R is for...radical restart

For some unknown reason, I’ve had rampant resistance towards the 18th letter of the alphabet.

There’s no shortage of worthy words beginning with R and all the while, since Q dropped, I’ve been making a mental roster - ranging from radish and ravishing to rannygazoo and razzmatazz and everything beyond the rude and romantic reservoir in between.

Somewhat riveted by the random words popping into my internal reference library, I’ve been waiting to have a remarkable rapport with just one R. But rather than revel further in the ridiculous rumpus I’ve created for myself - that I need an R-inspired story or recital - why not roll with the words that have revealed themselves and wRite for R’s sake.

No reason required. No rigid rules. R is not for rubbish. Give R a reprieve. Don’t let regret live rent-free in the clown chakra. Find a resolution.

This was my realisation.

Meanwhile a friend who followed in my flurry and started her own A-Z mission a week or so after me, yesterday pipped me to the post, sharing her R with her readership. This spurred me on to come out of retreat mode and while there is no race, her offering helped me pick up pace.

I’m not retiring yet.

On some level I’ve been revolting, railing against the regularity of this A-Z ride, but someone has to start the revolution…and it certainly isn’t me. My recalcitrance will only take me so far before a rendezvous with a slice of Welsh rarebit beckons. Incidentally Welsh rarebit is said to cause vivid reveries so it’s possibly best consumed during the day unless you want overnight adventures in mystical realms.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my being there is resilience and I tell myself the rhetoric will come. Eventually.

I considered recounting my escapades reviewing riads in the Marrakech Medina as perhaps an unlikely and somewhat restless hotel inspector.

I thought about R-names such as Rudolph, Roberta, Raphael, Ruth and Robin but had nothing much to say about these remote characters. My parents almost called me Rebecca and I’m glad they didn’t as I wouldn’t have resonated with Becky or Becks.

Funny how long names are often shortened and when you possess a short name like Laura, people like to tack on an extension such as Laura-loo, Lauralie, Lauriss and Laura-lee.

I could reminisce about my raving days and routinely record shopping, such has been my reverence for music, but that might require a revisit at a later date.

Then there’s radical - a word I keep hearing bandied about in the media when painting various groups as extreme or fundamental. And also used in relation to self improvement - radical inspiration, radical acceptance, radical forgiveness.

When I was a spring chicken, between my teen and twenties, ‘radical’ was often used among my peers to describe something ‘far out’ or ‘unreal.’ These days radical, like many words, seems to have many different connotations.

I recently listened to a podcast of a ‘spiritual influencer’ with 672,000 subscribers discussing his ‘radical monogamy’ along with his wife, male guru and newly installed girlfriend (young enough to be his daughter). The podcast host and his two female lovers took a risk, relating how their polyamorous throupledom was a ‘sacred, post-conventional’ relationship and they had the ‘full radical blessing’ of each party involved. Never mind that Romeo received ‘a message from Spirit’ to look on Raya, the dating app, to ‘meet someone important’ where he reportedly met his mistress.

The video blew up with almost 200,000 views and a response reiterating that polyamory is not reframed as radical or ‘expanded’ monogamy. The row of resplendent red flags were flapping a radiant rouge. The rascal host lost the respect of his following.

Reality bites - and sometimes in a ruthless way.

So returning to my A-Z routine, I like to think the Rs have recharged me so I can restart my quest and reflect, having rescued my goal from disappearing deep into a rejected rabbit hole.

Here endeth this radical ramble.

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