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. …
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…
“I would like to buy a bench,” said my husband’s Mum.
My husband is a headteacher and had sent out a request for donations towards a lovely garden area for students. It would be a place for them to meet, chat, and enjoy a few moments during break and lunch.
His request listed certain items that would be included — benches, bushes, paths — with costs listed alongside. This was so that people were generally aware of how much the garden would cost, and what their donations would be going towards.
But my mother-in-law was very clear that her donation…
The snowflakes made their polite excuses
and bid me farewell, for now.
Faint images of crocus, daffodil and bluebell
flash subliminal in that place where thoughts dwell.
I mourn the cold stinging bite of winter’s breath
that kindly numbs the burn of pain.
The day you left was spring, in season and your step
and no sorrow lingered in your final farewell.
Only my tears trailed your footsteps
streaming from random cells on my body
where your words cut my flesh and your indifference
emptied my well of future tears.
You gave me a key to a golden future,
When did you last receive a letter in the post?
I remember how excited I would be when an envelope landed on the doormat, the address handwritten and the stamp a real sticker, not a grim franking machine automation. As life, and technology stretched out before me, I wrote less and less. These days a note to my son’s PE teacher asking for excusal from games due to sore eyebrow or whatever, is as far as I venture in the letter writing field. A friend suggested a virtual letter swap in these strange times. It was an opportunity to check-in…