How could this be possible? In the current Covid19 world of anxiety, uncertainty, and restraints on our personal freedom, how could I feel lighter?
Lack of exercise, increased access to the fridge, and a pretty non-existent list of social events has perhaps induced a laissez-faire attitude towards self-discipline in general. Have you wondered, why have I not achieved all those things I had planned for the lockdown?
I sigh as I watch something furry grow on the sourdough starter in the fridge and the bananas, mere wallflowers in the corner, have turned black and limp.
My yoga mat has had…
But I don’t even know what a skunk smells like?
How do you tap into your creativity? Whether we are embarking on a new project, or we are seasoned in our craft, we can often get into a pit of ‘stuckness’. We believe we have lost our words and think what should I write about? (or paint? Or sew? Or compose)? I feel like I have exhausted my well of interesting ideas and there’s nothing left to lift my soul, nor that of others.
I have strategies that might help, one of which I would like to share in this…
He is the sun, and so he basks in the warmth of his own radiance. He is not blinded but he blinds and the world colours and blushes from his gaze.
Now, lulled by a dwindling dawn chorus in the early warmth, the morning coaxes his eyes open. Are they dreams, or memories, that linger and blur his vision, forming tears of sadness and of joy?
He imagines he sees a woman walking away from him. Her bare white feet leaving frosty prints in her wake. …
Old, past it, why bother now, too late, mutton dressed as lamb, put some clothes on - all of these and more are damaging to women. They are damaging to men too when they take on those macho roles from society's template. This is a recurring conversation and a culture that is hard to break away from. Some of my writing is about midlife - mindset, reinvention, and self care. There is no quick fix because, even as I counsel myself and others, there are days I won't leave the house because I can't be bothered to put makeup on…
Going viral is the writer’s dream, isn’t it? I remember preparing the bragbook post to inform other members of my community that I had made it and should they require any advice, I was their guru.
So what caused this excitement you ask? How did I do it and what were my stats? Here goes; I posted an article, as a naive newbie, and engaged with related social media groups, sharing posts and reading those of other writers. …
That’s it. You’ve reached midlife, and who knows when that began exactly? The logical conclusion would be that you know yourself, found yourself, and got your sh&t together. What a neat little package that would be indeed.
Here’s the thing; whether or not you have lived a neat life of piano lessons, completed homework, and married the rather handsome but boring accountant; or you pogoed your way through the eighties and rocked up to work regularly wearing the previous night’s outfit, a happy ever after with bouncing bunny rabbits is not guaranteed. …
Amidst writhing, sweating, pulsing, flesh,
blue ribbons fluttered
out of time to
A mother’s dream hovered,
pride before the fall
Boy grinned — joker or fool?
Overworn garbs of spent flirtations
to a weather report.
Yet I never forgot that
her hair was blue.
She danced like me
she dressed like me
she flirted like me
but oh so much better.
Closer. Our lips
touched the lyrics
of Walk of Shame:
I’ll do anything you ask of me.
In the crypt of lingering haze,
in dim-lit loud cellar,
Today a mutiny upset my still.
Whipped up in winds of whirl and daily grind,
Seductive sunbeams and a content mill,
A dusty haze obscured my misty mind.
My palid page why did you grow whiter?
Like dusty sunlight in a squint of eye;
And why did songs of absence grow louder?
In gaping hole of hollow, no words lie.
Where were my words, my loyal witchy friends
that painted petals of my stories’ blooms,
Dispersing sundrenched love when evening ends,
Like spiders weaving stories on their looms?
Maybe a summer breeze swept you away?’
My wily words rode on the thrill until
a pause for rest could no longer delay,
The gentle breeze enamoured…
I sort. I discard. I wrinkle my nose at various items. Spark joy? Doubtful. I learn something.
There is one thing I cannot declutter.
I hold the flippy threadbare sand-filled bear in the palm of my hand, stroking its belly with my thumb.
I swear it looks back at me, pulling at my heartstrings, opening a well-protected mental box of memories. The once satin label was merely a few strands of thread — now, having been rubbed, loved and sniffed into oblivion, only a delicate spiderweb remained, forming the essence of that
‘Remember?’ The bear seemed to ask, ‘remember the first…