blue flag pinned to my handbag is or find out which organisation I’m planning on volunteering for, there is also no negative consequence. Diversity support is coded into my contract and protected by the laws of my country, and I work with decent people and have enough power – both professionally and in terms of personal articulacy, confidence and education – to smash back any lazy assumptions lobbed my way.

And yet. If it comes up in situations where I’m a little unsure about reception, it’s not uncommon for me to begin by saying that I’m not straight – which is problematic because my identity shouldn’t be defined by what I’m not, but it’s a gentler sell to the unaware from ‘presumed straight’ to ‘not straight’ to ‘bi’ and it sidesteps a whole raft of issues around identifying as bisexual vs pansexual vs queer.

But. If I – with all my privilege – can own a label which attracts prejudice, then just maybe it will help just a tiny bit to change the climate for those for whom it’s less safe to be out, and maybe other kids won’t be quite so likely to reach the conclusion that they must be broken in some way and bury vast aspects of their make-up until they’re well into adulthood.

It’s a small and relatively easy thing for me in most of the settings in which I find myself. But it isn’t, for some, and while I’d love for positive social change to be seismic, in reality it’s usually incremental and because of that every tiny way in which I – and people like me, if they feel able – can influence prevailing culture and rhetoric is a tiny way in which I stand against the things that made me, Michelle, Clara and a million other people have to go into battle against the weight of culture in ways people with other sets of privilege never even considered.

So if you didn’t know – and it’s no secret, but the thing with coming out, as anyone who thinks about it knows, is that it’s not a one-time only announcement so much as a succession of conversations – then this is me making it crystal clear, because I am the only person who should ever out me, that I am bisexual.

We’ll save the rest for another day, shall we?

That for their friendship I may make amends

I’ve tilted a few times, on a few different blogs, over the years at the idea of finding your tribe. But it’s never yet been more descriptive of my life than it is now.

I’ve been delighted to meet folk I can talk geeky with without encountering the corresponding butyou’reagirl raised eyebrows or apparent inaudibleness that often came from the surroundings in which I worked at the time.

I’ve explained the bittersweet relief of finding a world of other women whose attractions and sexual preferences operated similarly to my own, in whom I took emotional refuge when a throwaway comment at my then workplace triggered twenty-year-old tears.

I’ve loved finding folk with specific hobbies in common that weren’t necessarily shared by friends IRL.

And all of that is still true. But since then, life has changed again.

I’ve come to know some of the online folks a little more in person (There will be more of that, right? You lot are fab.).

I’ve had the delight – most recently today, in fact – of having an animated and intelligent conversation about politics at work without feeling my opinion being actually shouted down or quipped away by those who prefer to seize a stage rather than participate in a discussion.

I’ve met some wonderful new friends around whom I can feel my brain happily unfurling.

It’s possible that Mr Blake was feeling rather more cynical than I ever do when he wrote the poem from which I stole this post title. Because actually, I am not. I use humour as weapon, armour, shield and healing potion, and I’m squishy-hearted and I don’t entrust that to many people (but it’s worth it when I do).

And that’s the wonder of finding Your People. The ones around whom you can comfortably unfold yourself, around whom you can stretch and who stretch you. The ones you can start to trust with your squishy bits.

You guys are awesome, and I am indescribably delighted to have found you and still just a little bit confused that you seem to like being found.

Here. Have a bit of squishy stuff.

Lost Words

I’ve destroyed or lost countless pieces of writing over the years. Words and effort burnt, thrown away, deleted or mislaid a thousand times.

I remember a square spiral bound notebook I had at university in which I wrote up all my stories as neatly as possible (a hard thing to do when you’re not blessed with neat writing and your mind’s busy writing the thing after the thing you’re transcribing) – some of them only really scenes and snapshots. It didn’t survive. Burnt. But I remember the strongest of the stories it contained.

I remember my storybook from primary school, age 10 or so. Along with that of a friend who had particularly neat writing, it was snaffled by the school to use as some sort of evidence that Kids Do Good Stuff Here and probably found itself travelling to the tip with a skipful of old chairs and hymn books decades ago.

I remember a couple of horror stories I wrote, one at 8ish and one at 14ish. One got lost in the mists of time and the other vanished into the schoolwork heap. I remember one with total clarity but only get flashes of feeling from the other.

I remember a blog hardly anyone knew about, deleted long ago, though some of its ideas have since been recycled. Word and OpenOffice documents galore have met their match at the hands of a dissatisfied Cat and shift-delete.

But alongside the narrative carnage, I’ve been preserving certain writing with the care and attention you’d lavish on a signed first edition. My diaries, of course, survive in all their cringe-inducing glory. But then there are the stories that one way or another needed preserving.

These are the documents that have made it from PC to PC numerous times, some of them making their first few transfers on floppy disks (remember those, kids?) having been typed up from longhand. These are the documents of which I have multiple copies squirrelled away, Just In Case.

I’m not sitting on a pile of would-be bestsellers; this is the group of documents with which I can’t bring myself to part. They have too much in them.

There are poems that I wrote taking the mickey out of certain teachers or when leaving, or even doing, particular jobs – unprintable, sadly, but highly amusing to those of us in the know.

There are the starts of stories that never got finished not because the idea wasn’t sound but because I wasn’t the right me then to write them. I will be someday. Some of these have already been gutted for the good flesh, but I still like to keep the old carcasses around.

Old blogs, too. They may be gone, but they’re not forgotten. Except for the one I killed entirely, I have the best bits from all of them saved.

There’s the half a book a friend and I wrote to keep ourselves entertained during interminable enforced ‘revision periods’ at school. When we were supposed to be revising for our GCSEs, we were collaborating on a fantasy of proportions that threatened to be epic if we ever finished. We called it Bill. It featured a warlock by the name of Moshollondo, which name will make complete sense to anyone who went to the same school we did who juggles it around a bit to find its origin, and a devil who, now that I think about it, bore a striking resemblance to Lister’s Confidence in the Confidence and Paranoia episode of Red Dwarf. I couldn’t possibly hit the delete button on Bill, even though he’s over two decades old and never likely to be finished.

Some things were never meant to be. Some things served their purpose and don’t need to linger. Some things will find their purpose one day.

And some things were simply made to stick around.