Wanting

In response to ‘Adaptation’, a poem by Linda France

Wanting. A word I find hard to connect with in one sense and in another all too familiar. Years, decades, spent trying to figure out what I want, unable to go anywhere, caught in the in-between – (or on!). I am not writing now – pauses, gaps, not got my usual flow or sense of connection – both today generally I feel and in relation to this word. Wanting as lack, a very familiar blanket I have pulled around me, up and over me, sheltering beneath. Green and yellow and black checked blanket as a child. Hiding under it, in shame, or worrying it between my fingers until taken by sleep. Sleep. Wanting. One thing I want is to have a different relationship with sleep. There I am totally caught between resistance and surrender, in a no-woman’s land of procrastination, a surreal experience of space and time descends upon me like a fog. A fog of despair. Why do I despair to sleep? I love to wake up in bed, cosy, mindful of dreams or how I feel waking to this particular day. But bringing the day to end, going through the gateway into sleep to allow me to come out the other side, not so straightforward. Do I fear an unknown state – of lostness, fog, terror, judgment – or the unknown, clawing at me as my mother’s aged hand and sharpened nails, with despair. Do I despair in my sleep? I don’t wake aware of despair often enough to believe this is what goes on. Sometimes I wake clammy with fear, terrorised by a dream. Not so much these days. Why can I not allow myself to sleep? Or even to want to sleep. Is to want to sleep to be found wanting, lacking sufficiently in appreciation for the day, for conscious life? A puzzle. A dilemma – V’s word – yes, what is my dilemma? To hold on with all my might to the dying embers of the day, or to shed my layers of city clothes and step boldly, nakedly, vulnerable into the primal darkness of sleep. Today I write less. Hesitant. Uncertain. Uncertainty. Disturbances echoing. It’s hard to sleep with the ricochets of the day resounding in me, no peaceful sinking into...

I want. What do I want? Wanting seems a pointless exercise. I used to REALLY want to understand myself. Understand myself would unlock the door to happiness, to acceptance, to the calmer rooms in my head. I feel I am there now. Open. I can't always predict the way I feel, but I understand why it happens.

So what do I want? I don't think I want anything at all. Not for myself. I want for others, but isn't that a form of wanting for oneself? Having expectations for others' future. A future that will impact on how I feel.

Back to the future...

Wanting what I haven't got.

There's nothing I want.

What do you want for Christmas?

Nothing. Our happiness is enough. I've got everything I want.

You're so corny.

Corny I might be, but never insincere. What am I going to do with more things? I just want to be happy.

Yes, but what makes you happy?

This. Us. This makes me happy. I don't need more clothes or shoes or gadgets to be happy. I'd be still happy if everything went up in flames... Well, maybe not the photo albums or my box of cards from the kids. Or the frame with their first pair of shoes. Or my mother's paintings... Ok, so maybe you have a point. What I mean is, I don't need NEW things. The old stuff has got meaning. The new stuff would be just stuff.... I know what you can get me, another tattoo. THAT I will carry with me forever.

So you WANT another tattoo?

Yes, I WANT that.

I knew there was something.

Aged 7. School class. Reading words from a list out of context. I was found wanting. As the teacher called out the names one by one, each child read their word. I slyly counted down the list so I would know my word in advance: ‘canal’. “I know that word,” I thought, but was so nervous about getting it right that I forgot how to pronounce it. The closer it came to my turn, the more the correct sound eluded me. I so wanted to be right. I so wanted to show my cleverness. Then I heard, “Vivien.” Panic gripped me. I avoided the teacher’s eyes. “Canal,” I said. My world fell apart as I was put to stand in the corner. No dunce’s hat, but made to feel completely stupid. Hot tears coursed down my cheeks as I stood facing the wall. Forty years later, riding my brother-in- law’s narrow boat along the Oxford canal, I smile.

It’s been said, mainly by educationists, that I am wanting in understanding of the subject of inquiry. I’ve been wanting to raise my level of academic learning, only to find that, like the Poet, Linda France, that I’m caught between “resistance and surrender!” The resistance stems from my working class roots, the in-depth suspicion of wanting something beyond my entitlement. The surrender arises from also wanting to embrace new thoughts and experiences, and accepting life is not prescribed or preordained, that it can be influenced by the overwhelming power of superior intellects.