Why Journal?

Journaling and writing

I spent quite a bit of time in America in the late 80s and in that time I was fortunate enough to take a seminar on journaling.  It was a life-affirming seminar that has stayed with me all my adult life.  Back then journaling was evident in the UK but in the USA it was gathering its own very clear momentum.  Now, of course, it is a global occupation for a core group of creative and dedicated beings.  I am not sure where I would be without my journals and I have come to realise that I take them for granted.  Pondering on their value has led me to record their special qualities and search out how others see journaling.

Journaling is, by definition, a record.  Your journal is a space where you can record whatever you like.  At its best it has no boundaries and no agenda.  It is a space where both conscious and subconscious thoughts can be left to play quite happily together and you will be content to leave them there.  There are many reasons to journal and we all know why we do it, but sometimes we forget.  I had forgotten that my initial reason to journal was to record my experiences as my professional dance career found its feet.  I had forgotten because when I look back at those early journals I see so much more than dancing.  I see a young dancer trying desperately to find her creative voice in a fiercely competitive world.  I see a frightened young dancer living in a strange country but making the best of friends.  I see a dancer that emerges into a young woman through a defining role as Eurydice and I see so much more.

This has taught me that we do not, in fact, always know why we are journaling but the joy in looking back on old journals is one of life’s most rewarding personal experiences.  I have always viewed journaling as a highly creative medium of expression.  You give yourself permission to be free in your journal and you are also free from judgement.  Many of us keep our journals private, but increasingly there is a culture of sharing.  I think perhaps a combination of both approaches is the one I favour.  There are parts of my journals that I keep private and sacred but there are other parts that need to be lifted off the page and shared.  An example of that would be a piece of choreography that demands an audience.

For me, it is important that my journal is not just about words.  Many of us view the world in pictures and pictures take front of stage in our minds as we try and make sense of our world.  Therefore pictures deserve a place in our journals.  Creating pictures can take many different forms and sometimes the joy is in the identification of the medium.  Some days I am drawn to watercolours while others it is charcoal and so the decisions take shape.  Sometimes my pictures are no more than doodles but I have come to realise how important these simple pictures are to my journaling process.  I have often found a new and inspiring idea locked away in a doodle and the joy is in finding it.  It is almost as if my conscious mind plays hide and seek with my subconscious mind.

There are black days though.  On black days I sit and stare at an empty page.  I desperately want to journal that day but for some reason or another there is nothing.  I have no starting point and I have no motivation.  Over the years journaling has become part of my spiritual life and I often feel a strong urge to journal.  But on black days there is nothing.  In those dark moments I turn to others for help.  There are many excellent web sites dedicated to journaling and I have left you with some useful links at the end of this piece.  I particularly like the ‘tips for journaling’ pages as they offer up starting points and usually that it all you need to break through the blackness and find the colour once more.

I have just a few tips of my own that I have found useful over the years –

·         See your entire page as an expression for your entry.  Take time to create a background for your words and note the association between the two aspects of the page

·         Never be frightened of a blank page – it is your gift to yourself

·         Keep writing or drawing and don’t stop until you know you are done and you will know. 

·         Date your entries as this will be important when you look back.

·         Don’t avoid difficult subjects as sometimes they offer up the greatest learning

·         Only ever share your journal on your terms

·         Avoid erasing you will probably regret it

 

For me, as a writer, my journals are often my starting point.  They offer up suggestions and they don’t mind if I move away in new directions.  My journals are my constant companion and I usually have more than one on the go at the same time.  I am not sure I have ever truly experienced writer’s block as my journals have saved me from that fate.  There is always something there; you just have to look long enough.  Everything goes in my journal and it often appears to make no sense on first reading.  I am always fascinated by the connections between different entries.  For me this is where the subconscious finds its true voice.  It has already made the connections and it is just waiting for the conscious mind to catch up!  I view my journal as my writing fodder as it feeds me all the time.  I have a small notebook that I carry around with me all the time that feeds my journal.  My journals are too precious to throw in a bag as I dash out the door so I use a small notebook for that task.  In my notebook I record what I see, hear, taste, smell and feel.  I record anything that interests me and then, when I have more time, I transfer these points of interest to my journal.  This is a joyful stage where, sometimes in the transference, mutation occurs.  What eventually ends up in my journal has changed and grown wings and I love that.  And so the creative process begins and I am grateful that it has never ended.  Journaling is my creative life blood and if I could take them with me after I die I would. 

If you have never tried journaling give it a go. Visit some of the web sites suggested here to help you get started.  For me, one of the best bits of the entire process is choosing the journal that you are going to use.  The world is awash with wonderful notebooks and it is your job to find the one for you.  You will absolutely know when you have found it though! I hope that journaling brings you joy, peace and much creativity. 

Scent walk

I am currently studying on a course which aims to establish a deeper connection with flowers.  One of the tasks was to go on a 'scent walk' before writing about the experience.  I thought I might share...

My favourite time to do a scent walk is just after the rain has stopped.  Everything seems more vivid then.  This afternoon the sun came out as the rain departed and off I went hunting for scents.  Just stepping out of my back door I am immediately hit by the chives insisting that they are smelt first.  Much more subtle oregano tries to get a look in but with only a gentle success.  Taking footsteps alongside my cut flower border and this is a myriad of scents but winning through are the Stocks.  They are strong and bold and very much of the moment.  I notice that the borage in the next row has bowed its head in reverence and so it should. 

Moving away from the cut flower border it is the hawthorn blossom with its musty drift that captures my attention as it arches it branches across my path.  The ever present ferns lap at the branches and release some more subtle but earthy fragrance.  Into the wooded area and the very last of the English Bluebells tickle my nose to remind me that they were once so powerful a matter of weeks ago.  I feel a sense of sadness as it is one of my favourite scents and I will have to wait another year to be captivated by them once more. 

The hedgerow is full of honey bees and I smell the white clover before I see it.  A foxglove dangles her slight fragrance above the clover as if keeping watch.  Moving into the field the wet grass fragrance dominates and I have to stand still for sometime to smell anything else.  From the edges I detect a delicate fragrance and it takes me a moment to figure out what it is.  Deep in the thick grass is a Dog Rose just coming into flower.  If I wasn’t concentrating on scents I would have trampled right passed it.  Lifting and separating the grass I give the rose some more space so that its delicate fragrance can start to shine more brightly. 

Re-tracing my steps I return to the house just diverting slightly to take in the scent from the poly tunnel.  In here sweet pea completely dominates although you can pick up ripe strawberry as well.  Meaning delicate pleasures sweet peas offers up my favourite scent of all.  How can something so delicate release such a potent floral scent?  As they flicker in the gentle breeze the scent moves among the other plants in the tunnel just pausing once near a forgotten lavender that punches the air with its unmistakable scent. 

The rain has brought everything to life and the scents are no exception.  As I close the door on the chives I nod at the oregano to thank it for trying so very hard to be noticed. 

 

 

 

Who put the flowers in the cage?

On the greyest of days why does the sun find this place?  Why does it cast light shadows around the stones?  This is a special place, it is a place to sleep bathed in the morning sun.  Deep below the spirits gently wake to the warming sun and begin their dance.  A daily ritual that is shared and loved by all.  Nancie, William and Margaret join the dance as it brushes past their souls that once more begins their day.  A day filled with joy and a day filled with hope.  In this quiet and removed place a lonely being enters the heavy rusty gate that does not invite them in.  Book in hand she silently moves within the stones, hoping not to disturb but watching the light.  She has seen the light, will she see the dance?  Janet and Colin take flight and rest at her heels as the visitor pauses to read a stone.  Scribbling in her book more spirits take flight to read the words and whisper them to others who now all stir and stretch.  Awake and alive they all look on as their visitor captures the stones in permanent image.  But she has seen the light and she has started to follow its path.  Ramsay and Isabella see her coming but dare not look for fear she will see their shadows deep inside the light. 

Slowly the light starts to dance and the spirits know it is now.  This is the time to fly so high and spiral down.  But she is here and so they pause.  They wait and try to hide their shadows.  Still she scribbles as more names appear on the page.  Quite by chance she spots the cage all filled with flowers, all safe and warm.  With fear embraced the spirits see her turn to look and see and in that second she sees.  They know she can see.  She looks up and through the light as one by one the shadows appear. In an instinct she reaches out and takes one to her and the spirits stop and stare.  Mary is trapped and the visitor holds tight as the dance slows and the light fades. All at once and with no warning the spirits encircle her and she can hold on no more.  Mary is free as the spirits spiral up and up, away into the light.  She drops her book on the wet grass below and the stillness returns.  She knows they are there.  She can feel their breath and she can hear their hearts beating.  The spirits watch and hope that the rusty gate will open and the departure begin.  Still they wait.

Just as their hearts begin to ache she takes a step towards the gate but turns.  Her book is still on the wet grass and as she reaches down Robert takes great pity.  Spiralling down at speed he lifts the book to her and she smiles.  She knows, we know she knows.  The rusty gate remains shut tight and the light slowly returns.  The visitor stands quite still and silent and, one by one, they return to the light.  Nancie, William, Margaret and Isobel drift down first and rest on her shoulders while the rest take their positions.  The dance must be danced as the light is fading and the clouds are gathering.  And so, as she watches the spirits dance and the light sets their way.  It is a dance that is danced every day and it is a dance that they love.  It makes them feel alive, just for the briefest time.  As the light fades so does the dance and the spirits leave the visitor and she feels them go.  She holds her book very close as the spirits drift away between the stones.  With as much silence as she can muster she opens the gate and steps out of the light.  As she walks away through the trees dripping with the beginnings of rain she takes a gentle look back.  Who put the flowers in the cage?

I'm turning for home - a short story.

I’m turning for home.  I am ready to go home and I am not sure why it has taken me this long.  I have been away a life time, but yet a heart beat.  They have always been in my thoughts but I have not been ready before.  I am ready now.

The day I left started as a normal day in the hectic lives we lived.  Hattie and Jake were arguing over the cereal box free gift and Mark was searching for his keys and bemoaning how late he was.  In that second I entered a new space.  I was not in my kitchen and I was not surrounded by my family.  I was quite alone.  I could not see my new world, I could just feel it.  In the next second I was once more back in my kitchen that bore witness to hectic morning after hectic morning.  As Mark flew out the door screaming at the children to get in the car I moved to the front door.  I could see them all from there and I could wave.  I was waving goodbye.

The next few hours are not clear in my mind.  I know I cleared away the breakfast things, I always clear up.  I hate mess.  I know I took my keys as I walked out the door.  Did I think then that I would, one day, be back.

The days that followed were much clearer.  I drove for miles and miles until I could drive no more.  I booked into a hotel and I just waited.  I am not quite sure what I was waiting for but I waited nevertheless.  I waited until I could speak again and I waited until I could breathe.  Slowly, quietly, I could feel the breath return into my lungs and I took shorts gasps just to feel the air as it moved around my body.  The first day I spoke was to ask for directions in this new and strange town that I found myself in.  I wanted a newspaper.  I wanted to find out what was going on in the world.  As I walked back to my hotel I saw an advertisement for a receptionist.  I had worked as a receptionist before I had the children.  I could do that again, I knew I could.

I spoke at my interview and I was surprised at how well I spoke.  But when they asked the question ‘do you have any family?’  I said ‘no.’  Why did I say that?  Did I no longer have a family?  Had I given them up?  I must have said some right words because I got the job and started almost immediately.  Over the next few days as I encountered new and strange people at work I invented a whole new life for myself.  I was single and had previously worked in a library and I was looking for a fresh start.  I heard a couple of the girls whispering about me and they assumed I had a failed relationship so I let them.

Was my relationship to Mark a failure?  I was not sure so I waited some more.  I waited every morning as I walked to work and I waited every evening.  I had managed to find a room in a house not far from where I worked.  It was more of a granny annex attached to a house and I was pretty much left alone.  I liked being alone as I could wait in peace.  I never once touched our bank account or called anyone from my old life.  I didn’t want to be found, just yet. 

My life settled into a routine.  I was careful not to become too friendly with anyone because I didn’t want a social life.  I had a social life in my old life and it choked me.  The endless chatting about nothing important filled me with dread every time I saw one of them in the street.  I would smile, but behind my eyes a different emotion was brewing.  I hated all of them, every single one of them.  I hated their moaning, I hated their selfishness and I always hated their latest hair cuts.  I hated it all and I was glad it wasn’t in my life anymore. 

My new life offered me so much more.  I could wake to just the sounds of the day, instead of shouting and arguing.  I could take my time over breakfast and I could walk to work.  I was useful at work and I felt content in that.  I smiled at all our customers and went out of my way to be helpful and accommodating.  When my helpful day was over I walked home the long way which took me to the river.  I loved the river.  Over time I could see the seasons changing and leaving their mark on the river.  As it wound its way through the town it paused every so often to imprint itself on our place.  I listened to the story of the river and would pause quite often to see its charm.  It was in those brief moments that I would see their faces.  Hattie’s always arrived first with Jake right behind and I smiled at them and said ‘hello.’  I hoped they could hear me. 

When they were born I was suspended in time for days as I tried to come to terms with being a mum.  Not a mum of one baby, but two and so far out of my depth that I thought I would cry forever.  I cried for days and then weeks but eventually the tears were replaced with half smiles and then proud beaming smiles and I knew I had found the joy of motherhood.  That feeling of joy carried me through so much and I rather depended on it.  I realise now that I had taken it for granted.  Slowly, from the edges that feeling was under threat.  It was threatened by a new set of feelings that began to erase the joy.  These new feelings asked me questions all the time.  So many questions that would never stop, even at night.  I would lie awake listening to sleep all around me, but still the questions came.  Eventually, I had the courage to start answering the questions but I did not like my answers and so would whisper them quietly for fear I would hear them. 

Weeks, months and year had passed like this and I am not sure I smiled once all that time.  My mouth smiled and the world believed it but my heart never smiled.  My heart was heavy and I became tired of carrying it around all day, every day.  Just occasionally I would see something and my heart felt light again.  Hattie sharing a moment with her twin or Mark cutting the grass.  But mostly my heart weighed me down and became a burden. 

My new life trundled forward and months became two years.  I managed to stay alone and distance people from me and I managed to live.  That was important because I had forgotten how to live before I arrived in my new place.  Springs turned to summers and summers to autumns and then the winters.  The winters were cold and the river left such a sad imprint on the town during those months.  I stopped walking along the river then and waited for the spring to arrive.  It was after the second winter, which was particularly long, that I became desperate for the spring.  I wanted to, once again, walk along the river.  I wanted to see the nests being built and I wanted to see the green shoots poking up through the water. 

At last the spring did arrive.  I heard it very clearly in the bird song.  What happened next is unclear again.  All I know is that I was driving.  I was driving home.  The miles stretched out ahead of me and time seemed to stand still as I drove my car along the roads that led me home.  I was ready, I knew I was.  I could see all their faces now.  Hattie with her cheeky smile, Jake with his cross face and even Mark was looking at me.  He could see me, I knew he could and I could see him.

 
As I turned the corner into our street I just stopped by the side of the road, some distance from the house and waited.  I waited for them to come home and I waited to be with them once more.  As their car pulled into the drive I could hardly breathe.  My breath was starting to escape from my lungs.  I saw Hattie first as she tumbled out of the car with Jake close at her heels.  Her face had changed and Jake had grown so tall.  I heard Mark’s voice as he stepped out of the car.  I couldn’t see his face as he fumbled for his keys and opened the front door.  The door that I used to stand at and wave them off.  They all walked into the house and the door closed.  I had no breath left.  I started my car and slowly, very slowly drove past the house.  I kept driving and I didn’t look back

Living with a chronic illness

Shards of light

 

Through the spaces between the branches shards of light fall to the ground.  As the breeze catches the leaves the light begins to dance.  Come and sit down next to me because I want to talk to you.

Of late you have been very quiet and I always know when something is wrong.  The dancing lights stop and go into hiding.  The sun can shine as brightly as possible and the leaves can shake in the breeze but still you will not dance.  Do you feel like your dancing days are over?  If so, you are wrong.  I know you think you are always right but in this case you are wrong.  Your dancing is still within you but you must learn to listen more carefully. 

I can feel you stiffen as you want to protest but can’t find the words so I take my chance and continue.  If you listened more carefully you would hear all you need to hear and then you would understand.  You would understand the rhythm again and you would feel the beat of the internal drum.  The problem is that, from time to time, you stop listening and the music leaves you. 

 

Once the music has gone the dancing has gone and you only have your self to blame.  I blame you.  Don’t turn your back to me because I can still see you and I can still feel you.  I can feel the flutterings of emotion rising and falling and I can see the dark cave you want to hide in.  When will you learn that there is no hiding?  We are bound together just like the leaves on the branches and together we need to wait for the breeze.  When it comes this time will you please be ready?  Will you please listen? 

 

I don’t ask that much of you and I even put up with the odd quiet time but this has gone on too long now and I simply can’t accept it.  I won’t accept it and nor should you.  You should have more pride and more purpose.  You should learn to take some quiet time as a time to recharge and rebuild.   You should not try and hide in a dark cave because you don’t belong there. 

You belong deep inside me in the place that I know as ‘me’.  You are my soul and I love you very much.  Listen, here come the breeze again and soon the light will be dancing.  Dance as if your life depended on it and we will dance together forever. 

 

Just a gentle account of what it is like living with a chronic illness and the need to keep dancing.  May 2013

 

 

Award winning short story.

I wasn’t interested in the chair

 

I was in a coffee bar when he came in.  He didn’t walk in, he wheeled his chair in.  For the moment I saw him I couldn’t take my eyes off him and I just hoped he couldn’t see me looking.  I wasn’t staring, I knew that.  The chair didn’t interest me, just the man in it.  His face shone a bright light around the room and with joy I realised that he had eased his chair into the table next to mine.  Suddenly, I was interested in the chair.  I loved the movement and the way the chair was part of him.  A silly, silly loud woman was nearby explaining to her child all about a wheelchair.  He didn’t seem to notice but I did.  I didn’t want anything to disturb this untouchable union.  I felt connected to this man and I knew he was looking at me.  He wasn’t using his eyes; that would be too easy for him.  He had a hard route through life so he was used to finding new ways to see.  Just, very occasionally, he turned his head and looked past me.  I knew he was looking right at me and what is more, he knew I knew.  

He chatted to his friend as he drank coffee and I watched some more.  He looked like he worked out and he had one of those T shirts on that said ‘sport’ with the little collar.  He wore deep blue denim jeans and his legs weren’t thin.  I expected them to be thin.  His arms were absolutely glorious.  I love men’s forearms and I adored his.  He also had a fabulous tan.  With all that, I could  invent a life for him.  I could see him teaching sport.  As I listened to his voice he talked with real authority like a teacher does.  I heard him say ‘student’ so now he became a university lecturer.  I was still happy with my invention.  I then heard a few well chosen phrases about boats and sailing so he became a sailing instructor for university students.  It explained the tan.

I found myself touching my hair in that way that we girls do when we want to be noticed.  I wasn’t sure why I did that because I knew I had been noticed.  I felt spellbound as he turned and this time he looked right at me and smiled.  It was a wonderfully full moment full of intensity and intent.  It said ‘lie down with me’ and I silently said ‘yes’.

I watched and I listened some more.  Another man went to pay his bill at the bar and while he was waiting he did a shuffle to the music playing.  It was a man shuffle and it was horrid.  I remember the contrast of the chair as it eased in next to me.  Why can’t all men be in chairs…

That didn’t matter because my man was in a chair and he sat in it very well.  He was using his hands to speak and they were strong hands that I desperately wanted to touch me.  As I focused on the hands the rest of the coffee shop view glazed over.  It disappeared into itself and I was just left with the man in the chair.  In the hazy mist there was constant movement and I began to get irritated with the sounds in the space.  They stopped me hearing all his words and I felt cheated.  The same silly woman had sat down now and I could hear every word she said and I didn’t want to hear any of her words.

I heard him say ‘camping’ and ‘two days’ and I could see him in the great outdoors.  He would be perfect out there rather than confined in a coffee shop with silly women.  He began to talk with more energy.  In his head he was outside and I stepped outside with him.  His chair sped forward and I picked up pace to keep up.  As I reached level with him he took my hand and we stopped.  We were outside and we were holding hands.  Those hands that I so desperately wanted to touch me and now they were.  Strong, careful hands that made me feel safe and loved both at the same time.  In the same second he let go and wheeled onwards towards a small wood, just ahead.  I followed with no sense of where we were going or what we would find when we got there.  The light was challenged by the trees and only just managed to find ways into this new and enchanting space.  Still he wheeled and still I followed.  I could hear the woodland floor crackling under the weight of his chair and I could hear distant bird song but the rest of the world had disappeared.  The wheels were strong and their pathway straight.  I felt like I was wandering rather than walking.  Why could I not keep up?

All at once the chair stopped.  As I approached I heard the effort.  The strong arms were now being called upon to ease his body out of the chair.  He did this in one complete and deep movement and was on the woodland floor.  I looked down, standing over him and I dare not even breathe.  He pushed the chair out of the way as I sunk to my knees.  He held onto my hand again and looked past me again.  I smiled and I knew he could see my smile.  Slowly and with such tenderness I curled my body round his.  Is this what he meant about lying down next to him?  I didn’t care.  I was next to him and that was all that mattered. 

I heard him say ‘one more decent trip in me’.  I didn’t hear anymore as he turned his chair and left the coffee shop.  Quietly, but tenderly I said good bye.

Creative writing tool.

 

Journaling and writing

I spent quite a bit of time in America in the late 80s and in that time I was fortunate enough to take a seminar on journaling.  It was a life-affirming seminar that has stayed with me all my adult life.  Back then journaling was evident in the UK but in the USA it was gathering its own very clear momentum.  Now, of course, it is a global occupation for a core group of creative and dedicated beings.  I am not sure where I would be without my journals and I have come to realise that I take them for granted.  Pondering on their value has led me to record their special qualities and search out how others see journaling.

Journaling is, by definition, a record.  Your journal is a space where you can record whatever you like.  At its best it has no boundaries and no agenda.  It is a space where both conscious and subconscious thoughts can be left to play quite happily together and you will be content to leave them there.  There are many reasons to journal and we all know why we do it, but sometimes we forget.  I had forgotten that my initial reason to journal was to record my experiences as my professional dance career found its feet.  I had forgotten because when I look back at those early journals I see so much more than dancing.  I see a young dancer trying desperately to find her creative voice in a fiercely competitive world.  I see a frightened young dancer living in a strange country but making the best of friends.  I see a dancer that emerges into a young woman through a defining role as Eurydice and I see so much more.

This has taught me that we do not, in fact, always know why we are journaling but the joy in looking back on old journals is one of life’s most rewarding personal experiences.  I have always viewed journaling as a highly creative medium of expression.  You give yourself permission to be free in your journal and you are also free from judgement.  Many of us keep our journals private, but increasingly there is a culture of sharing.  I think perhaps a combination of both approaches is the one I favour.  There are parts of my journals that I keep private and sacred but there are other parts that need to be lifted off the page and shared.  An example of that would be a piece of choreography that demands an audience.

For me, it is important that my journal is not just about words.  Many of us view the world in pictures and pictures take front of stage in our minds as we try and make sense of our world.  Therefore pictures deserve a place in our journals.  Creating pictures can take many different forms and sometimes the joy is in the identification of the medium.  Some days I am drawn to watercolours while others it is charcoal and so the decisions take shape.  Sometimes my pictures are no more than doodles but I have come to realise how important these simple pictures are to my journaling process.  I have often found a new and inspiring idea locked away in a doodle and the joy is in finding it.  It is almost as if my conscious mind plays hide and seek with my subconscious mind.

There are black days though.  On black days I sit and stare at an empty page.  I desperately want to journal that day but for some reason or another there is nothing.  I have no starting point and I have no motivation.  Over the years journaling has become part of my spiritual life and I often feel a strong urge to journal.  But on black days there is nothing.  In those dark moments I turn to others for help.  There are many excellent web sites dedicated to journaling and I have left you with some useful links at the end of this piece.  I particularly like the ‘tips for journaling’ pages as they offer up starting points and usually that it all you need to break through the blackness and find the colour once more.

I have just a few tips of my own that I have found useful over the years –

·         See your entire page as an expression for your entry.  Take time to create a background for your words and note the association between the two aspects of the page

·         Never be frightened of a blank page – it is your gift to yourself

·         Keep writing or drawing and don’t stop until you know you are done and you will know. 

·         Date your entries as this will be important when you look back.

·         Don’t avoid difficult subjects as sometimes they offer up the greatest learning

·         Only ever share your journal on your terms

·         Avoid erasing you will probably regret it 

For me, as a writer, my journals are often my starting point.  They offer up suggestions and they don’t mind if I move away in new directions.  My journals are my constant companion and I usually have more than one on the go at the same time.  I am not sure I have ever truly experienced writer’s block as my journals have saved me from that fate.  There is always something there; you just have to look long enough.  Everything goes in my journal and it often appears to make no sense on first reading.  I am always fascinated by the connections between different entries.  For me this is where the subconscious finds its true voice.  It has already made the connections and it is just waiting for the conscious mind to catch up!  I view my journal as my writing fodder as it feeds me all the time.  I have a small notebook that I carry around with me all the time that feeds my journal.  My journals are too precious to throw in a bag as I dash out the door so I use a small notebook for that task.  In my notebook I record what I see, hear, taste, smell and feel.  I record anything that interests me and then, when I have more time, I transfer these points of interest to my journal.  This is a joyful stage where, sometimes in the transference, mutation occurs.  What eventually ends up in my journal has changed and grown wings and I love that.  And so the creative process begins and I am grateful that it has never ended.  Journaling is my creative life blood and if I could take them with me after I die I would. 

If you have never tried journaling give it a go. Visit some of the web sites suggested here to help you get started.  For me, one of the best bits of the entire process is choosing the journal that you are going to use.  The world is awash with wonderful notebooks and it is your job to find the one for you.  You will absolutely know when you have found it though! I hope that journaling brings you joy, peace and much creativity. 

Amanda

 

Amanda

 

There is beauty on the outside and then there is beauty on the inside.  When the two come together in the same being it is rare and incredibly precious.  You know you are witnessing true beauty as their light shines so very bright.

Amanda was just that light.  She entered a room and washed it with her light and everyone smiled.  We all smiled around Amanda because she smiled at the world.  She loved life and her place in it and we could all see that every day. Beautiful people sometimes have beautiful children and Amanda had three and their lights continue to shine.

One day Amanda’s light dimed very slightly as she heard the news.  A slow dim that suspended in time as others digested the inevitable.  All our lights dimed but then we noticed that Amanda’s light was shining through it all.  We felt ashamed of our dimed lights and did our best to reflect Amanda’s bright, white light.  There was, however, no competing with that light so we just looked on in awe. 

Over time the light still shone but a slow fade trickled in from the edges.  We could see the fade but ignored its presence and focused on the centre of the light.  Not once did that fade in all those long and difficult days.  She shone, so we shone.

The day arrived and we took our lights and gathered around Amanda’s dimming light.  Slowly and with enormous grace her light faded until it was almost gone.  Afterwards, if we looked very carefully we could see the smallest pin prick of a light glowing.  Some of us gathered it up and put it in our pockets to carry around with us.

When the day came to say goodbye I was not there.  Instead I was by a deep green pond flooded with bright sunshine and it was there that I saw them.  Hovering and flickering their lights as they dusted in and out of the lilies.  Beautiful shining dragonflies carrying their lights in their wings.  As I stood they flew high up into the blue sky before circling me and bathing me in the most precious light of all.  She was, indeed here and she has always been here.  Her light was in those delicate but powerful wings.  Just look into the light and she will shine back very brightly indeed.

This is Amanda

Short Story

My last Dance

The rain tumbled onto the roof above, far above.  As I listened I could hear the music beginning to sing, just as it always did.  I was glad to be able to rely on the music and slowly I began to create.  Dance flows from my soul and I needed to shape movements more than ever before.  In that moment I could disappear from all around me that was tugging at me, desperately trying to connect with the experience of death.  But this was my death and no-one was going to dictate my passing, except maybe the music….

Reality beckoned as I heard the familiar voice of my daughter entering the room.  She was already trying to take control with her very first utterances ‘Close the curtains, it is too bright in here’.

I liked the light, I was looking forward to the light tunnel that so many people talk about.  I think it will be spectacular.  I went back to my music to seek new movement and translate it to my story that was beginning to take shape.  My story captured the rain drops and tossed them out to sea where waves picked them up and tossed them back.  A battled ensued deep in the body as it curled and revolved, swayed and stretched reaching every raindrop one by one.

Suddenly my dance faded once more as a hand gripped mine.  A hand that once belonged to a stranger ,but no more.  A hand that had lived a lifetime by my side and I had loved that hand.  I still love that hand.

‘She is so cold, too cold’

I wasn’t cold at all.  I was calm and I was still but I wasn’t cold.  I could never be cold with that hand so close.  The hand that took my when we promised our vows and the hand that stroked me deep in the night.  I love that hand.

My music returned with the greatest of flurry as the raindrops peered beyond the storm to catch the clouds and curl them up.  My body rolled forward with the lightest of touch only to turn and roll again.  The rain clouds all dappled and grey parted slowly and slowly….I could feel it.  My heart was slowing, my organs failing and in that space I clung to my music.

Gentler voices echoed through the room muffled by silence and waiting.  The waiting was sure to cast its own spell but I didn’t care for that spell.  My music was coming to an end.  Quivering drops as the rainstorm passed and peeped through the window to spread their joy.  The hand was still there.  The music was still there.  But there was no light, it faded fast and the music dulled. 

I listened so carefully to those final sounds grasping at the notes that floated through the air before resting between our hands.  A space, the slightest space between our hands.  Shuffled movements and whispers abound as I took a moment to catch the sounds and trapped them deep in my soul.  But it was the music, those final notes, that spoke to me last and so they might.

I am going to sleep now and I won’t hear anymore music.  Night night.

 

A Tribute.xx

 

Where flowers come to die. 

As I turned the corner the image that fell into view took me there in an instant.  I struggled to focus and take it all in, but I knew I had found the place.  It might have taken me over 18 years but this was definitely the place.  But I wasn’t alone so I pushed the feelings to the deep recess and concentrated on taking the photographs.  I didn’t want to capture this image but I absolutely knew that I had to.  I could then visit this place as often as I wanted to and that would surely give me some comfort in the years ahead. 

It had been over 18 years, I knew that because my lovely daughter Molly is 18 now and how she shines.  She shines everywhere she goes and she is my guiding light.  When she arrived into the world I could feel the beginning of my healing and I truly believe that, over the years, she has healed me.  She came into my life and helped to rub out what had gone before.  A new baby breathes life into your world in a way that you can never imagine and Molly did that for me.  Everything changed after Molly arrived.  I became a different person with a different set of needs and desires and that spilled out into my life and has continued to spill all these years.  So I am grateful for Molly and I will always be grateful. 

Sometimes, just occasionally, I realise that her arrival was not quite enough.  I realise that the pain is still there and I can feel it in every nerve in my body.  It begins quite slowly at first but eventually it crushes my breathing and it crushes my soul.  I have no control as I submit to the pain as it washes over me and takes me back to that journey. 

A journey that started with such joy and such certainty.  From the very beginning I knew it was right and I knew it was a journey that I need to travel on just to see how it would end.  I never, however, imagined it would end as it did.  Was it always going to end like that?  I like to think that it ended quite suddenly with no pain.  I couldn’t bear it if there was any pain.

Granted, it was a relatively short journey but to me it felt a lot longer.  It filled me with fear and hope, both at the same time and that is a very powerful combination.  You fear to hope and that puts your entire life on the edge.  Living on the edge is dangerous but it makes you feel alive.  I felt alive and I felt its life and the two became one.  Throughout the journey I held conversations.  Single words to start with and then short phrases and, eventually, whole stories.  Since those early days and that journey I have always told stories.  My four wonderful children have listened to my stories all their lives and I am grateful for their kind ears.  Stories should be told and then mostly forgotten.  Just occasionally a story will be remembered.  I remember this story and I will never forget it.  I could never forget it and will take it into death with me.  It is perhaps the only story I will take into death with me.

I remember the day those stories shortened once more and became a single word.  It became a name and I held onto each syllable as the name arrived and became real.  It became as real as the sky above.  It too was full and empty both at the same time and, like the sky, it was beautiful.  From that point on the stories became fuller and the conversations more meaningful and I loved that new part of the journey.  I made lots of promises.  I promised to always do my best and always be there and I meant every word.  In the many, many stories that I have told my four children I have always made sure there is something real in there.  Sometimes it is quite small and sometimes it is hidden, but it is always there.  I hope that one day they will remember the real bits as they are my messages to them.  I want those messages to keep them safe when I am not around every day to watch over them.  When they leave to become whole I want the messages to follow them around.  Molly will leave soon but I know, without any doubt, that she understands her messages and that she will hold onto them very dearly.  I know a lot about Molly.

Despite all the stories and all the messages this short, but precious journey is the greatest of them all.  As it reached its final stage I had no knowing.  I had no sense that it was about to end and perhaps that is why I have never let the journey finish.  When I turned the corner and saw my image I knew that I had to let at least part of the journey end.  Lying on small woodland floor were so many flowers just starting to curl and brown at their edges. Just starting to die and let go.  They looked beautiful and they looked after each other.  The light streamed in through the trees and rested on their petals and kept them warm.  These beautiful warm flowers were dying and I knew that but I wasn’t sad.  I stepped into them very gently to take a better photograph and, in that moment, something escaped from me.  It seeped away slowly and took its place among the flowers and I stepped back.  I had no sense of what that was and I am not sure I wanted to know.

I found it difficult to leave that space.  I felt that I was leaving something behind.  But I did leave and once, along the path, I turned to look back.  I couldn’t see the dying flowers anymore but I could see the path that led there and that was enough for me.  It was as if I could see the journey all over again.  I could remember every day, hour and second of that 13 week journey and I could remember the life that was growing inside me.  I could remember his name, Thomas, and I could remember our conversations.  I loved the hope and I hated the fear, but above all I mourned that I didn’t know the journey was going to end.  I thought I knew the ending.  Thomas would arrive just like his little sister did almost a year later.  He would be mine just as she is mine.   

Thomas did not arrive as Molly did.  One crisp Christmas morning he seeped away from me and I tried so hard to hold onto him.  I felt that I had let him down and I still feel like that.  I wanted to keep him safe and he just seeped away and I never even saw him.  The doctor saw him and just wrapped him up and he was gone.  When he left me I still told him stories.  That night, Christmas night, I told him stories with messages to keep him safe and messages to tell him how much I loved him.  I have always loved him, but now he has truly left me.  Once more he seeped away from me but this time I was ready to let him go.  My beautiful baby boy was sleeping among the warm flowers. When I die I will return to that spot and collect him.  I will take him into death with me so that I can always keep him safe.  For now, though, he is safe and he is warm and I can tell stories to my five children and just hope that my tiny messages are getting through.

 

xxxxx

If we could fly with dragonflies.

 

 

If we could fly with dragonflies

 

If we could fly with the dragonflies we would see so much in such tiny spaces. 

We would see colours darting through the light and raindrops drifting in the wind.

Our world would be small but precious and wrapped up in with such care.

The green pond water would reflect our glow as our wings brushed the water lilies that chuckle below. 

We would paint a picture and puncture it with tiny holes and then tuck in our wings and fly right through. 

The breeze would gather force and catch us in an instant before carrying us higher and higher to float with the clouds. 

After some rest in the sky above we would dive right back into our world and catch tiny movements at the end of the pond.

Collecting those movements to feed our souls we would gently fly to find the right leaf. 

Once found, we would hover and then sit to watch all around as light danced with the bees and flowers shook with glee. 

Our wings would stretch to soak up the sun before batting it back as fast as it had come.

 

If we could fly with the dragonflies we would cherish our world and turn on the lights inside our wings.

If we could fly with the dragonflies our days would be short but our life would be full.