Falling off the edge of the sea…


An illogical premise?  A literal impossibility?

Yet that is how I feel.

A wide unending expanse of water beckons me, entices me. I go. I dance on the waves like one of them. I inevitably fall.

 

I just smashed a new plate. Well, not a new one exactly – but had only just unwrapped a few finds from an antique fair a few months back. How is it anything valuable, or unique, or promising I touch this year seems to disintegrate rapidly? Just an Italian blue and white, handmade, pottery plate. Yet still. Destruction of its unassuming and undeserving stencilled spectrum of blues and carefully placed white swirls that someone lovingly crafted – torn apart by ME in one, obliterating moment.

It seems all my over exerted optimism in my teens, twenties and 30s has somehow dissapated along with the disappointments of my 40s! A diluted pessimism that cannot even be bothered to raise its weary head either at times

 

I lit a fire tonight for the first time in months. There was a strange chill in the air despite the warm day and I needed comfort of a shape. The rise and fall of the flames is reassuring…somnambulistic in its drawing in of both the mind and your fascination.

I love that a dying ember can suddenly link to a stronger wood and flare up again unexpectedly, inexplicably. I love that it flares into life, burns then gradually dies. I love that with it and my candles lit and the arched windows wide open to tonight’s crazy storm here on the island it exonerates my pain, and rejuvenates my Soul. After a very tough few weeks it has almost exorcised some ghosts, and refuelled me in my beliefs.

 

” What if I fall?

Ah…but what if you fly?”

 

 

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Go Litel Bok….


Well, its been well over a month since I wrote a thing!

Not a syllable. Nunca. De Nada.

 

After a madly prolific period in which I hardly slept and wrote till dawn mostdays I then fell into a kind of frozen limbo – not a good place to be when your anxietycan often scourge at your inner core as much as your hidden mind.

Something was triggered, and so began the endless, self imposed isolation; the enthusiastically made yet inevitably cancelled appointments; the languid routine of a ”writer’s day” with bouts of research and thinking interspersed with coffees, punctuated with lack lustre snacks yet not a word of print adorned the empty page.

On April the 10th I launched this.

The Cuckoo in Their Nest

Written 15 years ago, when I was living in a similar remote abode, and writing and home replaced nights out and social whirls – I could never decide! – and it was from a rather dark but rawly truthful place.  Not that much of my writing is not.

Coveted for years, I have always been reluctant to release my etchings on an unsuspecting, and perhaps unconcerned world. It always felt so personal and so private, like exposing my Soul to an undeserving – worse, possibly a non understanding and judgemental – audience!

Well, now it has finally been done.

Entrails and all.

 

The initial euphoria as I hovered above the self publishing key and the ensuing plethora of congratulations and sharp intakes of breath, encouraging reviews – even some tears – from close friends and family soon became tinged with a slight regret. Followed hot on its heels by overwhelming Anxiety.

I was, am, suddenly that 8 year old me again.

Afraid, insecure, grabbing at any attention freely given, lonely, isolated, even at such an early age reading and writing became my salve. Long periods of time would be spent alone in my room. Long silences. Who knew then that this was the beginning of the Anxiety that would then plague my entire Life. No labels back then.

girl in white and blue dress reading books while sitting on lawn

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The chatty, lively former me still wore her expected Mask. Still attempted to meet Their Expectations. Yet more and more she cared less and less. And yet cared too much.

The last few weeks have been ones of deep reflection with many uncalled flashbacks.

The book has clearly shifted the Past and unsettled its dormancy. Clouds of memory whisked up and uneasily resettling around me in the Present.

Yet it has been necessary at this point to finally release who I really was.

Who I really am.

I await some recriminations and maybe some Hurt. I carry Hurt within me still but it is not the work of a Victim. Just the truth of a child who clearly still dwells within me.

 

So, in the words of Chaucer –

“Go litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye,”

― Geoffrey ChaucerTroilus and Criseyde

 

and do what you will.

willow that grow along the river

Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

 

 

 

 

 

In the garden is a weather vane…


Well…I say a weather vane

There is a child’s toy windmill on a stick – you know the sort?

Once a bright red and gold, now faded to smoother, subtle hues.

 

Some days it whirs majestically, others it is still.

Some days it judders and jerks entirely dependant on the winds that blow.  On their kindness or ferocity…

Other days it just stands serenely, surveying all around it, the ever changing seasons and the inclimate weathers.

Buffeted by storms, or isolated in peace. Neither one nor the other.

This ‘weather vane’ invariably represents my Life.

 

 

JOURNEY …….#POETRY201. DAY TWO


image

POETRY201 DAY 2
LUSCIOUSLY LILTING LIMERICKS!!

JOURNEY ……

                                Afar is a lush land kilometers away
                               Sure I should simply sail there today
                               No time to dwell!
                              So go there I shall!
                              Rightly regardless of reasons to stay!