My mum had an appointment in London earlier this week. Whenever she visits, I tag along to the end of her plans, savouring the chance to see and spend time with her. We met in London Bridge, got some Lebanese food, and as she had a few hours before her train home, we went for a walk.
It was an obvious choice: we are a family of walkers. Between us, we have travelled many miles (thousands, hundreds of thousands) walking up and down, up and down: to school, to work, to town, we walked. I often think about the places that hold our memories, those places that bear witness to us. There is a road in the place I grew up, St John’s Road, that has seen many small and large moments of our lives. On that road we discovered I had a nut allergy, my lips and eyes swelling by the time we reached town one gentle summer afternoon. (A single cashew nut, which I fortunately didn’t like, was the culprit.) On that road I outgrew one uniform for another, changed my walking mate from my mum and brother, to the new friends I made at secondary school. One day in early June just off St John’s Road, my mum received a call: her dad, my grandfather, had passed away. We were just outside of the house with the wide wooden fence labelled “Beware”; the Rottweilers, who usually barked, were quiet that day. My dad doesn’t feature in many of my childhood memories of walking, but he walked the most out of all of us, and often alone. His commute - a walk to the station, a train to London, and finally a walk to work, and back again in the evening - saw him complete at least two hours of walking a day. Today, when he remembers this period of time, he laughs wondering how he did it.
A neighbour once, leaning over our fence, joked about when we would get a car, as if it was a lack that we didn’t have one, as though walking was the thing you did until you upgraded to a car. He, I knew, was always in his car; from where I knelt on my bed, I often saw his teal people carrier whizz towards the main road or back towards his home. I wondered at his indirectness - whether he was jealous that we could walk, or delighted in walking, so much - or if he was driven by nosiness, curious about the only Black family on the road, who were so different and so strange that they didn’t have a car. We did, eventually, get one. Even then, it sat, resplendent in the drive, moodily watching us pass by and walk.
Walking was often functional back then, even if we did carve out space to choose to walk slower, to pay more attention to the houses that lined the streets, and to the flowers, going in and out of bloom. Walking is still often our transport of choice to our places of work and study. But as we have grown, we have also become a family of wanderers, straying further and wider, and finding new relationships with walking. My brother enjoys the challenge and peace of a hike, venturing to the Alps and climbing Ben Nevis. I roam Epping Forest and have become a very very amateur birdwatcher (the tropical green of parakeets against these grey skies always fills me with delight). And my dad walks loops around the local park, conscious of staying active as he gets older.
My mum, though, is my favourite person to walk with. I admire the way she is able to turn her eyes over and to find revelations everywhere and in everything. She is owlish: bright-eyed, her head swivels this way and that on a pivot. Walking with her is to be led by questions and curiosities: how old is this building? how did they build it? where does this path lead? look at these steps! did you see that man? did you see that? We zig zag when we walk, and I become child again, following behind her as she darts off to read a plaque or look down a darkened path. She charts her personal history; this place holds her memories even as she struggles to remember the last time she was here, how old she was, what she was doing.
“I must come back and do this,” she said smiling, as the city’s lights, those industrial stars, rose against the deepening evening sky.
And as I waved her off at the platform, I wondered: what new adventures she would have, what would she discover? And would I be able to share in them with her, if only to see her again, so childlike and full of pure delight.
Honorary Wonders
I had my first Korean corndog! It was a sweet potatoey, cheesy, meaty feast and if it wasn’t so expensive I’d have got another one and wouldn’t have had any regrets about it.
Why do babies/toddlers cry when they’re tired? Children are endless sources of fascination for me. I was out and about earlier this week and two separate occasions, I heard the crying child’s mother comfort them with words along the lines of ‘I know you’re tired.’ Now, I know enough to know that crying is one way babies try to get their needs met - but (and forgive me if this is slow, but I’m keeping this newsletter a hundred) surely, they could just fall asleep? Isn’t that one of the benefits of being a baby, napping when you want and getting pushed around? It turns out that their tiny bodies go into a stress response, flooding their system with stress hormones which makes them agitated, restless and wired - and sleep, the thing they most seek, drifts further and further off. (Feel free to comment below that this is news to you so I feel less alone 😅)
LION BABE. Funk soul futuristic nostalgia. I haven’t listened to the duo in a hot minute and I’m so glad they’re back in my life. Rockets, Satisfy My Soul and Get Into The Party Life have been on rePEAT. (PS. Lead singer Jillian Hervey is also a certified COOL MOM) (PPS. Her mom is also very cool too).
Oldies but goodies. Music has been an unusually large part of my week, and I’ve found myself rediscovering treasures. I’m talking legends: Barry White (I live for a 7 minute song). Jill Scott. Bobby Caldwell.
And… I found this gem below too - an anthem, a mood for life. I hope you find your gangsta lean. May it carry you through the week :)