Presence

Posted on January 30, 2026 by lesleyjonesberry

The children were with us for Christmas. Our son left, as planned, on Boxing Day. Our daughter, however, had an unexpected gap in her work schedule and was also a little unwell. We asked, tentatively, whether she had to go? She was very welcome to stay a little longer. This was a mantra we repeated each day and I felt, for just a short while, that I could mother my daughter again. We didn’t do much. It was that idle, post-Christmas time, when jigsaws are done, and television is watched, and it’s normal to have a tin of Quality Street open, and sofas are made for lying on, not sitting. She didn’t need much: I could fill her a hot water bottle at bedtime and offer her soup for lunch. She lives a busy life and, while I see her frequently and she is diligent at keeping in touch, it was unusual and precious to spend such an extended time with her. I found myself describing it, afterwards, as profoundly healing.

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Past Imperfect

Posted on January 4, 2026 by lesleyjonesberry

I have returned to sorting family photographs. There are too many for my comfort. Stashed in a half-sorted manner in a combination of crates and boxes, they snag at my mind burdensomely. A task not completed. A mess unsorted. A treasure which cannot be enjoyed. Not, as they are, even useful. Browsing through a handful can be intensely pleasurable, but there is no order to the memories and they suddenly become indigestible. Like an over-rich meal, and all the courses on one plate.

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So long as we can breathe or eyes can see

Posted on November 29, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

Mum’s friend, Joyce, is in hospital and I visited her yesterday. 

Mum and Joyce. They met, and served together, in the Second World War and they kept in touch for the rest of their lives. They lived 240 miles apart for most of that time:  meetings were rare; letters went steadily up and down the length of the country.

Each was widowed, and then mum died. Joyce continued to live independently, at an address I knew by heart from seeing it so often on the envelopes of the letters mum sent. Her daughter is a remarkable support, and she has grown-up grandchildren, plus an increasing number of great-grandchildren, who visit. However, they all live a good hour’s drive away and, when we were in Hampshire, I lived nearer. It seemed obvious to me that I should visit, but I didn’t, and felt guilty about my neglect.

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Stepping out

Posted on November 11, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

On holiday for a few days, in Paris.

5 days and so I have 5 novels. This feels about right. Fewer than five makes me anxious. These are holiday reads, nothing long or challenging, and I am quite a fast reader – although of course the significant thing is that having nothing to read prompts such an emotion. More than five might suggest I have a problem, a book-habit. Just five, then. Although I did pack my Kindle.

Reading, especially fiction, allows me to step out. Out from the moment. Out from a stressful day. Out from worries and apprehension.  The cover of the book is a door. In I step and away I go.

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Turtles all the way down

Posted on October 8, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

I returned to my therapist last weekend.

I feel I can write that in an expectation that you, dear reader, will respond with an ‘oh, yes’ of recognition. But I do want at least to try to check my privilege before I start, like adjusting the rear-view mirror before I signal. It does seem that ‘just about everyone’ – which really means the people I am aware of in my limited and privileged little bubble – has been to a therapist, or currently has therapy, or at the least knows someone who has done so. It’s like gym membership these days. And yes, like gym membership, its normalisation is also an indicator of relative wealth (and available time). I know I am lucky to have the option. {Release handbrake, manoeuvre.)

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Changing the Matrix

Posted on August 27, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

We became ensnarled in a Bank Holiday tailback on Monday, just north of Cambridge. We were about two-thirds of the way home after a weekend at a Folk Festival, the pace slowed and the forest of red tail-lights appeared. I find it hard to be equanimous in a traffic queue. On a train, all I need do is accept the delay, and the uncertainty, but more than that, nothing is required. I simply have to wait patiently and, on most train journeys, I am supplied – over-supplied – with comforts: a drink, snacks, a book. 

With a car, I have to remain alert and be ready to play my part in every frustrating forward-inching. Any worries (is my ankle starting to hurt, will my knees get stiff, is the clutch getting worn, what about the engine temperature?) bring home to me that this metal, mechanical box, which represents freedom, speed and ease of movement, is now cumbersome and trapped, and so, since I am responsible for it, am I. The situation is edgy and claustrophobic and I feel powerless. 

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Apples

Posted on July 21, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

We spent five days walking with Refugee Tales. It was a rich experience, with the underlying shapes of pilgrimage, of political protest march, of migration and the search for refuge – of the human condition which is forever transient. Here is no continuing city. The days were full of blazing sunshine, the company of over a hundred strangers, and the possibility of easeful interaction which walking offers.

Amongst them was Helga, with whom I had an extended and thoughtful conversation about living in urban and rural settings, neighbourhoods and neighbourliness, and the choice – perhaps necessity – of redefining our lives as one stage comes to a close. At some point the group paused for a much-needed water break due to the heat and I took an apple from my bag. 

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Failure

Posted on May 2, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

Yesterday I felt a failure. The feeling is unpleasant, heavy and upsetting. It brought tears and held me immobile and helpless for a while. 

I don’t often feel a failure. I realise that I put significant energies into avoiding the feeling. I like to assess, to plan, and then, as things get underway, I try to review and revise. I am prepared to adjust expectations, alter my direction, accommodate changing situations and adapt my intentions accordingly. I do everything on the way, as it were, to protect the possibility of a sense of achievement at the end. 

It occurred to me that I can face defeat. Not easily, but more easily than I can countenance failure.

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Hacked off

Posted on April 9, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

After a few years of ignoring the flaking paint and a pervasive drop in temperature as one enters our kitchen, we have taken a deep breath, drawn ourselves up to our full height as responsible adults, and are “having the damp seen to”. 

We have some experience of building works, from when we lived in Hampshire. I thought I knew what to expect in terms of noise, dirt, disruption and dust – and all of that is, frankly, quite demanding enough.  What I hadn’t anticipated was just how brutal the first stage of the work is: removing the plaster to expose the brickwork.

The damp men cometh. They have seized my home and they are tearing it apart. It’s been shockingly brutal, an assault which makes my dear little house feel fragile. This house has been my shelter and safe harbour. It held me safe when my reality was blasted apart. It is a space which has symbolically provided integration, honesty, wholeness and new roots. It is my nest. 

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Living

Posted on February 12, 2025 by lesleyjonesberry

Sixteen months ago I stopped working and this has been long enough for people to ask how I am enjoying retirement.  I interpret this as really asking “What on earth do you do with your time?” I feel better if I can reply with a list of activities. My response must be plausible, at least some of the time, as friends have taken to saying “I know how busy you are” and then I feel a fraud. 

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