I dream...

They say your dreams are your subconscious resolving conflicts and putting the world to rights while you sleep. My night time dreams are usually just weird, colourful and complex, leaping about in time and space.

Love Heart
found at the Christian Writers Conference 

Writing can be a bit like dreaming, in that your words can be influenced by what is going on in life.

Last Wednesday evening at the monthly zoom meeting of the the Saltburn Writers Group. We started with a free write using the words “I dream…” as a prompt.

A free write is a great way to dump ideas on the page and clear your thoughts. Sometimes you can find the gem of a hidden sentence or idea in the middle which can be developed later.

I scratched my pen on the page, a little dismayed the ink didn’t flow – would I waste the whole minute finding a pen that worked?

When after some harsh scribbling it woke from its dreamy slumber, I wrote the start of the poem below.

I’ve dreamt of writing a book for a long time and although there is still much hard work ahead it actually seems possible. As I share in the writing success of other friends I’m beginning to believe. If they can do it so can I.

I hope you like my little poem and you never know if you do enjoy my words maybe one day in the not-so-distant future you will be able to hold them in a book!

 

 

A sign from the Primadonna Festival

I dream of a pen that writes smoothly

gliding across paper

spilling ideas with the ink-flow

never-ending narrative

a story to be told

 

I dream of crisp white parchment

being magically covered in words

long words,

short words

intelligent and coherent

 

I dream of everything

coming together

words and ideas

forming books

bound printed words

collected in one place

with a shiny cover

 

I dream of seeing my name

not in lights

but boldly printed

with a compelling title

attracting you

to reach out

 

Found on Facebook

            I dream of a book

that dances off the shelf

landing into your hand

caressed with longing

and intrigue

as you unfurl its pages

 

I dream of my words

reaching your heart

making a lasting impression

indelible

connecting

perhaps

inspiring your own dreams

Three Cheers for Middle-Aged Women!

 In the past week I have seen two new movies with the main characters played by middle-aged women – I am in shock, well Halloween is on the horizon I suppose.

Joking aside, how refreshing to see first Lesley Manville in Mrs Harris Goes to Paris and then Sally Hawkins in The Lost King.

Mrs Harris is incredibly put upon by her numerous employers. To them she is merely a cleaner, but they trust her with keys to their houses and all manner of secrets besides. She goes about her duties with a smile, always thinking of others. Until one day, with a bit of financial good fortune she decides to fly to Paris and buy a Dior dress. Not quite as simple as she suspects, lugging an empty suitcase with her and expecting to complete her purchase in time for her flight home.

The story started as a novel by Paul Gallico, who co-incidentally wrote the novel of the Poseidon Adventure, useless fact I know, but I found it intriguing.

There wasn’t a REAL Mrs Harris, although many of the characters working at Dior are based on real people of the time.

Anthony Fabian the director of the latest film adaptation says in Town and Country magazine “The key to this story is that it is magic realism, so it has to have an equal dose of magic and reality. If you go too far into magic, you won’t believe it; if you go too far into the realism, it wouldn’t have that uplifting fairy tale quality.”

The Lost King is a true story about Philippa Langley’s determination in searching for and eventually finding the body of King Richard III in a Leicester City car park. The film is also told with much magical realism as Langley interacts with the deceased monarch who sits on the bench outside her bedroom window. He only speaks to her once she has asked him a pertinent question.

Just like Ada Harris, Philippa comes up against great hurdles in her quest. She is not an esteemed academic and she dares to question authority, believing Shakespeare’s account of the king is grossly unfair Tudor propaganda. The Richard III Society are seen as a bit of a crackpot bunch but it is their crowdfunding that really gets the project underway. Only once the excavation is successful do the University get fully on board.

With a bit of Googling I have just found in the Telegraph that one of the academics is vowing to sue the Hollywood producer for their reckless portrayal of him. Boo hoo!

I am not interested in what’s totally true or not, the important thing to me is that both films are great stories of tenacity with inspiring female leads of an age that is usually unrepresented. Here are two “invisible” women who have the audacity stand their ground – horray!

Mrs Harris has a more sugary ending, I came out of the cinema euphorically happy, just as you should at the end of a fairy tale. With The Lost King I admit I shed a tear as Philippa continued until the bitter end to battle academia and the bigwigs with money who only wanted the prestige. She wanted to find her King and put the record straight.

Mission accomplished ladies – now three cheers for us middle-aged women everywhere!

And while the world is listening, let’s tell our own stories.

Being Thankful

Yesterday we had our harvest festival at church and a sermon filled with all the little things we should be thankful for, like blueberries in porridge. Now personally I wouldn’t thank you for that – I love blueberries but the thought of soggy oats in warm milk poured over them turns my stomach – bleugh!

I’m fortunate I can have my breakfast of choice, most days that’s crunchy nut cornflakes without milk to turn the crunch to mush – I think I was put off milk at primary school, those little bottles with pink straws that sat in the warm classrooms waiting for breaktime still give me nightmares. #firstworldproblems

Scrolling through Twitter this morning I came across a tweet about more bombs dropping in Kyiv. pausing for a second in comfort and silence I glanced up at a patch of blue sky out of my rain spattered window and let my thoughts meander.

The grass has only just recovered from the parched summer, the rain drops are most welcome. Sadly, there are places in the world where rains never fall and places that get far too much more than they need.

The world is an unfair place and sometimes it sounds trite to say we SHOULD be thankful. Almost disingenuous to be thankful for NOT suffering like so many others, but then our thoughts turn to prayers to lift the less fortunate out of their suffering – Oh God when will the madness cease?

For what it’s worth I offer you these words of thanks I wrote this morning – a prayer, a poem? Not perfect, maybe not as eloquent as I’d like think they are. As we say in our Open The Book assemblies – if you want to make this prayer yours say Amen after me…

Thank you that I live

In a land of blue skies

And gentle rain

 

Thank you for the softest breeze

To tease my hair

 

Thank you that my life

Is not filled with greater cares

 

But I pray for those who live

Their lives on a precipice

With daily shocks of bombs

Stained with

Grey rubble and dirty red blood

 

I pray for those

In lands parched and dusty

Children with hungry bellies

Or in lands where

The water rises high

Sweeping life and livelihood aside

 

So many lives in turmoil

And I wonder why

 I got to be so fortunate

By just a quirk of birth

To live in a land of plenty

Although there are still great extremes

Troubles and tears

Many hidden in plain sight

 

But today, just for this moment 

 

I have so much to be thankful for

In this land of blue skies

And gentle rain.

Grief is expected – how you grieve is optional

The outpouring of grief since the Queen died has been phenomenal. Carpets of flowers, crowds of people and then there’s THE QUEUE, which can probably be seen from space!

I’ll confess I’m a bit ambivalent about all the fuss, I understand the need for a release of emotion but the flowers to me are a waste, and the pageantry and protocol seems over the top.

tributes for the Queen - image from Metro

My biggest concern is for the wellbeing of the immediate family and close friends, how abhorrent it must be to be filmed at every turn, practically every tear measured. When King Charles had a fit at the leaky pen my heart went out to him. For all his privilege and wealth this is intrusive. He is a seventy something year old man mourning the loss of his beloved mother, not that long after laying his father to rest.

This is the part he was always born to play but at such a time as this his emotions will be all over the place. And the same goes for the rest of the royals, from the oldest to youngest, those used to being in the public eye and those more used to being on the periphery, suddenly being scrutinised far more than usual.

The media can be a voracious beast devouring its prey and all too often those of us looking on lap it up.

If only there could be a halt on proceeding, a chance to just breathe, some space away from twenty-four-hour news.

I guess it won’t be long until this news cycle is over and most of the family can retreat and process their grief more privately, some member won’t get that luxury.

There is now some deliberation as to whether Prince George will make an appearance at his great granny’s funeral. That is a huge ask of a nine-year-old, only his parents can make that informed decision. There will be critics either way.

I was thirteen when my great nana died and hers was the first funeral I went to, co-incidentally she was 96, a good age, an expected funeral, the perfect introduction to the ritual.

The first funeral my youngest son went to was his dad’s – that’s a bit harsh when you are a month shy of being eleven. However, he was old enough to know what was happening and certainly old enough to know his own mind and how he wanted to honour his dad.

Andrew’s coffin was wheeled into the crematorium rather than carried, One of Andrew’s brothers wanted to be involved, the other vehemently refused, one nephew volunteered, one didn’t. Oldest son stepped forward and then youngest said with determination he wanted to help too. It was a proud moment watching them with tears in my eyes, but the scene was only witnessed by very close family. It wasn’t a public spectacle.

I do hope the young royals get some choice in how they wish to proceed. And I hope all of them get the private space to mourn in the ways that are best for them.

Grief is inevitable but how we grieve is both optional and never-ending.

I have been slightly surprised by how much of my own grief has resurfaced at this time, memories of losing grandparents, my dad and of course losing Andrew. The afternoon of the Queen’s death we were scattering ashes of my aunt and uncle, followed up with tea and cake. A family gathering that foreshadowed the royal announcement.

Death is all around us, very much a part of life and yet the subject is still very much taboo. When Andrew died it took me months to even understand what grieving was all about. I thought it was finite and never knew it came in many shades of grey and blue not one size fits all BLACK.

My best piece of advice to anyone grieving is do what you need to do to get through each day, whether you laugh, cry or scream, every emotion is valid.

Let’s hope the royals get the chance to grieve without worrying how the world sees them because they have lost a loved one who means more to them than she could even mean to us.

The Secret Code of Holding Hands

You said we would always hold hands, even when we were old and grey. I wonder if it was appropriate to hold hands through a church service? Hands clasped out of sight, hidden between dark wooden pews, that probably held many secrets. You took my hand in yours and traced the words “I love you” on my palm. I squeezed your hand tight in a warning catching the glint in your eye that threatened an eruption of laughter. We communicated simply, secretly, lovingly. Now I can only remember as I bring a hand to my face to trace a tear.

Without a Care

The girl woke up, the strange bed was soft and warm, she was comfortable enough to stay and had no reason to get up, no pressing duties to attend to, but the golden sunlight that fell across her from the open window was too inviting. With young limbs and a childlike grace, she leapt from the bed. She could hear birdsong and the bubbling sound of running water nearby. She gazed on the bright new dawn, not a cloud in the bluest of skies to spoil the view.

A boy burst in her room and she stared at his familiar face, there was the hint of memory or a dream she couldn’t pin down.

“Lilibet, you’re here!” his eyes sparkled with delight.

Without hesitation she took his offered hand, and when they touched she knew this was her forever home. 

He led her out to play in the King's garden, without a care.

Hello Again Lilibet by Murphys Sketches https://www.instagram.com/murphys_sketches/?hl=en 

The Inside Outside Poem

 Inside, two fat juicy apples in the fruit bowl

Outside, a dahlia, not yet fully open, sprinkled with raindrops

Inside, a diary for 2022, yellow, white and blue

Outside, an ominous storm cloud hovering over my washing

Inside, a ticking clock counts each second

Outside, dead strawberry plants need some attention

Inside, a crystal vase with dried honesty seed heads

Outside, a bird feeder swinging by an old shoe lace

Inside, I take the apple and crunch it.