Icelandic Poppies and Black Bamboo from my Garden.
After years of chucking poppy seeds about the garden in the vain hope that they would take, suddenly a plethora of them appeared. It took years of nothing growing there. Now they last from Spring until late Autumn in this sun trap and bring a burst of colour and happiness to the garden, whatever the weather.
This Beach, The One
The first real one that you ever visited.
With it’s sandy spot, where you took off your shoes and pushed your feet into the cool sand.
Where you carefully navigated the section with the smooth pebbles trying not to find a crab or jellyfish.
The swimming pools, where you paddled with friends.
The beautiful views, never ending water, reaching for miles.
The boats bobbing and swaying on the tide.
The mud flats when the tide had gone out,
One of many children searching for crabs.
Beachcombing, to see what can be found.
Kiosks selling ice creams, or chips and the smell wafting along the promenade.
Friendly dogs running up to say Hello and share a picnic.
Sandcastles and random artwork, left for someone else to find.
Listening to the waves, crashing against the breakers.
The trains rumbling past, shattering the peace and quiet.
The seagulls swooping and squawking investigating the remnants of the day.
This Beach,
The one you used to play on when you were ten years old and had just moved close to.
The one you were baptised right out in the open air in the swimming pool, followed by a Barbeque with all your friends from church. A celebration of your life given to God.
The one you used to walk to as a teenager, when you needed to think when you thought you were broken hearted.
The one you bunked off from school to walk to, since it was just far enough away for you not to be found.
The one where you watched the windsurfers and the beach bums and toasted your skin for hours, working on your tan.
The one where you sat and sobbed, when it was all too much for you.
The one where you yelled at the top of your voice, when you felt that things were unjust.
The one where you met your boyfriends, years apart.
The one where you had parties on the beach, listening to your favourite tunes.
The one where you used to meet your friends.
The one where you used to sit on the wall to look at the boys.
The one where you walked your dogs,
The one where you met your current love.
The one where you walked hand in hand with him.
This Beach,
Is also the one where he used to go to think. His favourite beach, where he had sat in the same places, done some of the same things and for years and you had just missed each other. The one where on that day, years later the time was right and walking back from the beach, you met, talked for hours, arranged to meet again and began to fall in love and your story began.
This is Rummage.
I’m not sure how you may feel about visiting Mice in the workplace, but in a place which was close to fields, quiet and where I worked alone quite often sometimes it was nice to see another being joining me as I worked late into the night. At the time I used to average around 50 hours per week working until the job was done, my colleagues were part time. This little mouse used to appear, just before dark, it being a nocturnal creature by nature, it probably assumed that I was invading it’s space. I would work at my desk and suddenly a little rustle would be heard usually in the waste paper bin next to the desk. I had to think of a name for him and Rummage suited him perfectly I thought.
I must admit, I was quite alarmed when he first appeared. (I am only assuming that it was a he) I think that is just human nature, but thought that if I didn’t create a fuss and left him to his own devices, then he wouldn’t cause me any harm. This arrangement worked for us and I kind of looked forward to seeing him. I do love animals and used to keep hamsters and gerbils as pets. Of course, it usually goes that if there is one mouse, you will usually find more, especially when there is food about although I only ever saw this one mouse. My colleagues, were not great at clearing up after their feeding frenzy, so there was always something for him to find. He was quite blatant, into the bin, eat his fill, then running up the back of the wires and suddenly pop out of the drawers in front of me as I typed, sitting there washing after his snack, and watching me with interest.
Of course, it was game over when someone else saw him, shrieking all over the place and a trap was set to catch him. They were certain we must be overrun with Mice. I wanted it to be a humane trap so that he could be released, however I was overruled and Rummage was soon despatched to the next life, I missed our regular evening encounter.
I am not quite sure when it became apparent to me, but one of my lasting memories as a child was the recurring dream. I dreaded it’s arrival as I felt so out of control when it happened. The dream itself took on so many forms over the years, but always somewhere at some point in there was a spiral, almost like being in a vacuum somehow, being pulled always backwards downward as though on a spiral staircase. Although it would always start slowly, as time went on, it would then drag me way too fast and I was powerless to stop it. The sick dizzy feeling that going backwards fast can give you somehow remained with me once I had awoken. I was very small when it happened for the first time. In adult life, both physically and emotionally, I don’t like going backwards, I refuse to travel backwards on a train, it messes with my senses, gives me a headache and makes me dizzy again, bringing back that old familiar dreamlike feeling. I also dislike not making progress however small, since I am naturally impatient and have to curb that sometimes, it seems to be a driving force. Static is almost as bad as the backward spiral and I continue to fight against them both.
Grief
It is strange how it affects us. Creeping up on you and hitting you over the head, leaving you weak at the knees once more, crumpled and emotionally exhausted. The effect it will have on the unsuspecting is incomprehensible.
They say that we shouldn’t dwell upon the past, although I agree it is not safe to do so, I do firmly believe it is what shapes us. Although it is not wise to wallow in grief, it is essential to enable us to heal from the pain that is caused by our loss. It may be a quick process for some, or achingly slow for others, appearing again after laying dormant for years. One thing is for sure, when you come out the other side of grief, it cannot fail to have changed you.
Our first house with it’s green door
Where an ear of corn, grew through the floor.
Only one ear, it would yield,
Although I hoped to grow a field.
Thinking of all the times with my brother I’d play,
Bike and scooter races along the pathway.
Chips on the TV or Starsky and Hutch
Followed us into our games so much.
An office and workshop both he had,
Where he could hide and not be Dad.
Packed with tools and random stuff,
Would venture in there when he’d had enough.
The larder cupboard, where deep inside,
I would sit with my friend and hide.
Eating sweets and cubes of bread,
If we’d got caught, we feared we’d be dead.
One day outside a picture we would take,
Of Mum and Dad’s wedding cake,
I wondered why we couldn’t eat,
Kept for years was no mean feat.
Cooking together, or knitting a hat,
Next door had a beautiful cat.
It played in the house and sat on the stair,
when you wanted to stroke it was always there.
Would walk through the garden taking a look,
Sit under a tree with colouring book.
Colouring in the pictures and drawing,
No sign of me when day is dawning.
The cupboard where I would sit and read
When some of my own space I’d need.
A box room so small, to call my own
Drawers so full that they would groan.
With everything there so close, Oh my
Teddies and dollies standing by
A King, A Queen a Copper or Thief
Sometimes a Squaw or and Indian Chief.
The games we play, when imagination runs riot
Mum was worried when we went quiet
Fought with my brother he was so strong
Our garden was wide and very long.
Tennis with the kids next door
Over the fence rolling on the floor.
A net across the bit that was grassed
Fun Summers there, endless passed.
She bought me this gift, a witches ball.
Just when she got it, I don’t quite recall.
It remained so long in the box,
Found it again when looking for socks,
Put it to the back of the cupboard for sure,
Hadn’t a clue of the things in store.
It is said that you fill the vessel with scent,
It sends spirits away, they came and went.
Hanging up there in the light,
They can’t get in, try as they might.
They bounce off the window, tumble and fall
It offers me protection from them all.
It brought a pivotal change in my life,
When I found out it was made in Fife.
Not far from where we go off to hide,
Off up there in the countryside.
The place where our thoughts we gather,
Oh to be there, whatever the weather.
A place which has me bewitched,
The life I have here would be switched.
Off where future thoughts are rife,
Where we have a different life.
To when where I can make and toil,
A home, with soft garden soil.
Where things will grow, be abundant,
Herbs and foods, self sufficient.
Well my friend, she knows me well
As she weaved her magic spell.
Around the space it would drape,
As the dreams began to shape.
The places about they’d start to drift,
As they began a momentous shift.
To create someone refreshed anew,
Stopping to sip in this unusual brew.
Perhaps a life was better spent,
Doing the thing of which you’ve dreamt
Herbs and spices in the mix,
You think she’s up to her old tricks.
On a journey and make haste,
In to the country you have chased.
Now and then her power to surge.
A moment to Thank her for the urge.
A well thought gift that she would send,
Protecting me, her very dear friend.
The tractor was hiding down a back street when we went to view a house in Scotland, in a field at the top of the road near to the beach. It was owned by an ex-headmaster who has it just sitting there in his garden. He was about 80 years old and stopped for a chat, as curious people do out in the countryside when confronted by out-of-towners’. He told my partner that he would be pleased to let me have it, we just have to go and collect it and visit for tea. It hasn’t turned a wheel in years, but I thought it was a fantastic piece of machinery and I simply had to photograph it. We didn’t buy the house for several reasons, it just wasn’t right for us. I’d love to take the man up on his offer, but getting it home would be a real mission and restoration of such a wonderful machine a challenge that might be beyond my capabilities.
I recently read a wonderful page which mentioned being up on the roof. and in a flash of inspiration I returned for a moment to my favourite place in our second childhood home.
When I was ten years old we moved away from school and the friends that I had come to know and travelled to a new place. I was full of hope, finally getting away from the children that had terrorised me up until then. This would be the chance for a whole new existence. As the youngest child at the time, I was happy to have the smaller bedroom, it overlooked most of the garden, had a nice window and I used to climb out of the window and sit on the bathroom roof. It had a small brick ridge to the pitch where it joined the house next door and it was just big enough to perch along it. I loved sitting out there, when things had all got too much, after arguments with my brother or friends at school, or my parents. It was my thinking space and I loved to take time out to be there. I always was told off if my parents found out that I had been up there, but I took the risk on so many occasions. It was slightly less dangerous once they had the new roof fitted after which I could see no real reason why I shouldn’t go there. Falling was never considered since I was always careful.
A couple of years later, my sister arrived and I very reluctantly had to move into the larger bedroom, having previously had the small box room for the first ten years of my life I always preferred the smaller room. Years later, when my brother was away, I asked to borrow his room and regularly ventured out up on the roof, much to the surprise of the new neighbours when they moved next door. From up there you could see both up and down the road in the gardens, I could also wave at my friend down the road, from his roof windows, when he was home.
I liked the height and the inaccessibility of a roof, most people I knew would not venture out there and as I grew older I later chose homes which were high up wherever possible. I felt somehow safer there. The balcony flats where I lived for 13 years, were fantastic for the views and I feel truly at home living up high, it also kept unwanted visitors out and I could enjoy the view, looking out over the rooftops and letting the imagination run wild once again.
It’s been happening again, what can only be referred to as a Brain Dump. Every once in a while, my head feels like what happens to a computer, right when there is a blue screen and it begins a crash dump.
Hopefully at this point your disk drive doesn’t fry aswell. On occasions it has, that is NOT a metaphor. It has actually happened. Note to self, I may need some new technology.
Meanwhile, for those who are blissfully unaware, the brain dump wakes you up, but not quite. So you feel that you are sleeping, but you are actually aware of your surroundings.
It starts to dispose of random things in your head, clearing out what may, or may not be rubbish and you are not in control of what it may select. At times, I have found it rather disturbing, since you never know when it is coming your way, how long it may last and sometimes, there will be a real gem in there, which afterwards will be gone forever. You see, you are not awake enough to write it down, or record your thought in any way, it remains totally illogical, a collection of random thoughts which go through your head and upon fully waking you cannot recall most of it.
I noticed previously, that it used to happen most on a Saturday morning, when I did not have to rise early for work, and arrived usually in the early hours after a particularly stressful week. At times, it has given me the freedom from upset, a release from a distressing situation, which up to that point my have been ruling me. Other times, it can be memories from the past, which have returned to haunt or delight. I usually feel refreshed after this happens, but I cannot help but wonder how many people get it. In conversation with a lady who is a counsellor a while ago, she told me it might be my way getting rid of things which I cannot cope with. I rather think that it is a coping mechanism, but it has only manifested in the last couple of years.
Since last week was a prolific time for my writing things, I am hopeful that what spurred me on to write, was not short-lived and so must not allow my fears to conquer me. Tomorrow is another week and with it, brings new thoughts, experiences and excitement.
So, where does it come from? Answers, on a postcard, email, or comment. I’d love to be enlightened.
byindiablue 