A mouse with a big hat on

Now that I live mostly by myself, I find I am increasingly short of human company. I am constantly surrounded by three cats, a Lazarus goldfish (he or she is easily ten years old), and five hens who visit the doorstep every morning asking for food. I feed them, they leave, then come back asking for more. Some tame ducks and greylag geese have started eating their food instead. They need to sort out their own pecking order.

I feel especially by myself after my youngest daughter goes away for the week on the Sunday school boat; the hustle and bustle of an extra person in the house fades into silence, replaced by the pervasive hum of the fridge. At these times I miss our beloved dog who died last year. Her omnipresent love, companionship and neediness filled the void left when my daughter was away.

I know I’m not the only single mother here. I often think of others as they pack their children off to school and return to an empty house.

We are a community of 41, and of those, 13 are children. Within that number I have good friends, friends, acquaintances, and other people who happen to share an island with me. Pretty much like anywhere else, except with a much smaller pool of people to choose from. You really need to foster tolerance in a place like this. Well — you don’t have to, and some people don’t, but I don’t think it’s particularly good for their wellbeing.

It took me a while.

I can look back now and see times when I wasn’t tolerant, when I judged unnecessarily. I’ve worked through that and forgiven myself. I’m a blunt speaker, and when I feel strongly about something I tend to share it. It’s passion, and I keep it positive, but I’ve been mistaken for being overbearing, even intimidating. I was incredibly sad once when a local person described me as intimidating. It stayed with me for a long time, and I had to sit with it before I could understand what it stirred up in me.

Like everywhere else, there’s a wide spectrum of views and opinions here, but they’re concentrated among a small number of adults trying to get along. For the most part, we do. But if you fall out with someone, it’s very hard to avoid them. You might bump into them several times a day. I have. At a certain point the disagreement becomes almost farcical in the face of that — you just have to get on with it.

Thick skin.

Living in such a small place means we often know each other’s business, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing when you need help and people show up, and a curse when you wish everyone would mind their own bloody business and butt out. It can be harsh, having your deepest vulnerabilities exposed at moments you least expect or want.

How to deal with that?

Mostly, run and hide.

I’m a tall woman — six foot one — and I have presence, whether I like it or not. I’m a community voice, but also an introvert. Think a mouse with a hat on that’s much too big. I’m working on it. I often feel out of place, and sometimes feel alone in a room full of people.

I wrote about this once, years ago, in our local paper, one New Year after my husband left. I was feeling exposed and raw. I was surprised when a few letters came back in response. I feel like writing about it again now — my social anxiety, how uninteresting I can feel, how the words I want don’t always come out. I know it’s a skewed perception of me. I know this especially when I write down the things I do.

On paper, my life looks great: I run a small vegan guesthouse, make and sell crafts in my own quirky shop, hold retreats for women, swim in the sea, work as a breathwork coach, write, garden, mother and carry out more than my fair share of community work. Writing it down helps. I have ways now to help that small mouse grow into something that fits the hat.

Isolation in communities is an issue, and it takes all of us to recognise it. I believe a community is only as strong as its weakest member. We’re all in this together, so it matters that we notice each other’s wellbeing. I think we do an okay job of this here, even if we sometimes fumble the delivery. Not everyone wants help, and many people are excellent at masking their true feelings with the perennial “I’m fine.”

I try to ask, “How are you today?” instead. It gives people a different opening, if they want to take it.

In winter I hold mostly weekly crafternoons, where friends come round to crochet, knit, sew and chat. There’s always tea, usually cake. It’s as much about mental health and wellbeing as it is about wool. And it’s very much about my own need for company too.

I also host mental health swims. We dip in the sea monthly under the banner “Dips Not Distance.” The charity ‘Mental Health Swims’ that supported this couldn’t secure funding and had to fold, which still seems mad to me. The swims were popular and offered another way to check in, to talk and try a bit of cold water. I’ll carry on regardless — I may just need to find another name.

For all the language around community and wellbeing, what it really comes down to is this: I don’t want to feel so alone here, and I don’t want others to feel that way either. Sometimes all we can do is make a small, imperfect space and keep showing up to it.

Most of what I organise isn’t complicated. It’s tea, wool, cold water, conversation. Small things, done often. For now, that feels like enough