Fill up my cup - mazel tov
Have you heard the term 'my cup is overflowing? not to be confused with 'my plates are overflowing.' Cup fullness is deemed the dogs bollocks of contentment, where as plate-fullness is not.
Excuse the lame Black Eyed Peas lyric in my headline. In case you haven't noticed yet I love writing metaphors or using a memory of something and turning it's meaning into something else. Must be the ND brain or something.
Eight years ago, or maybe even less than that, but eight years ago is where my health really deteriorated and so it's a significant landmark in my life. Back then I would have described the way to fill up my cup to be with a large Jack Daniels, heavy on the ice. It would have involved wild nights out, barbeques that turned into kitchen discos and lasted until the birds started to sing. I would have then described a night at home as the epitome of boredom. I loved spending time with my family but I loved socialising as much if not more. I lived for it. Socialising was my super power and if I was doing the organising mores the better. But here's the thing... My cup was never full. I imagined booze and people to fill it up, but all that really did was drain an already depleted social battery and fill me with beer fear.
When I kept getting sicker and the flare ups of my varying conditions lasting longer, my reliability waned. I wasn't able to do the organising anymore, and as a result, the cliques I had built around myself, well, they just fell apart. The people who socialised with me to drink only did so when I did all the work to get them there. I felt like a PA to VIPs and never felt like I myself was the VIP.
My metaphorical cup was empty and growing mould. I had my family, my children, but I don't think I knew how to get the best out of myself for them.
Then in late 2020 when bubbles were still a thing and pubs were only open until 10pm, I went on a writing retreat with a friend I'd only previously spoken to online. We met for the first time Airbnb'd in a wooden hut, in a creepy man's backyard where the electric was dodgy and the orchard which looked charming on arrival was menacing in the darkness. I read for 3 days, writing in between chapters. Drank only cups of tea and wandered around the orchard with my puppy during the day. I felt more relaxed than I had in years, so well rested.
It was then I realised that cottage-core and woodland scenes were my aesthetic. Nature was giving good vibes. Previously, I'd always considered outdoorsy people to be athletic - something I ain't - and it never really occured to me that you could love nature without running cross country or abseiling the cliff edge at Cheddar Gorge.
These days, when a friend suggests meeting up my go-to suggestion is a walk. If the trail has a body of water, I get easily as excited as I used to after my first two JDs. There's something about being by a lake or a stream that calms my brain.
Don't get me wrong I'll still meet for coffee and cake if it's on offer, and will even stretch to a twice annual night out, but my heart is happiest forest bathing and chatting shit.
I can't walk very far or for very long but it doesn't matter, being among the trees staring into valley views or up at giant redwoods is what really makes me feel at ease.
And brains like mine need peace.
If January is already giving you the ick, I suggest a little meander through a canopy of leaves. Take seat on a park bench and admire a pretty view. It's obvious to me now where the enchanted forest got it's name.
