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My First Blog Post

C

C

C

C

C

Initial.

The Initial C was given to me
By parents who chose it a tad cautiously
"C it shall be" Mum declared
"Creative and careful is she"
"Her Initial is chosen and is meant to be"
The first letter I learnt how to write
My C was twisted wavy and not always right
Focused unfazed my hand and pencil would engage
"I will write a letter C" my four year old self said
Correctly and true a mind full of intent
My Initial faithful never to leave
A proud part of me I she
Declared by Mum who I remember vividly
Times will aghast worries will beset me
But my mind calms when I write my Initial C
If your world rocks with thoughts galore
Write your Initial Try it feel sure
It brings calm into sight
Constantly write it your focus will change
Your Initial it will make everything right
The Initial chosen for you
Begun with a thought a love a true
Write it down
Let knotted thoughts go
Calm will guide and filter through
Take this gift that you and I fought young
And so steadfastly to
The written word begins with a letter
Your Initial is the start
The choice of writing is then up to you. 

Write What You See. A Golden Eye, The First Rose of Spring.

Counting the Primrose petals with a mindfulness awareness…

A frill of powdery white Primroses on emerald stems sprout out of their little terracotta pot. The crinkled layering of forest green leaves evoke memories of by gone spring walks. Through the primroses that clump in crowns of white across woodland floors. Only revealing their golden eyes to humans on closer inspection.

I’m aware first of the mossy smudge that’s ingrained into the terracotta. A protective band for the little white crown. The feminine feel of flounce drifts into my vision. I count the first flutter of petals. I take in a short inhale, then I count on my exhale. 1, 2, 3. 4, 5….

My face relaxes, my breathing remains soft, as I recognise the familiarity that seemingly floats in front of me. Each stem floats in the same way, with five delicate fine petals. I pick the taller stem. Shielding her golden eye in the frill of white.

I start my next count. My inhale brings me closer, the return inhale sits smooth on my top lip as I count. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… Breath flicking at the frills, my eyes flit to a slightly shorter stem, a flouncy fan displaying the tiniest nugget of gold. My last count turns to a whisper, the exhaled count feels close to my chest. I catch my breath. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

I smile. A joyful smile. Mother Nature and her First Rose of Spring has hidden wonders. I look further into the rosette of green leaves. Proudly displaying its three emerald stems, illuminating the powdery white primroses into the natural light.

I tell the Primrose how beautiful she is. I’m aware, in the moment. I know she acknowledges me with a delicate curtsy, her golden eyes bowed. And I. Go about my day with the snippet of spring still fresh in my mind.

Look. But do not Touch..

Lily….

A floral aroma floods me, swirling around my face and into my nose. A hint even lingers on my lips. I turn my head and puzzled eyes to search for the smell. I catch my breath as I see the aromatic find.

A white Lily on a single green stem drifts to the left, and leans on the rim of a heavy glass vase. A sigh leaves me, as I glance at the Lilies mottled green leaves. Elongated and seemingly suspended in mid air. My view won’t let me see their attachment, the bond to stem obscured.

Its ethereal beauty and heavenly smell catch me…..Caught, my eyes wonder into her chiffon cloud of petals. I inhale so deeply I taste the floral notes on my exhaled breath. My first count is swift. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6….. Six russet coloured pollen heads, protrude from their thin stalks.

A succession of soft breaths leave me. Intoxicated now by the heady scent, my second count floats out on a single exhaled breath. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6….. Six ruffle petals unfurl, hanging like white feather boas, exposing the stalks of transparent lime. The originators of the heady scent.

My breath puffs pollen dust onto one white petal. I pull back, observing the speckled russet stain. The Lilies powdery warning. To look, but do not touch.

My Bamboo’s

My second Blog on my Blessed Beautiful Bamboo’s……..

I love my Bamboo. I visit it in free moments. Taking a trip down the bottom of my garden to look at these glorious natural structures sets a smile on my face for the day. Storm Ciara and Dennis have seemingly made the Bamboo’s grow. They look up lifted, glossy with the wind and rain this morning. Leaves splayed out, smiling. I feel the happiness radiate through its canes and across its leaves. I tell my Bamboo’s how magnificent they are, and count out loud the new shoots that I see. Today’s count is three. Considering its winter, three is a good count. My joy! My “Bamboo children”. My family have christened them with this title and they’re not far wrong.

Two Daisy's of Gold

Two Daisy's of gold
One, my Brother's girl of fluff and fur
The other, a ring
I wear to hold
Both are cherished
With their beauty displayed
My Daisy ring lost 
Daisy of fluff and fur
Her beautiful soul made
One rescued one found
My written words  
Flow with love abound. 




A Diary Entry (1986)

I love the written word. And I’ve come across a diary once belonging to my Grandpa. The scribe and scrawl of his hand writing has caught my eye. Writing was an art form and taught strictly with everyone having the same of flow of letters back then. The lean, oh so slight.. Making the words and sentences slant almost artistically, with curls, loops and linking dashes and dots. Perhaps every one was an artist in the 1930’s? Or the Teachers tapped into every child’s artistic side? I kept flicking back to the entry on January Thursday 9th. ” Heseltine resigned from the Cabinet” It was poignant enough for my Grandpa to write it in his diary. Other entries to the 1986 diary include appointments, meetings, his pension calculations, shopping lists and birthdays. And amongst all that sits Mr Heseltine! I never new my Grandpa’s political stance. Was he pleased at the resignation? Concerned? Upset? I will never no. So for now, and probably always, I will just look at the slanted sentences with curls, loops and linking dashes and dots and remember a man I once new, but not it would seem his political point of view…

Ants in the Pants.

I’m an ardent fan of putting pen to paper. I realised this even more this morning. Looking at another notebook of my writing.

I’ve taken up knitting again. My Grandma and Little Auntie taught me at the age of seven. I knitted dolls scarfs, mini blankets and even a knitted book! All in the conventional wavy beginners stitch called “garter”.

Knitting was the answer to my ants in the pants according to Grandma and Little Auntie. Always upon always I’ve had a restless mind. Never been able to complete a task, school was a nightmare! I couldn’t finish reading a book, the last page was to tempting. And I always found other things to do. Like creating mischief in Grandma and Little Auntie’s seven storey house. Mainly exploring rooms I shouldn’t have been in.

So, knitting sat me down into a fixed spot. I was allowed to choose my yarn. Wound up balls of wool lay in an ottoman box, Not new wool, but wool from previous jumpers, garments and oddments. All of the wool had a story to tell. I once made a dolls scarf from my Dads old school jumper. I remember thinking what Dad was like as a boy, and did he like the feel of scratchy wool on his arms. All of this quietened the ants in the pants.

Roll on Forty five years and here I am again with my Grandma and Little Auntie’s knitting needles. ( I was bequeathed the ottoman box ) The ants in the pants have some what escalated over the years. My mind can get knotted up with issues. Like scenarios, repetitive thoughts, conversations and past comments. People! I mill it over and I never come to conclusive conclusions with any of it. It really wears you out at fifty two.

Grandma and Little Auntie aren’t here to sit me down. I make myself “sit to knit” now. The only way to successfully do this, is by writing down my stitches. I have the tactile feeling of my trusty pen and paper and my bequeathed ancient knitting needles which together seem to settle my mind to the job at hand. I will complete my raglan jumper. Just a thought..

In a single moment. Write what you see.

With me in mind. My Brother and Daughter each took a photo last summer.

Quick snap shots of natural light and shape

Tree tunnels always inspire me to write what I see. My heart flicks thumb and forefinger style at my chest when I look at these unfiltered photos. In a single moment, two of my special people thought of me and my passion for a tree tunnel. My utter joy is that they recognised one! Here are some of my written words from last summer. An attempt to write what I see from the above photos. Converted into type today for my blog.

“Tree tunnels have no endings to them. They’re a continuum of entrances, passages, pathways for people who travel through them. As you leave one, you know you will find another. The natural light that lies within the trees and leaves always expressive, evocative and our souls have an urge to explore those responses. Each tree tunnel is diverse, varied, like its surrounding landscape. Man made roads and paths will separate trees and there trunk like torsos from each other. But the top branches always entwine like clusters of human arms with outstretched hands. Creating subtle arches which feather together over head. Natures umbrella. Natures welcome.”

Pick a Personal Piece.

Put Pen to Paper and Write what you see…

A daisy ring
Found in a vintage button tin
It lay in cotton threads and dust
With a whiff of forgotten lust...

Rhyming will boost your ability to write. Pick your personal piece. Write single words, groups of words, your words to describe it. Use Rhyme. Doodle it. Scribble it out. Write it down. Leave it. Go back to it.

Use a pad and pen..
Things will start to happen..

Write what you see.

Write single words. Groups of words. Play with your words. Doodle. Rhyme. Create. An idea comes from just one word.

Bamboo.

Stripped from the ground where it new no other
Bamboo was forced to a pot
Forsaking its roots for a human's pleasure
Its leaves left in disgust
Reconciled to the ground
Then drying to a crust
Refusing human hospitality
Bamboo wilted and panned
Its leaves curled, crisp to frilly
Pleading for a drink
Its canes textured to crepe
Bamboo had begun to sink
Observing the earth, human knelt
Devout in mind, focused on growth
"Come on" human said
"Your plea is my oath"
"Please pot, be a good host"
Sun wind rain and a human eye
Encouraged Bamboo that once seemed shy
Roots tunnelled down into the gritty earth
Silk sand forming on the pot
Like a soft skirt
So it started slow
Previous months had nothing to show
But, four shoots were counted
Two new ones in a week
Green buds were showing
Spiky and sleek
With human continuity and care
Bamboo strives abundant
Never to be laid bare
Its growth from March to November
Now reveals a mighty Bamboo
Majestic and slender
Filtering into a garden of trees
Bamboo belongs
Nurtured into nature
For all to see.

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