Feeling hemmed in? want a new adventure? It just takes one step
The comfort zone
it’s what we know
it’s a source of safety
even when it’s not safe
it’s restricting and confining
even quite defining
it’s the script we are familiar with
but….
it becomes waring, it becomes mundane
it becomes stagnant and like still water can be dangerous
and the dreamer will only ever dream
if they do not take the first step and leave ‘the comfort zone’
There’s something bubbling inside, fizzing, stirring up and making my feet itchy
Here I go again, wondering, wandering in my mind the options, concocting plans, ideas for the ‘what next’
Changes. Changes are a coming, I can feel it. I can’t sit still.
I have a nice life. A good life and I am grateful, but
There is more. More to see. More to do. More to explore and discover
about the world, about other people, about me
I want to be free
Free to do the things I want to do
I want to create
I want to transform
I want to fly
I want to see
I want to give it a shot and see how it goes
The only thing we are ever certain of is that nothing stays the same
and we adapt
I have adapted many times
I have overcome, lived, loved, lost, triumphed, thrived, survived
I have a hunger for change
It keeps me on my toes
I am a rolling stone
It keeps me active
it keeps me inspired
It keeps me satisfied
It keeps me…….. young, at heart!
when a writing prompt takes you on a journey
Writing prompt : to use these 5 words….. Antoine, impasse, century, Montparnasse, espresso……
The River
Her beauty was a picture that could not be unseen
Oblivious to his eyes, she painted so carefree
Pont neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, it stretched from east to west
For her the bright days painting, brought respite until the sun set
Cheerful in her creations the Seine was like a friend
The calming waters ran and flowed and she did not have to pretend
Just a simple girl, happy in her art
But night-time she would transform when dancing in Montmartre
And he a man of finery, a noble man no less
An 18th century revolutionary, a pioneer, a chemist
The discovery of oxygen and the role it played in combustion
Antoine Laurent Lavoisier a scientist, a husband, a humanitarian
While pondering Yvette the river running into the Seine
His goal to make the water pure for the Paris citizens
Is where he stumbled on the bridge, stopped dead there in his tracks
This beauty was a goddess unlike his wife in Montparnasse
He stood and watched her patiently as she packed away her paints
Then slowly he approached her and asked if she could wait
Excuse-moi mademoiselle, bonjour enchanté
May I accompany you across the bridge and join me in the café
I watched you paint the river Seine, a beauty you must show
Let us sit a while, talk, and drink a small espresso
Well taken aback she was for sure by a man of such standing
To want to acquaint with the likes of her was really quite confounding
Yet obliged she did, with a little wry smile, and indulged him in his quest
They sat and talked a little while quite content to be his guest
And soon the days and weeks passed by and here they would rendezvous
There was no denying the chemistry that charged between the two
And so it was inevitable that lovers they would become
And enjoy the flesh of the other despite where she came from
Oh, noble man he was a fool so lost in love and lust
With this courtesan upon his arm as day turned to dusk
And neither one could step across the river of such divide
An impasse, then they must submit, had stalled them in their stride
And so it should be noted that a parting must be done
For she was only decent, when painting in the sun
When sleep eludes me
And I lay awake in the quiet of the dark Tossing this way and that way
My eyes so heavy
And an ache in my heart
I can at least take comfort in the rememberings of you
even though
The grief is the thing that tears me apart
Can you remember the last time you wrote or received a letter, hand written. Chose the paper, licked the envelope and stamp and popped it in the post box? if not, perhaps its time to take up the importance of letter writing again.
I remember the anticipation and excitement when the post man would walk up the drive and I hoped and wondered if any of the letters were for me.
When I was 14, there was no such thing as social media. There was letter writing and a phone plugged into the wall, or in a phone box in the village, if you needed to call anyone.
This was our means of communication back in my youth of the 70’s.
Nowadays, we have txt, email, and all platforms of social media to communicate.
Today I ran our session at a weekly writing group I attend. The theme I used was the importance of letter writing.
It is said that letter writing originated, according to the ancient historian Hellanicus, with Atossa, the Queen of Persia. She was around 50 years old when she wrote the first letter around 500 BC. She was a woman of great influence, skilled and learned and people wanted to emulate her and become literate. She created this genre of communication which eventually formed the basis the postal service as we know it today (selectabase.co.uk).
So why, you might ask, do I think it is important? Well, it isn’t just a catalogue of events that are happening. It is a record, a hand written record, of time, place, thoughts, feelings and events. Even the handwriting itself, is a source of comfort and conversation, unlike txt.
It is personal, recognisable and often a source of joy to receive a letter, through the post, from a loved one, a friend, a partner or family member and long after the txt or email has been deleted or left in the in box, the hand written letter is a tangible document, that can be kept and stored.
I have letters that are 45 years old from friends of my youth. They are to me like treasure. Two of the writers of these letters are no longer with us, both passed young, so the letters are priceless. I run my finger over the ink. They bring me back to a time in my youth and they make me laugh. They are a source of comfort when I feel sad, they are evidence of all the antics that went on and a portrait of innocence of teenage girls. I am right back there, at that time, and I love that.
What strikes me though is nothing changes. The same trials and tribulations and angst we felt as teenagers, is felt by teenagers today.
I have a couple of books which I referenced in the group. One was ‘Love Letters of the Great War’. What was surprising about some of the letters contained in that book, was the positivity written. One talked of the lovely sunrise, the smell of lavender, the dew on the leaves shining like diamonds. I thought how sweet to write such positive things, during such a terrible event, so that his wife could feel comfort. What a treasure, that hand written letter must have meant to her.
The other book I referenced was ’84 Charing Cross Road’. This book, set from 1949, contains all the letters from Helene Hanff, a writer in New York to Frank Doel bookseller of Marks and Co Antiquarian book shop in London. The friendship which developed between the two and other staff members is fabulous. So much so that there were exchanges of Christmas packages, birthday gifts and even food parcels, due to food shortages in Britain after the war.
Both are books I would recommend. They are wholesome and heartwarming and bring us to a place and time, that is right at the heart of the writers.
I think I like poetry because it too is often quite like writing a letter. It expresses thoughts and feelings especially to loved ones. Patrick Kavanagh’s ‘In memory of my mother’, to me is like a love letter to her, it is so poignant, so beautiful and something I can relate to, having lost my own mother last year.
Finally, another poem, described as the greatest poem composed in either Ireland or Britain by Eibhlin Dubh Ni Chonaill. She wrote a lamant about her beloved husband, Airt Ui Laoghaire, who was killed. The year was 1773. The poem is known as a caoineadh (keena) a keen, a lamant for Art O’Laoghaire.
https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1712381318811033
This keen, this lament has been the inspiration of the the Book ‘A ghost in the throat‘ by Doireann Ni Ghriofa. A book that spans time and distance, yet, connects these two women in txt and became an influence in Doreann’s life.
Whether today, or tomorrow, write a letter, with your own hand, write it to a loved one, let them recognise your handwriting as is drops on the floor through the letterbox, let them delight in the news you wish to tell and let them keep this treasure, in a box, or bag, or book and let this be a way to future proof yourself in their life and beyond.
When love is blind, it can be hard to see the woods for the trees
Images – authors own.
Once upon a midnight dreary – inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s, The Raven – a prompt for my writing group.
Happy he was the day he wed
The girl of his dreams, ‘I do’ he said
His heart filled with love, just bursting with joy
She so quiet, reserved, coy
A spring in his step, a glint in his eye
So happy and full, it oft made him sigh
The touch of her skin, the smell of her hair
The deep blue of her eyes
He could not help, but stare
She’d walk by the lake, a gentle stride
And carrying her book, she would escape or hide
She’d sit by the tree, the large Sycamore
And sometimes she’d lay right down on the lawn
One day, early evening, as a fog did descend
He saw her talking, he thought, to her friend
On closer inspection, he saw it a man
And wondered whether, she needed some help
He then heard laughter as she threw her head back
And saw him caress her, lay his lips on her neck
A red mist grew inside him and he spotted the gun
One shot, then two and the deed was done
Into the lake, he sailed her away
And night after night, he replayed that day
And once upon a midnight dreary
He swore he heard her sweet voice so clearly
Repeating a word, he could not make out
Until closer it got, until it was loud
‘Murderer, murderer, I’ll curse you for life
For my life had ended when you made me your wife!
Mother – The matriarch, a woman, a parent, a friend…. A person like no other….
mother, child, matriarch, friend….
It has been a year since my mother died
And when I think of her, which is every day, several times
As much as I mourn her passing, it brings to mind, her living
Her living past
Entwined with mine
Memories from childhood
A time, for example, when she lay out a new dress upon my bed, as a surprise for me
because that morning, I cried when she put my hair in a ponytail, and I didn’t like it in a ponytail,
‘I look like a boy’ I cried, I was 7 years old
I think of the time I tried to cycle my brothers bike out the gate and it was a bit too big for me
I wobbled on its frame and my little hands on the handlebars wobbled it this way and that
Until I fell off and she came running to help me up
I cried, first with the pain, then with laughter, and she cried with me and we were both in hysterics, laughing. I was 8 years old.
I think of the time when I was 9 years old and I fell in the canal. I could not swim. I was terrified she would find out
She did, of course, mothers always find out!
She hugged me tight because she knew I was alright, unlike her brother who had drowned when he was only 14 years old
I saw the pain and relief in her face and I knew then, I would learn to swim and not mess about the next time I had a swimming lesson at school.
I think of her laughter, her smiling eyes and the way they would light up
Her joy and excitement as I brought my own children into the world
Her love, her kindness and her generosity
I think too, of times when we would disagree and fight
Of how we would overcome the obstacles and begin again
I think of her courage at learning to drive in her late 50s and passing her test first time
I think of her learning to paint when she couldn’t even draw, and produce wonderful pieces of art, which hang on my walls
I think of her sacrifices to keep house and home together, when she could have been free
I think of her garden and how she nurtured it and brought it to life
When I think of my mother, I think of her beside me and I see her face, and that makes me happy
I think that even though I know she has gone, I know too, that she is still here
my mother…. A woman of substance….
I am not of this place
Nor am i of that place
Or any place
I am of a thousand pieces of dust
Gathered like a magnet, over millenia
From the stars in the skies
From fragments of the earth
And droplets from the oceans
I am merely passing through this place
Travelling through time, eternal
Even when its not good, or happy, necessarily, we still smile and greet eachother this way……
Good morning
Good night
Good day
Goodbye
Happy go lucky
Happy ever after…….
What a disaster we think we can master
Affairs of the heart
Before the day starts
With a sentence beginning with ‘good’
When such an expression can leave an impression, misguided or misunderstood
No matter the greetings
They merely are fleeting
Neither happy nor good nor true
But still we insist that to greet one like this
Is the right and polite thing to do
When morning has broken
And sadness has spoken
At leaving the night all alone
It can feel quite lonely
Cos the night could be the only true comfort the morning had known
Goodbye’s can be painful
And even disdainful
The parting can be such a wrench
So the ‘good’ needs some context
Cos it can be quite complex
Thus, maybe it’s time to reflect…..
Are we Idealists or realists? We are women, we are fighters and survivors. If we have support each other and stand together, we can achieve anything!
Photo – authors own – A house of women…. Supporting & advocating for one another……
How do we empower. How do we motivate. How do we succeed in being equal?
We first of all must observe. Then we must teach, then we must learn. Women can learn from other women not just from the inequality from men.
The teaching, observing and learning must start in the home. If we have great mentors, advocates, ambassadors within the home, to build us up, make us strong, motivate us, be a role model for us, then we are off to a good start.
Even if, in the home, we see something we do not like, do not agree with, think is not right, we must learn from it,challenge it and take that ‘education’ of it outside of the home.
Take our knowledge, our beliefs our motivations, our voice and strength with us, into the world, and use it as our toolkit. We can keep adding to the toolkit, each time we feel inequality and injustice, is staring us in the face. We must reach into our bag of tools, stare right back at inequality and challenge it.
Seek out like minded people. Seek out your tribe. Help each other out. Build each other up and most of all, be there in the wings, having each others back whenever we get knocked down. Then get up again, build again, stand firm again.
The only way to succeed at anything, is to keep on trying.
From the oldest to the youngest and the youngest to the oldest a flow of ideas, ideals, experiences and perspectives will surface. From female to female, female to male and male to female, there will of course be differences of opinion, power struggles, ideas and idealism. However, the key to be heard, is not power, but persuasion, respect, open mindedness and fairness. It is only then, that we strive for parity.
Happy International women’s day…keep on going…
Relay shun ships 
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