055. ...nourished, grateful and brave.

(morning thinking)

Once a month Soup Club and Poetry Club fall on the same Tuesday and by the end of the night, when the soup’s all gone, the poetry’s all been read and everyone leaves my flat with quiet empathic goodbyes, tiptoeing out of the sleeping building and gently closing doors, I am spent and sated and exhausted as though I’ve spent all day at a banquet table.

And I realise that’s because I have. I’ve feasted on good food, creativity, laughter and positive, happy energy all day long.

All my days start pretty much the same: I stretch and throw a kettle bell about, make coffee, journal and then sit with the cat to read. I read, she just sits.

In general I’ve laid my days out to have lots of slack and down time. I put buffers in between meetings and events. This is where my mental health is protected. But these monthly Tuesdays, where I’ve created TWO social gatherings in my home, are the fullest days of my month.

When Gus gets up, I make his breakfast and at this point Soup Club/Poetry Club Tuesdays begin to shape the schedule. I start the soup. Usually by the time G’s ready to leave for school the the pot is softly bubbling away and I’ll wash up and tidy the flat and do whatever housework needs doing for an hour or so then set up the big table and drag together all the spare stools and seats from around the flat so that Soup Club is mostly ready before I go to yoga.

I walk home from class worried that I haven’t switched off the gas and that the flat will be on fire or, worse, the soup will be ruined. Although, in the case of the former the latter would most likely also be true. I have never forgotten to switch off the heat under our communal meal so before I leap into the shower I put the big John Brodie Soup Pot of soup back on the heat. Soup Clubbers start to arrive from 12:30.

We eat together, share bread and stories. Although there's a lot of chat and laughter it's always very gentle. Around half past one people start to drift back to their work. By half past two everyone’s gone and I shrink the table, wash up the dishes and square away the flat.

By this point in the day there’s usually half an hour or so before Gus and his friends come home from school and in that time I’ll stretch out on the couch with headphones. Catch some stillness, process and regenerate.

The kids BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ at the door and barrel up the stairs in a giggling, shouting whirlwind of school news, snacks and drinks and more snacks then (this week) nerf war ensues. Chaos and noise fill our flat. They leave for their homes or with Gus to Judo at five, I go to the gym while they hit the mats. Gus and I come home and I make us something quick and simple to eat. He gets some extra screen time on Poetry Club nights so while he gets comfy in the snug I lay and light a fire in the living room.

At 7pm folks start arriving for our monthly, In Progress, poetry club. We catch up and gently avoid being first to read for a little while. This eventually becomes poetry. I'm not scared of reading my poems out loud anymore. It's a big leap forward considering I wouldn't have even have allowed myself to think the phrase "my poems" in my imagination a couple of years ago. I feel brave and safe in this group.

At this last Poetry Club there were songs too and I wonder whether this magical evening might eventually help me conquer that fear too. Imagine if I actually sang, on my own, in front of other people. What would the cat think? I’m pretty sure she thinks that singing is our secret, private thing.

I’ve built informal rules into these meet-ups that ameliorate my anxieties: everyone introduces themselves, I brew the first tea, make a first drink for everyone and I cook and serve the soup but if you would like more of anything you you help yourself to more; make yourself at home. Simple things that reduce the pressure I would have felt before. The pressure that meant I always needed a drink in my hand.

In the past alcohol would slosh over my social anxiety, round off and smooth the jagged edges, and allow me to host a party. Well, it would allow me to host the first half of a party. The latter stages would descend into messiness. I’ve been sober for three years and only very recently started to lean into making gatherings like this. Pulling people toward me, inviting folks into my home without a beer or a wine or a gin for courage was scary at first, and the fear didn’t diminish quickly, but the more I've practised the less I've been anxious.

When I go to bed on the night of these double social days I am beyond exhausted in every way. I don’t even read! In sports they talk about leaving it all on the court or on the mat - giving everything you have to give - and I feel like that's what I've done.

Lying in bed knowing my entire day has been full and kind and positive and that this will sustain as the rest of the month unfolds brings deep contentment.

When I gather a fist full of duvet tight under my chin and the cool fabric pulls up over my body, sleep travels with it. As I smile and give in and drift off I feel nourished, grateful and brave.

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Everyone’s invited to Soup Club. We meet each Tuesday and all you bring is your own bread; your own dunkables. Poetry Club is In Progress and it’s the second Tuesday of every month. You don’t need to read, you don’t have to be a poet, all though you probably are whether you say so or not. If you would like to come to either just do. Message me if you need the address.