Three shorts
Some Days
Sometimes, when IT rules my life –
Companies House want verification of who I am,
with passport, apps and real time photos;
spread sheets need passwords
and one time codes expire while I put the kettle on –
when the post brings a speeding fine for being just over the limit
and my walking boots are letting in the water,
then it is I find it hard
to feel the softness in my life.
Why can't I cry? I wonder for the thousandth time.
And back comes the answer like the time before
and the time before that:
He's dead.
The one who could hold you, is dead.
Then how come I can't laugh at myself at least?
Because the son who understood,
the son with the black, un-PC humour,
who made you laugh and never failed,
he's dead too.
And I try to find the tears or the laughter
and neither is available:
“You are currently experiencing technical issues.
Please try again later.”
And I think, it isn't only me,
this world is a hard world in which to live a life.
If it's not the tax man it's the broken fridge;
if the TV aerial hasn't blow down
or the internet isn't cutting out from high demand,
then the news blares horror into our homes;
or inane celebrities distract us from pain,
before making headlines for indiscretion.
And from here I wonder if the hope of spring and joys of summer
are delusional;
or if they were real and this black cloud
of computerised inhumanity is the fake.
And both are true and both are false
because nothing lasts.
And as I walk, the dog enjoys the smells of autumn,
though he doesn't like the rain.
And I wonder how I'll bear up this winter
as many skyfuls of rain empty
on my village, my house, on me.
And I'm glad I have new boots now
and my house is warm,
and when it's not I have a furry throw
and books to read which which make me think -
or laugh or even sometimes weep.
And I realise how much I need the fur and warmth
and softness on my body,
to remind me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I said to the tree
I walked through the wood
and I minded the chill and the rain,
heard the cackle of winter,
saw her bony finger, cruel in its beckoning.
So I sat on my friend the tree and I said,
“Do you mind the rain?”
She sank the toes of her roots deep in the earth
and she drank.
And I knew,
she didn't mind the rain.
“Don't you mind this hot sun we've had?” I said.
She stretched her leaves and I found at my feet
a little nut no longer green,
fit to take root, fit to be food.
And I knew,
she didn't mind the sun.
“Well then”, I said, “surely you mind the wind,
for look, once upon a time it knocked you over?”
I watched her four trunks that once were branches
standing side by side,
their own branches dancing in the wind,
leaves singing as they fluttered to the forest floor;
and I looked and saw the soil was thick with leaves of generations.
And I knew,
she didn't mind the wind.
“Soon you will be naked,” I said,
“and you must mind the cold”.
I saw she would draw herself in,
prepare to read the stories written in her trunks,
prepare to rest, to sleep and dream of spring.
And I knew,
she didn't mind the cold.
So I walked through the wood,
still minding – but not minding quite so much – the rain;
the beckoning hand no longer cruel,
more an invitation into remembering,
an invitation into rest, to sleep and to dream
sweet dreams of spring.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love is not changed by death and nothing is lost and all in the end is harvest.
Julian of Norwich.
My heart is still my heart.
Nothing has happened to remove love from it;
but where is your hand in mine, my dear,
as I stand in fields of golden light while buzzards flute
and swifts swoop low in graceful arcs?
Why are we not returning home together,
fingers stained purple and blackberry sweetened tongues,
to peel wind fallen apples to eat with custard?
Your harvest, my dear, you reap beyond death,
unruffled by fingers, flutes and arcing swifts.
Yet love?
You took love, living love, along with you?
My harvest is here, where earth and sky kiss
and where my aching love longs to land
on someone, something, some purpose,
somehow, in ways unfathomable,
to have you live with me in every detail of my life.
I want to say it's not enough,
you left too soon,
we should have reaped what we had sown
together.
I want to say I’m not OK
heading into winter
alone;
it's cold this gap beside me,
and I need the warmth of you against my skin.
So show me, my dearest dear,
how love can warm me inside out,
how that golden arcing love,
fluted by heaven, sweeter than berries,
lives in me
and shares its bounty.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With my love
Nickie
An Invitation
I challenged my friend to 30 days of writing for 5 – 10 minutes every day. She is inspired by the late Michael Moseley’s assertion on his programme, “Just one thing”, that writing is good for your health, and I am inspired by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer who accepted a challenge to write a poem a day for 30 days in 2006 and is still going! We are not writing to craft a piece – although I developed the third poem from something I wrote on one of those days- we are simply writing.
Next time I appear in your inbox I am going to invite you to join me for a new 30 day writing challenge! This won’t be a formal fee paying venture, more an exploration which we make alone while knowing we are held by each other. More next time.
NEWS
CLAY STORIES – now booking
Here are the details of my next collaborative workshop (or Heartshop as Rosemerry calls them- I like that). This is the first time I will be working with local potter Roger Womack.
Roger and I have both found solace for profound grief in our chosen forms of creativity. Roger has run workshops in and around South Devon- “Remembering with Clay” and “Clay Conversations” – and as many of you know, I have held numerous groups in person and online for those who are grieving,mostly using writing and inspired by the natural world. Together, we will hold a gentle and respectful space in which you can safely explore your loss.
Absolutely no prior experience of working with clay or writing is necessary, this is about accessing and bringing comfort to the feelings of grief, through the process of creativity, and not about any finished articles.
If you live further afield, do consider staying for the weekend. We are on the edge of Dartmoor National Park which is stunning at any time of year but especially in the autumn.
For more information you can write to me here or to book from the Events page here.
Please do join us.
CREATIVELY WRITING THROUGH LOSS – coming soon
I am planning an online creative writing workshop immediately after Clay Stories. Whether you would like to continue the process you have started there, or you are new to the idea of writing to comfort you through grief and loss, or if you have written with me before, you are all very welcome to warm yourselves by the fire of creativity together.
More details to follow next time but it is likely to be for 4 weeks one evening a week, starting on or about the 11th November. Do write to me to register your interest or to find out more about how I work.
Buy Me a Coffee
A very big thank you to those of you who generously support this blog with your donations to Buy Me a Coffee. I gift this blog as well as my work at a local hospice and my work leading the Threshold Choir singing for those on the threshold of life, and so I am extremely grateful for any support you offer me. If you would like to donate at any time, you can do so here. Thank you.
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