Author: Susan

I missed the train recently and it just so happens that a gorgeous indie bookstore is on down the road from the station, so what was I supposed to do? Wait for half an hour on the cold platform?

The problem is that I can’t visit No Alibis in South Belfast without buying something. I’ve tried. And even though I know this to be true, I still pop in with an innocent and deluded belief that, this time, I will leave empty handed. My TBR pile is teetering dangerously next to my bed, I remind myself. I don’t need more books, I think, as I step over the threshold. Ah, but look at them! All laid out with their beautiful covers nestling next to one another like old and new friends. One more wouldn’t hurt, would it?

On this particular day I had been chatting with a friend about the state of the world (it’s awful) and how I don’t understand what’s happening. We parted with drooping shoulders and then I missed the train and got even more annoyed. So as I scanned the bookshelves (convinced I wasn’t going to buy anything) I could hardly believe the title of one of the staff recommendations. ‘When We Cease to Understand the World’ by Benjamin Labatut was shining like a beacon and telling me to pick it up so, with barely a glance at the blurb, I took it to the till. This would fix my philosophical failures, I thought, as I made my way to the station.

I started to read on the journey home and was immediately transfixed. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever read, sitting between non-fiction and fiction, and I ate it up in two days. It’s dystopian and frightening and weird and engrossing. My quantum mechanics aren’t great (who’s with me?) but there was Schrödinger and Heisenberg alongside Einstein and Oppenheimer as they make discoveries that reach forward into a bright future full of new knowledge and yet all the while they are putting our world (and the humans within it) at terrible risk. Somehow these characters are only half-alive, both real and fictitious. Parts of my mind opened up that had been long-closed (or perhaps had never opened).

In case it’s not obvious, I can’t really describe it, and the Booker Prize judges agree. It’s odd. When I set the book down I took a deep breath and did indeed feel a bit better about the world. Perspective in a crisis really helps and stepping back to look at the universe from afar makes my problems very small indeed.

But it was also a chance to escape from it all. This is what a good book can do (or any art). The world is not understandable right now so I’m coping by running into bookshops and finding the light. Words heal. I might miss my train more often.

I was staying at a cottage by the sea last month and took a cuppa out into the garden to enjoy the silence. It was going well until a sudden and repeated thumping noise arrived from the kitchen window. I was startled but also annoyed. What was disturbing my precious peace? 

I looked towards the window and saw that a swallow had become trapped inside the cottage and was desperately trying to get out. Her wings were beating furiously against the glass and at once I felt anxious, almost in a panic. I ran inside to try to help and saw that there were two birds flying low against the ceiling and trying again and again to get out the closed window. My heart rate jumped even higher as I opened windows and doors and tried to gently coax them out. Eventually (maybe swallows are smarter than I thought) they both swooped out the small gap in the window and all was well. 

I couldn’t work out why I felt so panicky when they were flying around inside, it was as if I was picking up on their fear. This happens all the time, of course, as we humans interact with one another. There are hidden emotions, things unsaid, thoughts and fears and dreams and hopes fly all around us in ordinary conversations. These invisible and silent things come to land eventually. Some people pick up on others’ feelings more easily, but it’s incredible to think that we can influence another person – for good or ill – simply in how we behave while we’re in their presence. 

When I worked as a reading group leader in prisons there was often a very tense atmosphere in the room – invisible and unspoken issues had made their presence felt and affected everyone. At some point, I came to understand that I needed to project a sense of calm into the room when this happened, purposefully and with intention. It could be something as simple as slowing down my own breathing, but soon enough this peaceful projection found its way and settled on everyone’s shoulders. Sometimes the change was like night and day as we all took breaths and let our shoulders drop. “You’re very calm, miss,” was the response one day. I smiled and let the quiet continue to work its magic. 

We affect one another in so many ways, and so many of these ways are not even visible or easy to contain. We might beat against the window in desperation and wonder why everyone around us is anxious and scared. Or we might take deep breaths and bring a sense of calm to those nearby.

Anger is infectious, fear is infectious, but so, too, is laughter and joy and peace. I want to be the person who chooses the latter.

I made a difficult decision recently. It took ages, but as soon as I made it the air grew lighter and I could breathe again. Funny how we always say to trust our gut but end up ignoring it until it’s almost too late. Long (long) story short: I quit my job. 

Even writing that sentence gives me the jitters. Working class backgrounds tend to shout at us if we do something so rash. Plus, I feel guilty. Soon enough I’ll be able to move on from a job and an organisation I loved, and soon enough I’ll see that the transfer to a new company wasn’t going to work, no matter how hard I tried. Maybe I’ll see new pastures with new promise. But for now, I’m slowing down and releasing some of the pressure that comes from working in challenging criminal justice settings. Learning to breathe again is the thing.

And an odd quirk is helping. Wellness guides suggest various things at times of transition. I’ve tried getting up early (don’t like it), going for a run (sore knees), meditating (too quiet). But then I read about something called ‘grounding’. It’s the simplest thing: stand on the earth, preferably in bare feet, and ground yourself.

I scoffed, of course, and finished my coffee. But the image stuck in my head and I thought about it all day. I could picture my bare toes being tickled by fresh grass, while birds chirped happily in the trees above my head. My garden is small and a bit wild but it’s lovely. Maybe this was worth a try? So recently, with the arrival of spring, I’ve aimed to start each day (not too early, see above) by stepping out the back door and feeling the ground beneath my feet. The first day was a bust – sharp stones on my way to the grassy bit and generally too cold underfoot. This should have been expected. Rookie mistake. So next day I was better prepared: big slippers for the short journey from the door to the garden, and a warm cuppa in my hand. Much better! I slipped off the slippers and gingerly set my bare feet on the grass. It was cold and wet (dew? I hoped) but I took deep breaths and even a few steps. The birds were not singing. The cats were giving me funny looks. But I stuck it out. Soon enough, I ran back inside and found a pair of socks, apologising to my feet. Did this help? Did I feel grounded to Mother Earth?

Well, yes. I’m getting better at leaning into it, I suppose. And like most habits, it’ll take time to grow. I feel like I’m allowed to be here, taking a stand as another day begins to unfold. Health worries and job anxiety melts away, and just for a few minutes, I’m simply a person who stands on grass. 

This simple act has continued to place me on the earth at this point in time. I don’t get out there every day, and sometimes the vibe is all wrong (and let’s not even mention the headless shrew incident). But most days I make it a priority to take barefoot steps outside. The birds sometimes sing and even the cats look on with a sense of, if not approval, certainly something approaching it. Deep changes are taking place as I stand and look into the sky. As a middle-aged woman, I have felt invisible and I’ve spent many years in the background. I didn’t think I was allowed to take up space. But the feeling of standing with skin touching earth, reaching back to my shoe-less ancestors, has taught me that I am here. And it’s enough.