What a difference time makes...

This past weekend I decided to spend much of a very dreary Saturday watching my favourite movies. Amongst those I chose to rewatch was "Shirley Valentine." I love Pauline Collins. I remember her from "No, Honestly" back in the day. And since then I have enjoyed seeing her in other offerings, most recently in the wonderful Dustin Hoffman directed film, "Quartet". There she shared the screen with two of my other favourite people - Dame Maggie Smith and Sir Billy Connolly. What a treasure. 

I was struck by how differently I reacted to the film this time. Last time I watched it, the character of Shirley was 42; I was about that age, too. It is still poignant and sweet and lovely and speaks so much truth about what so many women feel as they reach the midpoint of their lives. But the first time I saw it, I bawled my eyes out when Shirley uttered these words:

"I have allowed myself to lead this little life, when inside me there was so much more. And it's all gone unused. And now it never will be. Why do we get all this life if we don't ever use it? Why do we get all these feeling and dreams and hopes if we don't ever use them?"

I was very aware, when watching the film now, that those words, while true when I first watched the film, were no longer true. And perhaps it was hearing those words uttered so many years ago that helped me make the decisions I made that brought me here and now. They definitely hit a nerve. Perhaps, in that moment, I realised that the only person who could make the changes I needed to make, or to find the courage to make the changes that had to be made, was me. I was in a loveless marriage with someone I had so very little in common with. I was miserable. I was back in my "hometown" while what I really wanted was to live the dream I had held in my heart for so long - to live in the UK. I had to do something. I was in the driver's seat.

Shirley made the changes she needed to make. And so did I. But it wasn't easy. By the time I had realised the fulfilment of my lifelong dream, my parents' health was failing. Dad had had back surgery and, while the doctor never admitted to it, it was clear that Dad had suffered a mild stroke while on the table. I was so conflicted. But my wonderful parents made it clear that I had to follow my dream. I left them in the capable hands of a close-knit community of friends. I followed my heart, first to England, and then, finally, to Scotland. And as life became more comfortable to me, living where I was meant to live, I learned to love myself enough to truly be worthy of someone else's love and to love someone else completely and utterly. I met Chris. And for the years we had, we lived life as one should live it. Full of joy and laughter and love and adventures and in absolute knowledge that the life I had found was the life that I had dreamed and hoped for my whole life.  Now, it was Shirley's statement, "Now that I've found some life, I have no intention of running away from it" that rang so true.

In many ways, my life wasn't "little" before I came to the UK in 2000. I had been raised by parents who exposed me to culture, art, philosophy, the theatre, music. Our dinner table was like a "salon" where we would discuss things long after the meal was finished. But there was always something missing. That was a sense of feeling comfortable in my own skin. I felt "at home" first when we traveled to the UK in 1967; I felt it again when I studied in Bath for my third year in university. It was here. It wasn't in Virginia or New York or Connecticut or Massachusetts or any of the other places I knew and loved in the US. It was here. And, despite losing Chris, I still have "here." I still live in the place I was meant to live, and isn't that the greatest gift?

In 2005, I received an email from a well-meaning friend who said I should come home because my parents needed me. (I am not, by the way, an only child. However, it appears I am the only responsible child.) I was so torn. I would have nightmares about going back to the States and getting stuck there forever. It wasn't home; I don't think it ever was, not the way Scotland is home. After receiving the email, I made a call home. I knew Dad had had a couple of mild strokes and Mom's health was never that great. I called and my mother answered the phone. I told her about the email and she made a comment about people minding their own business. And then I heard my father in the background. "She needs to speak to her father," he said, loudly and clearly. He got on the phone and he told me the story of how his father had always wanted to study psychology in Vienna, the "birthplace" of psychology, as it was considered in those days. But then my great-grandfather died and my grandfather was saddled with the responsibility of taking care of his mother. He never traveled beyond the borders of Virginia. This is not what my father wanted for me. He said, and I remember his words as if he said them just a moment ago, "I'll be damned if you are going to give up your dream for us. We will be fine. But if you come home, you won't be fine. You'll be miserable and I won't let that happen. Live your dream." Thank you, Dad, for those words. You knew I needed to hear them. I had always been there for my parents. I loved them dearly. But, he was right. I had lived most of my life feeling just slightly miserable because I hadn't realised my dreams. And then I did. And then the dreams got even better. I met the love of my life. My daughter has grown up into a bright and wonderful young woman. I have two amazing step kids, I have my grandchildren. So, my little life has become that bigger life where dreams and feelings and hopes come to fruition. Not bad.

----------------

The photo is one of Chris' beautiful images of the lilac tree that grew in the garden in Aultbea. I call it "Innocence." I hope you like it.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

At last...

Image
This is me, age 12. Just the summer before this was taken, our family had a once-in-a-lifetime summer holiday in the UK and Europe. During the first week in London, I turned to my mother and basically stated to her that I was where I was supposed to be. And, as I've said in other blogs, that feeling never left me. In fact, it got stronger over the years. I majored in British Studies in college and spent my junior (third) year studying in Bath in England. But that one year was not enough to satisfy my need to be in Great Britain. In 2000, an ill-advised engagement to an Englishman brought me, at last, the UK on a more permanent basis. The marriage, however, was not permanent. My English husband was a serial husband; I only discovered I was wife no. 3 as we prepared for our wedding. Long story short, our marriage lasted four years, at which point he married no. 4. At least the marriage lasted long enough that I was allowed to stay. Then two years later, I met Chris. We all know how w...
Read more

Roots

Image
It is often noted that the folks who live in Britain, Ireland, France, Germany, Italy, Sweden, etc., try to listen politely as Americans go on and on about their ancestors who hail from any particular country. I know it must be horrendously boring and slightly grating, but I've come to understand something that perhaps needs to be more clearly understood from those living in the "old country." You see, unless those of us born and raised in the United States are genetically Native American, we aren't really from the United States - not genetically or even culturally to an extent. In a way, that means so many of us have the interest or have felt the pull of countries we may not have known prior to visits or family tree research. In short, we are seeking our identities. I knew where my family came from prior to immigrating to the American colonies or, for more recent immigrants, the United States. Throughout my life, I always felt a strong pull to Britain. They say that ...
Read more

Carrying on...

Image
When Chris died, he left behind more than broken hearts and empty arms. He left behind a collection of beautiful photography. About a year after his death, his children and I decided that we couldn't let his photography just sit unseen. We decided we would put it out there for the world to see. Not only that, but we would use his photography to raise money for two places that meant so much to him and still mean so much to all of us - The Charleston Trust in his native Sussex and The Highland Hospice in Inverness. A trip to Sussex nearly always included a trip to Charleston, a farmhouse which was occupied by Virginia Woolf's sister, artist Vanessa Bell and her group of artists/writers/sculptures. It was a veritable salon of its time. As for the hospice, they gifted us with more time, and we can never thank them enough for that.  It took me four years, but this past September, on the fourth anniversary of Chris' death, we launched Chris Mawson Photography . We are still being...
Read more