My dear friend

It has been the strangest of times. Everything around me is changing, all my known knowns have become unknowns. I need to make some changes, but I don’t know what and I don’t know how.

A long-planned trip will be a well-timed break. Some time to think, to work out what comes next.

***

On the Eurostar to Brussels, I get my laptop out. I’m updating my CV because I think one good change might be to find a job beyond this self-employed, freelance life I’ve been living for decades. It won’t solve my problems, but it will be good for me to get out of the house and to make a contribution.

I don’t know where to start with updating my CV, but I want to capture the momentum and the energy of travelling and of being away. Being away from myself lets me see myself differently. I’ve had a look at all of the example of CVs that I could find online. And for real-life confirmation, I was consulting with Adrian. He lives a corporate life and has seen a lot of real-life CVs.

I say: ‘Do I have to start with a statement about my passions? Do I have to say I’m passionate about…?’

Adrian says: ‘Yes.’

‘But I’m a 56-year-old woman putting together a CV and cover letters. Doesn’t it go without saying that I’m going to be diligent and competent? That I’ll get the job done with common sense and good humour? Do I have to be passionate too?’

Adrian explains the corporate world to me: ‘People want to know you’re committed. They want to know where you’ll spend your discretionary energy.’

My dear friend, I laugh so hard my head falls off. I write it down so I won’t forget it: discretionary energy.

***

I know that I sometimes repeat myself, so before I wrote too much in this letter I went back to the last to make sure I wasn’t telling you something I already told you.

I see that in my last letter I told you I’d found the perfect answer to the question, ‘So, what do you do?’ What a useful thing that would in the context of putting together my CV. I read on.

I see that while I told you I’d found the perfect answer, I didn’t tell you what it is. My dear friend, I have no idea what that perfect answer was. Is the answer simply forgotten or is it lost?

***

In Belgium, Telstra tells me I’m in an ineligible zone and I have no data. At the exact same moment, Telstra tells Adrian he is in an eligible zone. I have a pre-paid package, Adrian has post-paid. He is eligible, but I am not. We don’t try to understand. But, my dear friend, try to understand this: I am out and about in the world with no data. I know we managed in 1995, but that’s not how we live these days.

At the Magritte museum, we agree that if we lose track of each other we will meet in the foyer. We make the arrangement not knowing that there is more than one foyer, and even more than one shop (usually the default meeting spot).

We have lost track of each other and I have no data. Because I am the one without data it feels like I’m the one who’s lost, and because he has data, he’s not. Twelve months of uncertainties and changes and of me not keeping up catch up with me. I am lost. I am lost. I am lost.

When we are reunited, I can’t catch my breath and I start to cry. I can’t stop and I don’t understand why. He says: You knew I’d be in here somewhere, didn’t you? You knew I wouldn’t leave.

We go over the last half an hour to work out what happened, and that’s when we realise that somehow or other I’ve missed a whole room, and that’s how we missed each other. I turned right where Adrian turned left, and I went down the stairs too early.

‘It was the best room,’ Adrian says. ‘You’d better go back and see it.’

‘But I’ve already used my ticket, they won’t let me back in.’ My body is enjoying the sobbing now, so I grab the excuse to cry even more.

‘Let’s ask them,’ Adrian says. ‘I’m sure they’ll let you back in.’

‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ I ask the extra-tall man checking the tickets (I’m generally pretty pleased with how my French has been holding up, but I’m not in any state to concentrate on such a complicated conversation). He says, ‘Of course.’ I explain what’s happened and he waves us through. I offer to show him my ticket, but he says, ‘I trust you.’ My conclusion is this: tall people learn to speak kindly so that they don’t frighten those of us who live below.

In the room that I’ve missed, Adrian sits and waits for me to see it all.

And he was right, it is the best room. And in this best room is the best painting of them all. My top ten list of paintings isn’t formalised. It’s not something I’ve written it down so I’m not exactly sure what’s on it. Without knowing what comes in at one or two, I would say that this painting is at number three.

I didn’t know when I was looking at it, but it is just one of a series of 27 paintings in which he explored this theme (remember I thought I’d been through all of the rooms, so I’d already put my audio guide back). I would dearly love to see this painting again knowing that it’s part of that series. But I doubt I’ll ever have that opportunity. I’ve been to Brussels twice so it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever be back there again.

As it turns out, the last time I was in Brussels, I was taken by this painting too. A few days ago, flicking through the collection of postcards I have bought myself over the years I came across the postcards I bought on my first trip to Brussels. And there it was: Empire of Light. I was travelling without Adrian and with two not-quite-teenaged boys that time, so I probably didn’t stand in front of it for quite as long as I did this time.

I was going to take the obvious path and end this letter to you with a quip about discretionary energy and the way to spend it. But honestly, I don’t know what to say that would bring this letter to any kind of conclusion.

Standing in front of this painting, I understood something about myself. All of my most deeply-held feelings, sensations and emotions were condensed into this single moment. I could feel everything I understand and everything I don’t. How I am in this moment is what I’ve been trying to explain in everything I’ve ever written.

And, so, as is so often the way, I end my letter to you with no conclusion. No conclusion, and with the ongoing awkward promise to write again next week or perhaps next year. Until which time, I will think of you often and with love,

Your friend,

Tracy xx