The delight and disquiet of early spring
and letting our bodies hold both the light and the dark
It’s always a relief when spring finally rolls round. Even though its early days can be somewhat capricious, to say the least. But I think I’ve finally shed my second skin, of black Uniqlo thermals, and started to choose clothes based not only on their ability to buffer me from the cold.
Last week, almost overnight, the two cherry blossom trees outside my home burst into bloom. On my way to the high street, I walk beneath their canopies, dense with fat, pink flowers, some hanging so low I can touch their petals. In my local square, daffodils are scattered across the grass.
London is so beautiful right now. And the softening in the air, the brightening of the sky, sunsets now stretching to almost 8pm, so welcome.
Yet my relationship with spring, particularly this early part, is complex: it’s a time of difficult anniversaries.
There is, of course, the one we share: a world tumbling into lockdown, four years ago, as a strange virus raged across it. A time when something as innocuous as touching the plastic wrapper of a bread loaf on a supermarket shelf, or getting within inches of the exposed face of a puffing jogger in the park could give rise to terror.
And there are other difficult anniversaries, personal to me: the birthday, just before the Equinox, of someone in my family who died far too young; the beginnings, in late March 2017, of a mental health crisis, which lasted almost a year; and the early April night, over two decades ago, I discovered a lump on my left breast.
Our bodies hold memories. And, as winter shifts to spring, I often sense anxiety pulse through mine.
This year, its presence has been particularly palpable. A seemingly stolen mobile phone didn’t help. (Two weeks later, it was actually found!) Nor did my five-year-old’s incessant conversations about death. Entirely age-appropriate, apparently. But not always easy listening:
When he sat on the sofa one morning sobbing and saying, ‘I don’t ever want to die. There won’t be any toys to play with. Or any food to eat. And I won’t have you and daddy,’ my heart almost broke. It was a stark and unsettling reminder that he and I, and indeed everyone I love, won’t be together forever.
During these early spring days, delight and disquiet alternate in taking centre stage. Lounging on the grass in the park, surrounded by daisies, the sun warming my face, as I watch my son and husband kick a football around, delight reigns. But disquiet can storm in, seemingly from nowhere, like an electric current fizzing through my cells, leaving me edgy and untethered.
Which is uncomfortable. Yet, so very human.
Life is so multifaceted, full of beauty and wonder, heartache and challenges. It makes sense our feelings will be, too; the lighter ones juxtaposed against the darker ones. Sometimes, like at the recent Equinox, the light and the dark existing in equal measures.
I know this felt sense of anxiety will course through me for a while; a natural and understandable response to all my body has lived through. And while it’s important to give it space to exist, rather than attempt to instantly banish it (tempting as that is!), I also remind myself to turn towards the things that soothe and ground me. Such as movement, meditation, writing and cooking.
And I know it too shall pass. (In fact, it’s already starting to wane.) Like everything. Including the beautiful blooms on the cherry blossom trees, flowering for a few brief weeks each year, before tumbling to the ground.
Love,
Annabel x
THINGS I’VE LOVED RECENTLY
TO SEE
Nature’s Confetti (at The Outernet Building, right by Centrepoint, London, until 28th April & free) is a magical three-minute immersive experience, watching cherry blossom burst into life on giant screens. It shows twice an hour, and you can just wander in.
Frank Auerbach. The Charcoal Heads (at The Courtauld in London, until 27 May) is an exhibition of exquisite large-scale charcoal portraits. Auerbach apparently reworked each image some forty or fifty times, erasing most of what he’d drawn after each sitting, before beginning again. The resulting portraits have extraordinary depth, and are like windows into his subjects’ souls.
TO EAT
Toklas Bakery is round the corner from the Auerbach exhibition. It’s a fabulous bakery and café, serving everything from giant focaccia sandwiches to pizza slices (mine had kale and ricotta slathered over it) and cardamom buns, along with great coffee. The café area has a lovely laid-back vibe. I’d have happily stayed all day.
TO WATCH
The Zone of Interest, about the idyllic life of Auschwitz’s commandant and his family, who live just beyond the walls and rising smoke of the camp, is one of the most chilling and potent films I’ve ever watched. It’s as beautifully made as it is uncomfortable. Usually, I love going to the cinema alone. This time, my husband wanted to come. And I was grateful for his steady presence.
This is so beautiful and poignant Annabel. I entirely agree that this time doesn’t feel straightforward and that it seems to be a case of holding multiple truths — the optimism and hope alongside the fleeting and ephemeral. Sending you much love at this time of difficult anniversaries xx