heartful blogger

Expose yourself

2012-02-16T10:08:00.003Z

"Only to the extent that we expose ourselvesover and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible in us befound."

~Pema Chodron

This rocks

2012-02-04T17:54:00.002Z

Sometimes, something manages to cut through all the clever sounding crap you tell yourself, and the illusion that wanting to be a better person than you are is enough to make you that person, and makes you shut up and listen to what's really going on.

That's all I wanna say right now.

A month of letters

2012-01-26T17:39:00.000Z

I read about this challenge and have decided to take part. I've always loved writing letters and receiving them. Even if people don't reply, I don't know anyone who doesn't appreciate receiving a handwritten letter or something personal in the post. So, here's a chance to get back into it again. I think writing a good letter is as much an art as writing a good poem or story. So, for almost every day for the month of February, I will be writing a letter and sending it to someone by snail mail. I already have a list of people to write to (basically all my friends for whom I have a current postal address), but if you'd like to receive a letter, email me your address (heartfulblogger at hotmail dot co dot uk) and I'll add you to the list!

Do you fancy joining me? I promise to reply to anyone who writes to me, even beyond the month of February.

What happens when you're busy making plans...

2012-01-24T17:47:00.000Z

A yoga pose known as Upside Down Monkey

So yeah, those blog posts I had planned, still not written. And not likely to be written anytime soon. So in the meantime, I leave you with this gem ~

"Your task is not to seek for love,
but merely to seek and find all the barriers
within yourself that you have built against it." ~ Rumi

Hello

2012-01-09T17:34:00.001Z

I've got a few posts brewing, but in the meantime, here's a little hello and Happy New Year to you all...

Inspired by Hokusai.

New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T12:47:00.000Z

If you're going to say anything at all about New Year's Eve, it's best to do it like this...the gorgeous Zooey Deschanel sings with Joseph Gordeon-Levitt...

Or, like this...

Whatever you're up to, remember this: lighten up, breathe, enjoy.

Fire, flames and invincible summers

2011-12-26T16:23:00.000Z

A couple of weeks ago, I adopted Laura Veirs' song July Flame as a sort of personal anthem for the season. Whilst the world around me seemed to be revelling in snow and jingle bell tunes, I had an unashamed longing for summer. I really took the song to heart and found it a great comfort. And then, inspired by the song, I made this...

I don't know what to call it. It's round so maybe a mandala. Or a solstice light catcher. Or a paper cut. Or all three. Why not.

Since then I've also been stumbling across this quote by Albert Camus: "In the midst of winter I finally learned that there is within me an invincible summer." The few times I did stumble across it, I read it and my heart sank. My reaction was, "Oh, I wish." I then had quite a hellish few days. But, long story short, I came out through the other side and even found some contentment, some joy bubbling up out of nowhere. That's for another post, but last night I remembered that Camus quote and thought - yes. I found my invincible summer.

And then I saw that my friend over at Lickety Split posted this. I love that poem. I remember that it got me through some brutal fucking heartbreak about 10 or so years ago. This is a photo I took during that time...

"what matters most is how well you walk through the fire."

So there you go. Walk well. Mind how you go. Happy Solstice.

"The wisdom of no escape" or how a jam tart saved me

2011-12-22T18:59:00.000Z

So you might have noticed that December has been a hard month for me. It hasn't all been bad. There have been ups as well as downs. And those ups have been pretty good while they lasted. But I thought they would help make the downs suck less. They don't. Having ups even gave me a false sense of security. Just when I thought I was getting through the worst of things, just when I thought I'd already hit my low point and was now coming out the other side, something happened to wallop me and make me see that there's always somewhere lower I could fall to. It made me remember that quote I blogged about a few weeks ago - "Abandon any hope of fruition." Not because I was feeling particularly morose and hopeless (ok, I was) but because there is a truth to it.

It may seem contrary to all your survival instincts and it hurts like hell, but when you are at that point when you feel there is nothing left to hold onto, when you feel there is no choice but to let go, when grasping and resisting and holding on - to anything - is so painful, you have to stop, that is the point at which things can start to turn around. And the hardest part: there's nothing you can do about it. Whether you resist it or welcome it - you can't make it happen. All you can do is be through it. Just be - when each minute feels like an hour and each hour feels like a year and each breath feels futile. Resisting makes it worse. I don't know what welcoming it does because I've never been able to do that. But I imagine it could make it worse too - like the anticipation of an eagerly awaited visitor who is delayed, and delayed some more and delayed some more and you go from being angry at them to wondering what's happened to them to fearing the worst, to trying to bargain with whatever force you might suddenly decide to believe in just to make things ok again, until you reach the point where you give up because they're not coming and you wonder what you've done to deserve this. And then they show up.

But life goes on. And they leave and may not show up again and the whole cycle begins anew. The only thing you have control over is trying not to escape. The only thing you can do is to be there, wherever there is.

One of my low points this month was when a batch of jam tarts failed. Go ahead, laugh. Yes, I cannot bake without swearing, but this was monumental. Things didn't actually turn out alright in the end. I was making them for a community centre fundraiser. I'd spent two hours making the damn things from scratch. But I made a mistake and that mistake made itself clear all over my beautifully rolled out pastry. I overfilled the tarts. When I pulled them out of the oven, it looked like there had been a jam explosion. I lost it. Obviously it wasn't just about the tarts. But they tipped me over the edge. I behaved just like a two-year old and had an almighty tantrum. Afterwards, the tarts were still ruined and nothing had changed.

Something happened to me then. Something in me cut off. I didn't notice it straight away, but when I woke up the next morning, I realised that I felt numb. Like there was a glass wall between me and the world. I didn't feel anger or pain anymore, instead I just felt nothing. A dull nothing. That distressed me, but even that sense of distress was dulled. I hadn't felt, or not-felt, this way for a long time. Something sank in me. I remember that the last time this happened, it went on for weeks. I tried to prepare myself for it, to prepare myself for having to live like this. All the things that seemed important, all the things I'd hoped to do, hoped to achieve, it all went out the window. I knew I wouldn't have the energy to even try. I knew that trying - to do anything at all - but especially to make me feel better - would only make it worse.

I was standing in my kitchen. Some of the ruined jam tarts from yesterday were still on a plate on the counter in front of me. I went to throw them away and noticed that one of them was a lemon curd one. I'd really wanted to try them, I hadn't had lemon curd for years. So I took a bite. The pastry still had a crunch to it, but also a buttery softness. The sweet tangy lemon burst on my tongue. The combination of the pastry and the lemon curd was exquisite. For a few moments I forgot about everything but those tastes on my tongue. Then I looked up and noticed the blueness of the sky and the outlines of the starlings on the roof opposite. The sound of their calls hit my ears like I'd never heard them before. Then I noticed that the glass barrier was gone, the dullness had lifted. I'd been pulled into the present moment by my senses. Nothing special, just tastebuds. But I could feel again. And I felt very fortunate.

Of course things weren't all fine after that. I've been sobbing for the Olympics for much of this week. And each time, I felt better after. But that's not the end of it. Of course it's not going to be all bad. But things will never be all fine either. The point is there is no real escape. So maybe, if you can let go and manage to be present, be mindful, pay attention, wherever you happen to be, maybe you'll find that there is also joy. Even in the midst of all the crap.

The Spirit of Christmas

2011-12-15T17:45:00.000Z

I've been wanting to write a post about the C-word for a while. I'll 'fess up right now and say that it's a hard time of year for me and the things that usually help me through life's hard times just don't work. (And that's code for, I become a miserable, morose grump.) It happens every year but it always hits me as if it's brand new. The fact that it happens in winter as well is just a happy coincidence.

Because my family is scattered between two continents and most of my closest, oldest friends are living in other countries, this time of year always emphasises and heightens the distance and aloneness that, at other times, I am able to tolerate and cope with. The last two years have been unexpectedly bearable cos we had some lovely neighbours over on Christmas Day. They were also far from their own families and we got on well. But they moved away this year. Plus, this is gonna be the first time trying to negotiate Christmas as a "broken family." Even without that though, I think it is a hard time for a lot of people, for all kinds of reasons. But there is a prevailing sense that you're not supposed to talk about that. What you're supposed to do is put on your false cheer face and grin and bear it. Otherwise people call you Scrooge or a Grinch or take delight in shouting Ba Humbug! at you. And it's supposed to be funny. Well it isn't. And sometimes, even when I try my damndest, it don't help. Today for instance, I actually woke up chirpy. Yes, you heard right. I woke up positive and determined to make the most of things. Then I took Jake to Sainsbury's.

Christmasis a whole 9 days away, and yet, people are out shopping like the apocalypse iscoming. Sainsbury’s on a Thursdaymorning is not normally rammed. Today itwas. After managing to manoeuvre Jake inthe buggy, laden with a basket and carrying a 20 litre bag of cat litter pastridiculously long checkout queues populated with the most sullen people onearth, I get to the relatively clear self-checkout area, and wait behind theperson who is just finishing off their checking out. I’m just about to plonk the massive bag ofcat litter on the little shelf next to the check out I’m about to use when awoman holding three small (not 20, 10 or even 1 litre) bags of vegetables and who had just gotten in the queue behind me, plonks them thereinstead.

“I knowyou’re ahead of me in the queue," she said, "I just want to put my stuff here.”

For the purposes of veracity, I'd just like to point out that she is no older than me, able-bodied and in possession of both her arms and all her digits. Anyhooooo....

She thenturns to my gobsmacked face, frowns and says, “What? I’m not trying to cut ahead of you, I justwant to put my stuff there.”

I said,“Yes, I was just wondering where I’m going to put MY stuff.”

“Well," shesaid, "all you had to do was say if you want to put your stuff there, why do youhave to make that face?!” !!!!!!!

I surprised myself by saying,“Because I have feelings and don’t like being harassed.”

She thenput her hands on her hips and said, “All I wanted to do was put my thingsthere, you don’t have to make that face at me.”

I’m not afan of confrontation. Plus I wassweating and knackered and my arm was about to fall off from holding thefucking giant bag of cat litter. I didn't have the energy for a pointless argument so I decided it would be easier to join another queue. Istarted to do so and she actually HAD A GO AT ME!

“Hey, Itold you I didn’t want to cut in front of you, I just wanted…”

So Isnapped. “Look, I don’t need this rightnow okay? I have a child in a buggy andheavy shit to carry so please, go ahead, put your stuff there. I’m going to join another queue.”

As soon asI did so, the bleedin’ woman grabbed her three bags of veg in a huff andbuggered off.

The moral of the story is, (cos don't Christmas stories always have to have a moral): Sometimes, even when you get what you want, you still ain't happy. And that just about sums up Christmas.

There are 10 days to go till it's over. Will there be a happier ending to this story? Anything could happen, but don't hold your breath. And let's not forget the delightful arse-twitchery of New Year's Eve to look forward to.

If you were looking for something more warm and fuzzy, you can try the usual channels. There's more than enough of that stuff out there. <Ba Humbug>

December

2011-12-06T22:06:00.001Z

You know when you're all cranky and ranting, say about Christmas, and what you really need is simple kindness and understanding, not advice, not patronising, not judgement? Well I'm fortunate enough to have a friend like that in my life - who, upon hearing of my ranting crankiness, immediately wrote to me, understanding what was beneath it all and knowing exactly the right thing to say - sending me the kindness I didn't even know I was looking for. Along with a link to this beautiful song and the exhortation that I am "stronger than December." Thank you. You know who you are.

How to be out of your comfort zone

2011-11-30T18:34:00.001Z

I've been going through some stuff lately that I'm sorry to be cryptic about, but it's safe to say that I'm so far out of my comfort zone I don't even know where it is anymore. I feel like I'm walking around wide open and vulnerable, with my heart in my stomach and my stomach on the verge of spilling out of my mouth. It's scary and it hurts but you know what, it's also thrilling and oddly right. Because shutting down and being closed off is worse. It might feel less chaotic, you might even be more able to pass as a normal functioning member of society, but I'm not so interested in that these days. (And to those of you who've gingerly suggested that I try counselling - it's ok - I'm not gonna break if you're honest with me and it's ok, I'm already in counselling.) Plus, I'm like maybe growing and shit?

So I alternate between grinning like a fool and wanting to curl up in a ball under my duvet, or wanting to go climb a mountain (or a wall) and wanting my Mum (you know, in between changing nappies, clearing out the litter tray, making jam tarts and generally being at the beck and call of a "tiny overlord"). I'm listening to music and poetry when I can, the latter of which consoles and terrifies me in almost equal measure. Three times this week I picked up a book, read a poem and found myself in tears at the end - gut-wrenching, sobbing tears. And when a friend hinted that I too might feel grief, I became indignant, took umbrage with being patronised, ranted and then realised she'd hit a nerve. Oops. But I'm here. I'm trying not to escape, trying not to push the feelings away or bury them, which is what I usually do.

So how am I doing it? Like a wriggly worm. But here are some of my guides:

"Chaos should be regarded as extremely good news." (because it's an opportunity to wake up) - Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

"Hold your beliefs lightly. ~ Sometimes our very human desire for meaning, can get in the way of having a good experience of the world." - Grayson Perry

(I'd go a little bit further and say that our very human desire for certainty can get in the way of having a true experience of the world, good or bad, happy or sad, painful or joyful - and it's never one or the other.)

The poems of Mary Oliver, in particular Wild Geese and In Blackwater Woods. Plus Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye and many by Sharon Olds.

"Be grateful to everyone. ~ Others will always show you exactly where you are stuck. They say or do something and you automatically get hooked into a familiar way of reacting - shutting down, speeding up, or getting all worked up. When you react in the habitual way, with anger, greed, and so forth, it gives you a chance to see your patterns and work with them honestly and compassionately. Without others provoking you, you remain ignorant of your painful habits and cannot train in transforming them into the path of awakening." - From the teachings of Pema Chodron

"Real security is not only being able to tolerate mystery, complexity, ambiguity, but hungering for them and only trusting a situation when they are present." - Eve Ensler from Insecure at Last.

And finally, laughter. Cos you gotta have balance, even if most of the time, it feels like I'm falling off the beam.

A return to poetry

2011-11-13T22:39:00.001Z

In the midst of NaNoWriMo, I got a sudden urge to sit somewhere quiet and sunlit and immerse myself in poetry. It's been awhile. The urge has actually been there for a long time, but I've mostly ignored it. Then, while listlessly trying to up my word count, the urge got a bit rude and said, "Stop fannying about with this bullshit and go read a poem NOW." I listened. And discovered this one. It was like being welcomed home.

The ordinary made weird and wonderful

2011-11-08T17:02:00.000Z

I didn't want to neglect you entirely during my Nano expedition (it's going slowly, thanks for asking), so I thought I'd post up some weird and wonderful things I've stumbled across in the last few days...

I just love this song, especially the lyrics.

David Lynch takes dental hygiene to a whole new level in the track Strange and Unproductive Thinking.

Then there's this volunteer snake catcher in the rai. (If my very rusty and basic Thai is correct, I believe rai is the Thai word for a field.)

Did you know there are graphic short stories? I didn't until today. The stunning graphic short story, Love In A Very Cold Climate by Isabel Greenberg, just about melted my heart. (If you click on the link, her story starts on page 115 of the slide show / insert.)

And this flash, stunning in an entirely different way, just about broke it.

Enjoy...

Join the insanity

2011-11-02T09:08:00.001Z

Having written a post about being busy and letting several "projects" fall by the wayside, those of you who know me will not be surprised that I have since decided to do Nanowrimo this month.

Yes, trying to write a 50,000 word novel in one month is insane under any circumstances. Trying to do so whilst wrangling a pre-schooler and also somehow trying to have a life is going to lead to even more sleep deprivation. Yay!! Fancy joining me?

In order to keep the insanity at manageable levels, I'm adopting the attitude of "Let's just see what happens." If I manage to make even half the expected word count, I'll be happy.

Wish me luck!

"Abandon any hope of fruition"

2011-10-24T17:49:00.000Z

I know I've been absent here lately. Apologies. I've also stopped writing small stones (I still don't know if this is a temporary hiatus or a more long-term one) and it appears I've also let my Stitch A Year project fall by the wayside. But I have actually been writing, a lot. On top of flashing here every week, I've also joined a local writer's group which has given me the incentive to edit all those weekly stories and even resurrect some poems I wrote years ago and had forgotten about. I've also taken up a meditation practice which has sort of replaced the Stitch A Year project. I just don't have the time to do it all and as ever, it's the truest things that remain.

Alongside the meditation practice, I've been reading Pema Chodron's Start Where You Are. The whole book is a revelation but the chapter entitled "Abandon any hope of fruition" is possibly the best thing I've ever read and I wanted to share it. So I've pretty much typed out almost the whole chapter for you here:

"One of the most powerful teachings of the Buddhist tradition is that as long as you are wishing for things to change, they never will. As long as you have an orientation toward the future, you can never just relax into what you already have or already are.

One of the deepest habitual patterns that we have is to feel that now is not good enough. We think back to the past a lot, which maybe was better than now, or perhaps worse. We also think ahead quite a bit to the future - which we may fear - always holding out hope that it might be a little bit better than now. Even if now is going really well ... nevertheless there's a deep tendency to think about how it's going to be later. We don't quite give ourselves full credit for who are in the present. ...

In one of the first teachings I ever heard, the teacher said, "I don't know why you came here, but I want to tell you right now that the basis of this whole teaching is that you're never going to get everything together." I felt a little like he had just slapped me in the face...but I've always remembered it. There isn't going to be some precious future time when all the loose ends will be tied up. Even though it was shocking to me, it rang true. One of the things that keeps us unhappy is this continual searching for pleasure or security, searching for a little more comfortable situation, either at the domestic level or at the spiritual level or at the level of mental peace.

Nowadays, people go to a lot of different places trying to find what they're looking for. There are 12-step programs...there are a lot of support groups and different therapy groups. Many people feel wounded and are looking for something to heal them. To me it seems that at the root of healing, at the root of feeling like a fully adult person, is the premise that you're not going to try to make anything go away, that what you have is worth appreciating. But this is hard to swallow if what you have is pain.

In Boston there's a stress-reduction clinic run on Buddhist principles. It was started by Dr. Jon Kabat-Zinn, a Buddhist practitioner and author of Full Catastrophe Living. He says that the basic premise of his clinic - to which many people come with a lot of pain - is to give up any hope of fruition. Otherwise the treatment won't work. If there's some sense of wanting to change yourself, then it comes from a place of feeling that you're not good enough. It comes from agression toward yourself, dislike of your present mind, speech, or body; there's something about yourself that you feel is not good enough. People come to the clinic with addictions, abuse issues or stress from work - all kinds of issues. Yet this simple ingredient of giving up hope is the most important ingredient for developing sanity and healing.

That's the main thing. As long as you're wanting to be thinner, smarter, more enlightened, less uptight, or whatever it might be, somehow you're always going to be approaching your problem with the very same logic that created it to begin with: you're not good enough. That's why the habitual pattern never unwinds itself when you're trying to improve, because you go about it in exactly the same habitual style that caused all the pain to start.

There's a life-affirming teaching in Buddhism, which is that Buddha, which means "awake," is not someone you worship. Buddha is not someone you aspire to; Buddha is not somebody that was born more than two thousand years ago and was smarter than you'll ever be. Buddha is our inherent nature - our buddha nature - and what that means is that if you're going to grow up fully, the way that it happens is that you begin to connect with the intelligence that you already have. It's not like some intelligence that's going to be transplanted into you. If you're going to be fully mature, you will no longer be imprisoned in the childhood feeling that you always need to protect yourself or shield yourself because things are too harsh. If you're going to be a grouwn-up - which I would define as being completely at home in your world no matter how difficult the situation - it's because you will allow something that's already in you to be nurtured. You allow it to grow, you allow it to come out, instead of all the time shielding it and protecting it and keeping it buried.

Someone once told me, "When you feel afraid, that's 'fearful buddha.'" That could be applied to whatever you feel. Maybe anger is your thing. You just go out of control and you see red, and the next thing you know you're yelling or throwing something or hitting someone. At that time, begin to accept the fact that that's "enraged buddha." If you feel jealous, that's "jealous buddha." If you have indigestion, that's "buddha with heartburn." If you're happy, "happy buddha"; if bored, "bored buddha." In other words, anything that you can experience or think is worthy of compassion; anything you could think or feel is worthy of appreciation. ... If one would enter into an unconditional relationship with oneself, one would be entering into an unconditional relationship with buddha.

This is why the slogan says, "Abandon any hope of fruition." "Fruition" implies that at a future time you will feel good. There is another word, which is open - to have an open heart and open mind. This is oriented very much to the present. If you enter into an unconditional relationship with yourself, that means sticking with the buddha right now on the spot as you find yourself. ...

Whether you get meditation instruction from the Theravada tradition or the Zen tradition or the Vajrayana tradition, the basic instruction is always about being awake in the present moment. What they don't tell you is that the present moment can be you, this you about whom you sometimes don't feel very good. That's what there is to wake up to.

When one of the emperors of China asked Bodhidharma (the Zen master who brought Zen from India to China) what enlightenment was, his answer was, "Lots of space, nothing holy." Meditation is nothing holy. Therefore there's nothing that you think or feel that somehow gets put in the category of "sin." There's nothing that you can think or feel that gets put in the category of "wrong." It's all good juicy stuff - the manure of waking up, the manure of achieving enlightenment, the art of living in the present moment."

~

So this is what I've been living with lately. I hope it is of some help or comfort to you. It is to me.

And today we made a giraffe

2011-10-10T18:19:00.001Z

I tried to get Jake to stand next to it in the photo above, so you could have an idea of the size of it, but he wasn't interested. It's about twice Jake's height though.

Why I love my boy

2011-10-09T13:10:00.000Z

Not that I need to justify why I adore my little munchkin, but here are some reasons anyway!

~

The week before last, when we had beautiful Indian Summer weather, I was wearing a dress when I went to pick Jake up from his Dad's. The first thing Jake said when he saw me?

"Oh! I like your dress Mummy! It's nice! Is it new? Where did you get it? A shop?"

Three years old and ALREADY he knows how to talk to women?!

~

The other day, I was feeling particularly stressed. I've been ill with a cold, tired, not sleeping that great and I'm going through the process of choosing a school for him. (Yes, SCHOOL! When did he get so old???) Anyway, I was trying to get dressed and got my arm caught at a funny angle in one of my sleeves. Struggles and perhaps some cursing ensued which ended with me hurling the top onto the floor.

Jake got up from what he was doing, walked over to me and hugged my legs. Then he gently and tactfully pulled up the waistband of my leggings which had slipped down a bit and which might have been revealing some butt crack, and said, "There you go Mummy, I just pull up your trousers for you."

~

On Friday, I decided to make lentil soup. Amazingly enough, Jake not only let me make it without any fuss, but he also wandered in and casually asked me what I was making.

"I'm making soup!" I said.

"Soup? Oh, can I have some?"

Naturally I hid my surprise and answered non-chalantly, "Sure," thinking - he's done this before. Said he's interested in trying something then acts like I'm speaking Martian when I offer him some.

But this time, he actually tried some. And he liked it. And he said he liked it. Several times!! And he ATE HALF A BOWL! Of LENTIL SOUP!!!

This might not be a big deal to many parents, especially baby-led weaned ones. But Jake has been refusing vegetables and food with "bits in it" for at least a year now. His diet has mainly consisted of rice, various forms of potato, bread and noodles/pasta. He does not like meat (apart from fish fingers). He does not like cheese (apat from Philadelphia). He does not like pizza or burgers - veggie or otherwise. Occasionally I can get away with putting frozen chopped spinach in his noodles or pasta sauce. My sanity has been kept largely in tact because he does like my omelettes and he will eat fruit. But he rarely tries anything new and when he does, he usually spits it out. Hence the soup shocker.

Later, he ate more soup at dinner and ASKED to have some more for lunch the next day!!!!

(I know I'm probably breaking some Uber-Unconditional-Parenting rule by expressing an extra sense of love for my child for eating good nutritious food cooked by my own hands, but I can't help it, I do. However, in my defense, I just want to say that I didn't make a big deal of it to him. I just acted like it was normal.)

~

Yesterday morning, Jake and I had a wonderful morning of pottering and playing together. It was one of those mornings where we were both happy and relaxed and really in tune with each other and everything flowed easily with spontaneity and unmatchable child-like joy. Much of it was spent cutting up playdough and "cooking" it and having a picnic with it.

After some time spent cutting and cooking, Jake said, "Wow, that was hard work Mummy. Shall we have a cuppa tea?"

We also used the playdough to make a robot. Jake was sticking some playdough circles to a box and telling me what he was doing. "These are the robot's eyes and these are the cheeks. Robots do have cheeks you know."

I don't think I could love him more. But I probably will.

~

Totally off-topic, I've been having trouble commenting on some people's blogs on blogger. I write my comment and no matter how I log in to post the comment, as soon as I press "Post Comment" the whole comment just disappears and nothing happens. I don't know if you've experienced any problems trying to comment here, but if you did, I guess I wouldn't know! And if you are one of the bloggers I usually read and comment on and you haven't heard from me in a while, you know why! Just thought I'd mentioned it.

Kick-start

2011-10-03T09:45:00.001Z

Just a reminder that 26n is still going. If you'd like a kick-start to your writing, try one of our prompts! A shiny new one has just been posted.

We'd also appreciate it if you could spread the word and tell any of your friends, real or imaginary, who might be interested.

Ta!

"Dear C" published at The Dirty Napkin

2011-09-23T10:09:00.001Z

A fictional letter I wrote, "Dear C" is now up at The Dirty Napkin. You can also listen to a recording of me reading it!

You'll only be able to read or listen to it while the current issue is current. Once it gets archived, you have to be a subscriber to read the full piece, so read / listen while you can :-)

Shopping for clouds, 'tache removal for dolls & Moomin anatomy

2011-09-15T16:50:00.001Z

After over a week of rain, we finally had some sunshine. Glorious, hot September sunshine. So Jake and I headed out to the marshes again. Today we ended up in Springfield Park via the Caff on the river, where Jake lost the top half of his Cornetto, bawled (even though I told him I'd get him another one, he picked the fallen half up of the floor and wanted to eat it) and then proceeded to have a nosebleed.

In the midst of all this, three Dads and their toddlers were at the Caff and the little ones decided to rearrange all the chairs. They were obviously not familiar with the angry woman who runs the place, whose special method of anger mis-management is to take it out on children who decide to play with the chairs. I'm not joking either. Last time I took Jake there, he was playing with a chair and even though we were the ONLY people in the place, she kept glaring at him, then roughly pushed the chair back to its place even though he was still on it and said to him rather than to me, "You can't move the chairs, it's a health and safety hazard."

Today, the little ones had lined the chairs up for a show. Chair-rage woman saw it and stomped into their midst without actually looking at them and then proceeded to noisily drag all the metal chairs back into place. One of the Dads noticed and said, "Oh dear kids, this lady is not happy!" and she muttered, "I've got enough work to do as it is without messing about with chairs," then stomped off inside.

I was sure she was going to have a go at Jake for daring to have a nosebleed outside the door of her establishment (health & safety hazard obviously) but she didn't.

Later, we went to the park and were entertained by watching the Dads who'd been at the Caff. One Dad in particular kept getting into intense conversations (from holistic health practices to the cut-throat world of publishing to teenage rebellion) and not quite keeping an eye on his wandering son. Three times the young man got away. The first two times he didn't quite manage to get out of the gates of the park. But the third time, he managed not only to get out of the park but also up the nearby bridge crossing over the river. That one took us all by surprise, me included. The other two Dads with him were in hysterics when chatty-Dad brought his kid back. "That wouldn't be good would it," one of them said, "not on your watch." And the other said, "Oh yes darling, he just went for a little swim."

Watching all this, Jake said to me, "Did he go for a little swim? That's bad isn't it Mummy?" and shook his head.

Later, when they had to go, Jake said, "Oh, they have to go now. That means there won't be any more funny things to see here."

So we went to play in the playground, where I learned that Moomins don't have bellybuttons (a pronouncement Jake made completely out of the blue), and that Spongebob (or Sponboj as Jake still calls him) likes popcorn and watermelon icecream. I also had a moment of wondering if he was in fact my child when he suddenly asked me, "Would you like to come jogging?"

Then we threw dried grass at each other and into the pretend swamp and ran up and down a hill. We also played shops. We took it in turns to be shopkeeper and pretend customers.

When I was being shopkeeper, Jake came in as "Dolly" and asked for clouds. I said, "Oh, I don't think I can get clouds today." Jake paused, left the shop, pretended to go to the shop next door and completed his transaction without any problems. Then he came back to me and said, "You just have to pretend Mummy." That told me! He also came in as a slide (with eyes) asking for a spanner and a tree asking for bricks.

Then, when he was being shopkeeper, I came in as "Dolly" and asked for hair removal cream for my mustache. (Since we acquired her, Dolly has mysteriously gained a scribbled on comb over and a 'tache). Jake perused his shelves and said he didn't have any cream but handed me something else. "Here's a tissue," he said. "Are you sure this will work on a mustache?" I asked. "Yes," he said very firmly. Then asked me for £40.

Finally, I came in as a ladybird.
"What would you like?" Jake asked.
"I'm very lonely and I'd like a friend," I said.
"Hmmm, what kind would you like?" he asked.
"A funny one, and someone who understands me," I said.
"Stands you?"
"Yes."
He thought about it and then said, "Sorry, I only have one that can sit."

Perhaps it's because these little friends are so nicely designed for sitting:

South Tottenham with his new friend Gospel Oak (or Ospel Goak)

Napping Ninja

2011-09-08T20:54:00.004Z

This afternoon, Jake lay on the sofa watching Iconicles. When it finished, we were due to go to the official opening of The Mill, the reclaimed and refurbished old St James St library where I will be volunteering. But this is how I found him.

I believe that in Yogic Toddler this is known as Napping Ninja. If it isn't, it should be.

Perhaps this will be the beginning of a series of Jake Sleeps photos. I have one somewhere of him asleep standing up. Must dig that out.

Life with Jake

2011-09-05T14:30:00.000Z

One evening last week, while lying on the floor playing with his toy truck, Jake went very still.

“Jake, are you falling asleep?” I asked. It was 6pm. Not the ideal time for him to be having a nap.

The back of his head nodded twice, then I heard snoring. He was still holding his truck. He stayed in that position for an hour.

~

On Friday last week we had a glorious September day – sunny, warm, HOT even. So we went to the Marshes. I couldn't believe how long it'd been since we were last there. It's been such a crappy summer weather-wise.

While walking past some bramble thickets, Jake flung his sunglasses into the thorny mass, stopped and said, "Uh oh!"

I stopped and asked him why he would do such a thing. He shrugged, looking as surprised as I was that he'd done it. I looked but I couldn’t see a sign of them anywhere. I then launched into a mini lecture about why that was a naughty thing to do and how it isn't easy to find sunglasses like that (they were bendy and indestructible and he liked them and actually wore them AND they were fairly cheap and from Decathlon in South London - South London for goodness sake!!).

We walked on and a few moments later I found a pair of children's sunglasses on the path, hot pink and heart shaped, but still.

"Well how about that! They're pink and heart shaped but they'll probably fit you. What do you think Jake?" I put them on him.

"I don't like them." He said, but didn't try to remove them.

I took them off him but kept them anyway, tickled by the whimsical notion of a magical bramble thicket that taketh and then giveth away.

Later, I apologised to Jake for ranting at him about throwing his sunglasses. I'm sure he didn't mean to lose them on purpose. I said, "And don't worry, we can get you some new ones."

"We got some new ones already," he replied.

He hasn't worn them yet, but he's allowed me to keep them as if he might. We shall see.

~

On the same sunny day, sitting by the river outside the greasy spoon caff with Jake, watching people drink tea and ride by on their bikes, he says,

“I’ve got things in my mouth.”

“Really, what have you got?”

“I have a cuppa tea!”

“Wow, a whole cup of tea!”

“Yes, and bicycles!!”

“Wow, that’s a big mouth you’ve got there.”

“Yes. But not as big as Daddy’s.”

~

While reading Mog the Forgetful Cat the other night, a story we’ve been reading at bedtime for a number of months now, Jake suddenly interjected, “He needs to be shot.”

Being the morally corrupt parent that I am, I guffawed. So naturally he kept doing it. I could kind of understand. The dog was chasing Mog, so yeah, maybe he needed to be shot. And Mr & Mrs Thomas for sure, with their irritating middle-class-English pronouncements of “Bother that cat!” when Mog crushed their precious geraniums or slept on a hat that THEY'D left on a chair or her tail blocked the boxing on TV. Honestly! She's a CAT. Get OVER it. So yeah, they needed to be shot.

But when Jake said Mog should be shot I had to disagree. He thought about it for a moment then said, “OK, just his tail needs to be shot then.” Naturally I guffawed some more.

I was convinced this had something to do with Daddy’s version of Mog, but Daddy swears it wasn’t him. Hmmm. I didn’t realize Jake was quite so imaginative.

Inspired by his inventiveness, I decided to rename the Thomases "Shingenshengen". Jake found this infinitely amusing. And it makes Mr & Mrs Thomas a teeny bit more bearable.

~

In the playground the other day, Jake asked for a wipe for his face. When finished with the wipe, he held it under his chin and said, "Look I've got a beard!"

Then he pointed at various people in the playground and pronounced whether they had a beard or not. Some of those that did were women.

Must be all those trips to Stoke Newington.

~

Jake: I can hear the recycling truck very far away.
Me (not hearing it): Wow, you have really good ears.
Jake: Yes I do. (Pause) WHAT? (giggles hysterically)

And apparently he’s a comedian too.

~

Of course it isn't all laughs and free sunglasses. Most days he feels the need to disagree with me about everything, from where I'm allowed to touch in and out with my Oyster card or whether the sink is in fact full of washing up to telling me I am not hungry and am therefore not allowed to cook or eat.

And I can't even begin to talk about the ~~hell~~ challenge of feeding him at the moment. Some things just can't be spoken of in company. But, since I read the other day that children generally become assholes when they turn 3, I think we're doing alright. :-)

And finally...following the creation of South Tottenham, Jake has suggested two more characters for me to get busy with: Hackney Downs and Gospel Oak (and yes, they are train stations).

Watch this space!

(Apologies for the weird spacing in this post. I don't know why it's happening and I don't know how to fix it.)

Today we painted

2011-08-26T17:30:00.000Z

This is Jake's painting. I have so much to learn from him.

The story of South Tottenham

2011-08-23T22:58:00.001Z

This isn't a post about the riots or anything to do with London or its history. It's really about my son's love of all things train and train station. So much so that when I made him a sock monster (at his request), he decided to name him South Tottenham. This is his story...

Jake picked out the socks from which to make his monster.
Incidentally, they are the exact same pair I would have picked.
While I am sewing up his arms, Jake puts him in the doll pram.

Have you ever seen such an itty bitty limb?

Finally I get to use the buttons I bought in Italy years ago.

Not done yet but he's already got attitude.

Couldn't resist!

The genius of using socks means he gets a bum to sit on.

Ta da! All done!
And yes, those green threads are meant to be there.
They are armpit hairs and got Jake's approval.

Taking South Tottenham and Penguin for a walk ~ or,
How to get weird looks from your neighbours

And from strangers in the playground

I think we did get a few smiles though.
Interestingly enough, the smiles were from men.
The women looked at us like we were wearing meat for clothes
and not in an appreciation for Lady Gaga sort of way.
Little girls smiled and wanted to play but their judgmental mothers
kept them from approaching us.
I still don't know if it was because I was allowing
my boy to play with a doll pram or because
of the wonderful uniqueness of South Tottenham.

Jake colours in a drawing of South Tottenham that I made for him

I know I'm biased, but I think it's fab and unwittingly
captures what South Tottenham's all about.

A story about South Tottenham being worked out in my sketchbook / journal

The "finished" story ~ or at least a draft of one,
including a few contributions from Jake.

I read something the other day about how we have a choice about what thoughts we can hold about any situation, and how that choice leads to inner freedom. I’m sure I’ve heard this many times before but this time it stuck with me, felt real, felt good real.

Lately I’ve been living with this thought in my head – “hey, this is my reality, so why should I try to live someone else’s?” It came out of realising that the guilt I was feeling, about only having one child and yet still struggling to cope with one child while many others I know have two or more, was a ridiculous waste of my life. Whose reality was I trying to live out and why? Where did that voice come from that was telling me that my struggles were unimportant compared to that of others’, that I didn’t have a right to feel what I feel unless I “qualified” for it by at least having one more child? I’ve been living with that voice my whole life – that mean, punitive, uncaring voice. And all this time I’ve automatically listened to it like it was the Truth, reflexively changing the ends of my own inner thoughts so that they sounded acceptable, quietly buried all troublesome feelings and covered them over with a clean and pretty cloth.
What burdens we labour under – and for what?

So yeah, this is my reality. I have one kid and he is awesome. Because I don't have to run around after a second, younger baby or toddler, it means we get to spend a lot of time together and we are close. We talk all the time, and I'm either on the floor playing with him or we're deep in some project or outing together. Yeah, he's sensitive and yeah, even though he's 3, he's still clingy so that if I try to cook or wash up he'll follow me into the kitchen, wedge himself between me and the kitchen counter and say, "Mummy I need a cuddle." Sometimes I can't pick him up and cuddle him, sometimes I can. When I can, his arms go around my neck and he usually says, "I like you Mummy" or "I love you." Why on earth should I feel guilty about that??

It rained almost all day today. Jake and I did manage a little trip out, a walk to the shop and back to buy eggs. But the rest of the day was spent indoors, both of us feeling restless, bored, irritable - but we also had some great moments.

When I started feeling guilty that I wasn’t thinking of riveting or ultra-wonderful things to do with Jake like the perfect Mum should, I reminded myself that I’m human, that this is my reality now and that everyone has days like this – bored, restless rainy days. And as soon as I accepted it, didn’t fight with myself about it, magic happened. While Jake was playing with trains and eating raisins, I started drawing in my sketchbook / journal. He got interested and wanted to join me. We had a good hour or more of drawing together and it came about spontaneously and organically. I even let go of the need for my sketchbook / journal to remain in "pristine" condition and let Jake scribble in it like he wanted to. And of course his touch only added to it. What happens when we let go of “shoulds”.

Patagonia

2011-08-21T11:09:00.000Z

Saw this last night ~ a beautiful beautiful story set in Wales and Argentina. Amidst all the crap out there that is scaring and upsetting me, sitting down to watch this film was like being taken to a safe and magical place. Apart from being gorgeously filmed and filled with wonderful music, it restores my faith in life.

The one where I vomit all over the page

2011-08-16T22:49:00.004Z

There has been so much that I've been wanting to say. About the riots, and especially about how people have reacted to the riots and all the finger pointing that's going on post-riot, the assumptions people have, mostly unexamined, and how ANGRY and dismayed it's making me feel. But that's a whole other post.

About how worried and stressed I feel about having to claim benefits and how much I HATE being asked why I'm not working like I'm some sort of criminal. And don't even get me started on David Cameron's farcical speeches about Broken Britain and having a go at single parents especially in the wake of the parenting tips that were released by the Govt recently, one of which was the clever idea to spend at least 20 minutes a day talking to your child with the TV off - SERIOUSLY?? I mean, I know Jake's not at school yet but surely it shouldn't be such an effort to find 20 minutes in a day in which to TALK to your child? Acccchhhhh! A whole other post!

About how, in the middle of our housing benefit interview yesterday, Jake, after having stamped his feet, thrown his trains on the floor, thrown papers on the floor, run his trains angrily across the unsmiling woman's desk, stood on the chair and said, "I want to go NOW!" followed by, "Look Mummy, she's got no eyebrowns!" and how right he was cos when I sneaked a peek, I saw that they were drawn on. To make it up to him for having to go to such a horrid place for such a long time, we later sat on the platform of Walthamstow Central overground station for half an hour where we shared some cake and he could watch the trains go by.

About how alone I felt while recovering from my wisdom tooth operation and how guilty I felt about feeling alone because I ought to be grateful that there is someone to help look after Jake at all so I can look after myself. It's pointless feeling guilty about feelings but I did anyway, so guilty I even deleted a post I put on a forum that I normally find very supportive because I suddenly realised how many of the people who use the forum have 2 children or more (or are at least expecting their 2nd child) and how churlish it is of me with my mere one child to complain at all. So I kept my feelings to myself and posted cheery status updates on Facebook so I can pretend, along with the rest of the virtual world who partake in it, that I don't have any threatening or scary feelings but that I am acceptable and likeable, so as not to be ostracised and feel friendless.

And then, the woman from the housing benefit office rang and told me my National Insurance number is invalid (even though the tax office has been using it for years) and I wanted to cry. Then I heard on the news that six people had been stabbed to death in Jersey, including three children. And I wanted to cry. Then I heard that Fiona Robyn's cat died after being knocked over by a car and I wanted to cry. Then I get hungry and Jake needs a cuddle and life goes on and all the tears get buried somewhere. Also, I haven't written anything for over a week. It's taking its toll. So here I am, vomiting on the page.

Today Jake and I made an impromptu spider and three rainbows out of pipe cleaners, tried on lip gloss (Jake's idea, I have no idea where he found the lip gloss, I haven't worn any for years), drew a mini-train station complete with train tracks and level crossings and received lovely cards from a dear friend - all before 10am. Later we stopped by Oxfam and found three fantastic children's books (Milo & The Magical Stones by Marcus Pfister which has two possible endings to choose from - a happy one and a sad one, Animal Stories by Dick King-Smith, and The Used-Up Bear by Clay Carmichael) and paid only £2.97 for the lot. Jake didn't quite appreciate The Used-Up Bear as much as I did. I really bought that book for me, because I identify so much with that bear, except I haven't had my red suit made for me yet. I also took Jake to a newly opened local community centre where I am hoping to start volunteering soon.

And yet, much of the day felt like a struggle. There was a lot of stress and cajoling to get anything done (getting Jake changed, getting him from A to B, trying to cook) and when that didn't work, shouting and making Jake cry. There was the moment an old woman standing outside a church with her respectably dressed fellow church go-ers said about me after we'd passed them and she thought I was out of earshot, "Oh I'd never let a child run free like that" because I didn't have Jake strapped into his buggy but was letting him walk (and run) by himself on the pavement (shock horror). Well, I heard her and I stopped and glared and said, "Oh you wouldn't, would you?" and then walked on muttering to myself about how I KNOW my own kid and hey, how about the novel idea that I might actually TRUST Jake because I KNOW he is capable of being careful even if he is running on a pavement beside a busy road. How about the fact that whenever I ask Jake to stop when we're out and about, he always stops? How about cutting someone you don't even know some slack instead of judging them?

Then there was the moment just after I dragged Jake away from looking at some flowers cos we were on our way to somewhere else and I was so god-damned DETERMINED to get there that he ran and tripped and skinned his knee and cried and cried and cried. And there was the moment I opened the tub of taramasalata I'd just bought and had been looking forward to devouring and found a spot of mould on it. And the moment I accidentally knocked a glass of juice all over the carpet and it spilled across part of our newly drawn train station and I totally lost it and started swearing at the stain like I was Lady Macbeth. Worst of all was the threatening and pushing involved to get Jake into the tub to have his bath. When I was out of it last week, I found out Jake hadn't had a bath in a week. He can't have a bath at his Daddy's place cos there's no bathplug. And he's due to go over there the next two nights, so it suddenly seemed IMPERATIVE that he have a bath TONIGHT. Except Jake wanted to look out the window at his friend Vlad who was in his garden with his grandma. So there was more shouting and Jake ended up crying, "Mummy I just need a cuddle!"

He's such a sensitive kid. He takes shouting hard. I ought to know this by now. It may sometimes "work" in that it gets him to do what I want him to do but more often than not he refuses and it hurts him. I know these things happens sometimes. We're all human. There's just been far too much of it in one day. He finally did agree to get in the bath but he cried the whole time he was in it (which wasn't very long). I felt so awful. I asked him he if was crying because he was upset because I shouted at him and he nodded and cried even harder. After a while I asked him what I could do. He said he wanted to get out of the bath. And what did I do? I said, "I'll just give you a little wash" because he was in the bath and I thought, why not, might as well. But of course it upset him. And I said, "But Jake that's the whole point of being in the bath" but then I stopped myself from going any further. He was already hurt because I'd been coercing him, he cried to show he was hurt and he also told me. But I'd been doing something like this all day and basically not hearing him. So I took him out and held him till he stopped crying.

Then, while I was reading him stories at bedtime, I did it again. Yes, he was messing around and bouncing on the bed and interrupting my reading and making silly noises and laughing by tickling himself with "Sponboj" and part of me found it cute but most of me got annoyed so I kept asking him if he really wanted me to read him a story because he wasn't listening. He kept saying he did want a story but he carried on being silly and I carried on being annoyed. Arrrrgggghhhh!! I could hear myself and I hated it, but I couldn't stop!! I kept on at him for not listening and yet, I hadn't been listening to him all day. And even so, even while I was being a shrill cow, Jake was stroking my arm and saying, "I still love you Mummy." Oh that child of mine sure knows how to squeeze my heart.

There was other stuff too. Stuff I've forgotten now. Stuff about vulnerability and poetry and shit. But I still have a flash to write tonight. And this is probably enough vomit for one post. And because so much vomit should at least be accompanied by a photo, here's one of Jake from yesterday. He'd had daisies in his hat then put the hat on and just had some daisies in his hair but he took them out just before I managed to get this snap...if you've read this far, remind me to send you a medal in the post. :-)

smoke

2011-08-07T22:16:00.002Z

still, the sound of slicing blades
the fast-fast wail of sirens

and in the night air
the smell of smoke
real or imagined

~

Tottenham riots

stones in my stomach

2011-08-06T11:56:00.004Z

Lately my blogging has been cryptic and not entirely honest. There are things I haven't been saying. Things I am still stunned to find myself living through. I've been wanting to hang on to some semblance of normality, so I've continued to write small stones (or tried to), but I've been finding it hard to notice things, to really see them. It’s because I’ve been finding it hard to stop and be. There is upheaval, turbulence. There are stones in my stomach.

The last few stones I’ve written haven’t felt quite like small stones. They’ve felt like I’ve been viewing the world through a filter, one I’ve deliberately placed over my eyes, to keep me from the force of the way things are. Maybe it’s because it’s necessary. But it makes the writing of small stones…wrenching. Because it makes me aware of this filter, this deliberate keeping of the world at bay, and yet, I don’t want to not try. The same could be said of my blog posts here.

If you've been reading my small stones blog, you may have noticed that I didn’t write a stone for Thursday night. I told myself it was because it had been a busy day (it had), because I’d been out all day and then in the evening (I had), because so much had happened (it had) and it was hard to put it into words (it is) and that I was still too stunned to articulate everything that had happened (perhaps I still am).

I did notice something though, after coming out of the theatre on Thursday night. After my very first Chekhov experience (The Cherry Orchard), against the night sky, a tree with vivid red-orange berries, so bright against evening green leaves they seemed to throb. And yet, I didn’t write it as a stone. I still don’t know the name of those berries, I thought. And isn't the image a little cliched?

Then, on the tube home, I watched a boy with brown skin ask a girl with brown curls who was rolling a cigarette if she’d ever used a rolling machine. She smiled, lit up, a spark in her eyes. Her fingers rolling effortlessly on the rocking train, she said, “Here’s a tip. Don’t use so much baccy.” Then licked the edge, smoothed it down and tucked it under a curl behind her ear, the boy with the brown skin smiling, shaking his head in admiration. Then they both stood and left the train through different doors. But I didn’t write it as a stone.

I had a squished California Hand Roll from Wasabi in my handbag. I was worried it was going to stain my programme of The Cherry Orchard. I was wondering whether I should eat the roll first then wash my hair when I got home. And I remembered I still had to do my embroidery. Maybe that’s why I didn’t write a stone. Then I remembered I'm going into hospital on Monday to have a wisdom tooth out and that I haven't yet checked what they mean by "nil by mouth" from Sunday night. Can I still drink water? Maybe that's why I didn't write a stone. And yet, I went to bed at 1am with Chekhov’s stories. (And I can’t even begin to articulate the effect his writing is having on me.) And then, the next morning, I got up, lived another day as if stepping on tremors, then wrote that ”stone” about Abney Park Cemetary, the one that was trying to be picturesque and ”poetic” but left so much unsaid.

So I tried again, even though I can't even begin to say it all. I've been dreading putting it into words, but life moves on regardless of how we feel.

I've written this on my small stones blog, but I need to say it here too. ~

Last night was Jake’s first night at “Daddy’s house”. Paul picked him up, we waved goodbye through the open window, blew kisses at each other, pulled funny faces. I watched his back, astride Paul’s shoulders, in his Thomas blue t-shirt, twist round for one last wave. Then I closed the window, ate noodle soup, went to the theatre.

This morning was my first for picking my son up from his Dad’s. I woke up alone, drank half a cup of tea, didn’t check train times, but arrived, stepping over rubble, trying to find the right door. How ordinary things can be, how quiet the whirr of our failures, how invisible the rips and tears, how relentless the workings of the physical world. We still have to eat, sleep, get up in the morning, get trains on time, wait for buses, cross busy roads, knock on unfamiliar doors, deal with our bowels and walk on, occasionally remembering to unfurl the fist in our stomachs, to keep the palms soft, to breathe, stay awake, alive, open.

Conversations with my three year old

2011-08-01T14:45:00.003Z

Jake: Mummy, did you just say 'fuck', like yesterday?
Me: Yes darling, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it.
Jake: Please don't say it again, okay?
Me: I'll try darling, I'm really sorry.
(Pause)
Jake: Do you want a cuddle and a kiss?
Me: (tearing up) Yes please.

Jake clambers off his chair to give me the best hug and kiss in the world.

~

Leafing through the A - Z, Jake instructs me to sit down with him to "read the maps".
He points to a green bit which is Hyde Park and says, "We can ride horses there."
"Yes, we probably can," I say.
"And tigers too. And cows. And sheeps. Are sheeps friendly?"
"Yes, I think they are."
"Yeah, sheeps. We can ride sheeps. I think they'd like that."

~
Jake, holding his toy motorbike and running it up and down the back of the sofa:
Mummy, do you remember that place we went to with Ben-Alex, there was a monkey (he mimics an animal playing a drum), two, no, three really tall mans and there was a motorbike going up and down and up and down and there were some greedy people getting on it? Do you remember? Were you there?

Me: Er....I think so?

Jake: Yeah, let's go there again. Okay?

Me: Mmmmm, sure.

~

How long til he twigs I don't really know what I'm doing?

Pussycat Dreams

2011-07-30T10:27:00.002Z

I discovered this cut-out-and-make cat at The Museum of Childhood shop.

It comes in the form of a card which I'd bought for my 13 year old niece but Jake refused to let it go!

It's designed by Alice Melvin who has a whole load of other wonderful goodies in her shop.

This is the sort of thing I'd like to have a go at making one day - 3D paper shapes and "sculptures".

So many projects, so little time...sigh.

Lapses

2011-07-28T14:59:00.002Z

‘Kiss her on the cheek, tell her who you are, but be prepared to keep doing it, over and over.’

I hadn’t been ‘home’ in years. Since then, my 94 year old Grandma has been having memory lapses. Not many and not severely. But my father would visit her and she’d keep asking him, “Where are your children? How many do you have? Why don’t they live with you?” and my Dad would keep answering.

Every now and then he’d say “I don’t know, you ask me so often I forget!” Then they’d laugh and five minutes later, she’d start up again. Then one of my aunts would fetch the photo, the one where Grandma’s holding my Johnny, her great grandson, and she’d say, “Oh! Yes, I remember now. Show that picture to your sister.” And they’d laugh again.

“She’s already seen it Mum.”

Apart from that, she’s as strong as a water buffalo. Even when the freak cold front hit Bangkok recently, Dad got influenza, Mom got strange rashes and everyone was bundling up in jackets and scarves, but Grandma just wore a shawl around her shoulders.

While we’re eating lunch, Grandma starts up again. “Where are your children, why don’t they live with you?” Even as I’m sitting there.

Everyone points but Johnny and I look different now. Grandma squints, then smiles, then repeats the questions. She only asks them of my father. I look around the room at my uncles, aunts, cousins and realise why. They all live with her or within a few miles of her.

I think of my London flat, all the days I spend alone with Johnny, trips to the playground just the two of us, going to play groups to be with strangers.

I used to be relieved living so far away. I didn’t want all the noise and scrutiny, the crush of such familiarity.

I look at my Grandma as she waits for an answer.

“It’s a good question Grandma, a very good question.”

~
(333 words ~ prompt: "remembered" – from one of my books)

what is there to do here?

2011-07-24T13:44:00.001Z

the boys who’d asked
what is there to do here
huddle in close
pick snails off leaves
disappear with cups
to pick “blueberries” off Brambles
return with chins and fingers
stained wine red

as we walk
comfrey leaves are stuck
to arms, chests
badges peeled and reapplied

birds become more than ducks and swans
trees acquire names like Ash and Hazel
unripe apples are picked and bitten
then kicked about
pale-green pebble-hard footballs

we progress like a higgledy-piggledy train
adults orbited by
running boys and quiet, feisty Maddie
a passerby smiles
“This is a very large family!”

I stop for a moment to hold it all
a floating lotus and lily-pad island
geese climbing the banks to join us
a glimpse of red and black and white
on a chaffinch

and beyond
the sound of a gong
a Buddhist temple bell
no one else hears

The magic of now

2011-07-22T22:59:00.006Z

It's Jake's birthday tomorrow. A couple of weeks ago, I started getting stressed about not having planned the quintessential fantastic child's birthday party for him, even though what we do have planned is much more authentic for the child he is now (going to Lea Valley Regional Park in Cheshunt with a group of close friends & his cousins).

But I'd seen photos of a friend's son's absolutely fantastic professionally made-to-order birthday cake and I thought - shit - I haven't even thought of the cake and I went into a panic about it which led to me buying a claydough train cake topper and having grandiose ideas about making an amazing cake with train track icing piped across it (never mind that I have never done such a thing before).

Well, life is what happens when you're busy making plans. And today, I had to surrender to working with who I am and what resources I have right now. And remind myself that Jake himself would be happy with any cake at all.

At bedtime, when Jake found out I was staying up to make his cake, he decided he wanted to stay up and help me. By that point it was already past 9 o'clock. Ordinarily I would've put my foot down and insisted he go to bed or go to bed with him then come down to make the cake later, but I thought, what the heck, why not. And help me he did, with such focus and absorption and fascination (and skill too!). I got a chair for him to stand on and he helped me sift the flour and the sugar and cocoa powder together, he helped me pour the milk and the vanilla essence into the mix, he stirred the batter, he helped me break up pieces of chocolate to be melted and added to the mix, all the time giving me a running commentary with sentences that began with, "And what we're going to do now is...." (I soooo wish someone had been filming it all!)

When I got the melted chocolate out of the microwave, he asked me what we were going to do with it. I told him we were going to pour it into the cake batter and as I did so, he watched and said, "Oh wow! That's gonna be tasty! That's brilliant!!" and then a few moments later, "Aw, thanks!"

Then we went to bed and he fell asleep with fingers smelling of chocolate and vanilla.

The cake is cooling now and we're going to decorate it in the morning. I'm going to use a star-shaped bubble wand as a stencil to sprinkle icing sugar stars on it. And then the claydough train is going on the top, along with three candles. Jake, of course, insists on decorating the cake with me in the morning.

And you know what, that beats a fancy bakery-ordered cake any day of the week.

Fearlessness

2011-07-21T17:50:00.002Z

Watching the skater boys under the Royal Festival Hall
the rrrrrroooollllllll rrrrrrrrrrroooooolllllllllllllllll rrrrrrrrrooooooollllllllllllll of their wheels
the THWACK THWACK as they defy gravity then land
most of the time followed by FUCK or faces twisted with disgust
but every now and then WHOA!
and they go again and again and again and again ~

Fearlessness takes practice
has to be birthed with each breath
whether you fall or soar.

~

(Often we hear about a desire to live without fear. But I see by watching them that fearlessness is not an absence of fear but continuing despite it).

Covent Garden (a stone for the river)

2011-07-20T23:23:00.002Z

On her break, the silver statue of a Victorian woman sips from a bottle of iced tea while watching a Big Issue vendor throw a tennis ball for her dog to catch.

when things fall apart ~ expanded

2011-07-20T23:21:00.000Z

"When things are shaky and nothing is working, we might realise that we are on the verge of something. We might realise that this is a very vulnerable and tender place, and that tenderness can go either way. We can shut down and feel resentful or we can touch in on that throbbing quality. There is definitely something tender and throbbing about groundlessness." - Pema Chodron

(And before you start sniggering - she's a Buddhist nun).

when things fall apart

2011-07-18T17:31:00.003Z

"When things are shaky, we are on the verge of something." - Pema Chodron

Let's hope it's not an abyss.

Who likes short shorts?

2011-07-14T09:49:00.001Z

If you do, my short short "Stain" is now up at Metazen. I'm particularly proud of this as I adore Metazen.

So - enjoy! Or not. Whatever.

Disaster Averted

2011-07-13T18:13:00.003Z

At the
           b
             o
               t
                 t
                   o
                     m
                        of a very steep and full escalator at Holborn tube, a wheel on Jake's pushchair got stuck. I said "Oh shit"
and quickly and quietly did a sideways
                                                                                s
                                                                               h
                                                                             u
                                                                            ff
                                                                           l
                                                                        e
                                                                     off the escalator, pulling Jake & pushchair with me. While I was shuffling, there was a mini-pile up of bodies behind us, forcingpeopleevenclosertogetherthanbefore. And yet, the only exclamation I heard was "Oh".

As soon as we were out of the way, the bodies proceeded as before, a line of giant upright ants
                              rushing
                                     rushing
                                            rushing.

I couldn't help myself and said out loud, "We're fine, thanks for asking." Nobody even looked. I suppose I should be grateful. It could have been worse and we could have been flattened, or lynched.

Some spare stones

2011-07-12T18:06:00.004Z

7 July ~ Judy smiles and tells me to relax. In two breaths, on pink graph paper, the silent tracing of my heart.

8 July ~ At Grandma & Grandad's - I kiss Jake good morning. He smells of bacon though none's been cooked for days.

9 July ~ Donald visits with Dizzy the dog, her tail whacks Grandma on her bandaged knee, Jake takes one look at her and runs back outside.

10 July ~ at a bus stop, the folds of a man's carrier bag reads "together we'll beat er"

Today ~ Pink dahlias as large as Jake's head bloom by the side of Blackhorse Road

At the playground ~ five sparrows take a dust bath in the calm between children's footfalls

At the doctor's office ~ boxes of leaflets left opened on low tables, their titles peek out in red:

"Eating for your heart" and "How to live with heart failure"

~

Just wanted to say I'm sorry that my main stones blog doesn't have the capacity for people to leave comments. I chose that layout for its prettiness and didn't realise till after.

words...meh

2011-07-06T17:54:00.003Z

Apart from the writing of small stones, words and I are not getting on at the moment. They are getting on my nerves and I'd really like them to leave me for a while, give me some space. So rather than write, here's what I've been doing lately...

A minute too long

2011-07-04T15:06:00.000Z

smoke fills the air
as I pull a charred popcorn sculpture
from the microwave

On the train home

2011-07-02T22:32:00.002Z

I remember how it came to be that the front pocket of my handbag is full of crushed daisies.

~

Read my other small stones here.

Stitch a Year

2011-07-01T23:22:00.004Z

From 1st July 2011, I will be adding stitches to a piece of freeform embroidery every day for one year. The "rules" are that I will make all the stitches on one piece of cloth, use one colour of embroidery floss each day, make a minimum of 12 stitches each day and not undo or unravel the stitches made unless I absolutely have to. Apart from that, it will be completely instinctual.

This project is inspired by Jay Hudson's knit a year project.

I'm doing this because I taught myself some basic embroidery stitches last year and have done little with it since. I also have a fat stash of embroidery floss which I bought with some of my redundancy money.

I am also drawn to the discipline / practice aspect of it, like a mindfulness meditative practice but through the act of stitchery. I like the unplanned instinctiveness of it and the excitement of seeing what unfolds. I'm also hoping it will help me to focus on the present moment and on making peace with what is - as opposed to trying to control and get everything perfectly right.

I'll be documenting my progress here.

the pond of pea soup

2011-07-01T18:26:00.000Z

a spare stone for the river

2011-07-01T18:02:00.003Z

just after the cranky old cyclist

shouts at us to

“PLEASE MOVE THE CHILD FROM THE TRAFFIC SIDE”

on an otherwise empty lane

curving through marsh land

a pair of mute swan glide past above us

pure white and huge

against a greying sky

wings lilting in unison

black and orange beaks

vivid

solid

simple

gone in a breath

~

I'm still posting daily stones on my small stones blog, but I will post any "extra ones" here from time to time.

Red Suede

2011-06-29T21:29:00.005Z

Beatrice had something to give me.

“I think you’ll like it,” she said, tapping fag ash onto the table.

“Mum! Ashtray!” Rafe said, blowing the cinders into his palm.

“Rafe, go fetch the jacket. You know the one. It will look good on her, no?”

Rafe rolled his eyes and mouthed an apology behind his mother’s back.

“Maybe another time Mum, Jin and I have plans.”

“Are you going to that party, at the school?”

“Yes Mum.”

“Well, she can wear the jacket. Why not? George – go fetch the jacket will you? The red suede one? It will be so nice, with your colouring and black hair.”

Rafe’s father sighed and left the room to fetch the jacket.

Red suede? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, I thought.

George returned, holding the jacket between his thumb and index finger like it was a dirty rag.

“Ah, here it is!” Beatrice crooned. “This used to be mine when I was younger. It’s a little dusty but…” She began slapping it and clouds of dust rolled off it. She held it up across my chest.

It wasn’t red but a brownish maroon. It reminded me of the squares of pig’s blood my father used to eat with his noodles.

“Try it on!” she croaked.

With my most practiced polite smile, I slipped my arms into the jacket. After tugging it over my shoulders, the sleeves slid halfway up my forearms. I tried pulling the two sides together to zip it up, but it was too small. How the Amazonian Beatrice ever fit into it I can’t imagine.

“Ach! Look at you! It’s perfect! Isn’t it Rafe? Doesn’t she look wonderful?”

Beatrice tapped her Gauloise and ash fell onto her shoe. George left the room coughing violently. Rafe had nothing to say.

(Prompt: Give ~ 300 words)

Jump in the river

2011-06-27T16:45:00.004Z

The river of stones will be flowing again this July. Take a moment each day to stop, pay attention to the world around you, and write about it. If you fancy jumping in and posting your stones each day, you can have your blog or website added to the river of stones blogroll. But more importantly, you might just catch more than you bargained for.

I have been & will be posting my stones here. Hope to see you there!

Flashy things

2011-06-25T10:30:00.002Z

Incase anyone had noticed, I didn't post one of my Fiction Project flashes this week. It's basically because I've been rereading them and rather a lot of them are making me cringe. Some of them are so bad I don't want to share them anymore and a few I'd like to work on some more. Whatever mediocrity is left will get posted here.

In other news, Jake is one month away from threenager-dom. One month!! How did that happen?

Also, last week was rather eventful. After two (or was it three) tantrums that measured 11 on the Scale of Insanity, we decided to pull Jake out of nursery. It was only after I made the decision that I realised just how stressed I'd been about the whole thing - how the dread of taking him there had been gnawing at me for months. Then things started to fall into place. How, even on the days he didn't go to nursery, one of the first things Jake would say when he woke up was, "Do I have to go to nursery today?" and the relief when he didn't. How they always said he was fine there, but not happy. How the howling and crying and clinging to me on nursery days wasn't really about Jake testing his boundaries. Even now that we've already told Jake he doesn't have to go to nursery anymore, he still asks with worry in his eyes.

As soon as we decided, I felt such relief. And even though part of me was (and still is) worried about how I'd cope having him full-time at home without a break, letting go of how I thought things should be / how I thought they were going to be, brought with it a sense of possibility I hadn't expected. It was like the future which had felt dreadfully set in stone was wiped clean. It's given me a push to do more for myself - consider things I'd been anxiously avoiding - like joining a local writer's group and taking the initiative to visit friends who are available to me, even if they do live on the other side of London. Doesn't seem like much does it, and yet, in my mind, they'd been built up into almost insurmountable difficulties. Even getting up at 5:30am on a Wednesday to go to my now-rearranged 6:30am counselling session has brought with it new possibilities. Getting up with the sunrise, walking around in that magical hour when everything, even here, is noticeably quiet and deeply peaceful. (Though I'm sure I'll feel differently about it in the winter!)

And it occurred to me, that freedom is not what I thought it was. Having almost limitless choice and great expanses of time isn't necessarily freeing. At least it hasn't been for me. I'm beginning to realise that being told you can do anything and have anything is possibly the least helpful thing you can be told. Right alongside, "I don't mind what you do, as long as you're happy." I don't know about you, but hearing these things has the effect of almost imperceptible paralysis on my psyche.

We're human, we're limited in so many ways. And yes, sometimes we feel limitations where there are none and we restrict ourselves harshly or unnecessarily. But being told you can have it all? It's a fallacy. We can't have it all, no matter who we are. We need to know our limits, feel them, like feeling the contours and boundaries of our skin, know them, be constantly aware of them, so we can be present, rooted in who we actually are and live our lives as they unfold. Being grounded - it's more freeing than I expected it to be.

"Crash" at The Legendary

2011-06-20T09:21:00.004Z

My flash fiction piece "Crash" has been published at The Legendary.

At this moment the links to individual author pages are not working (the editors are swamped with moving and other things), but if you click here, you can read my story. It does contain some swearing so if you're offended by that sort of thing you can either read on and then be offended anyway or you can pretend you never saw this.

If you like it, spread the word. If not, feel free to hurl abuse at me - just make sure it's witty and well-crafted abuse or I will fart in your general direction.

Ta!

One breath

2011-06-18T22:36:00.004Z

I've decided to create a separate blog just for my small stones. It's here. I've also posted a link to it in the sidebar of this blog.

Lately I've been struggling with the idea of making space. Maybe I always have. Then today I wrote a small stone for Fiona & Kaspa's wedding and out of it came the idea for the separate blog for daily small stones. At first I thought this would needlessly complicate life. I mean, why not just continue posting my small stones here, just as I've always done?

Well, because I’ve been realising that the act of making space is more than just wishing for it. There is the wish or need for it, and then the intention to create it and then the act of making it, then claiming it and inhabiting it. And because this act of paying attention, of taking a breath, of connecting to the world, is very much a ritual, a practice, even a prayer, I wanted to make a particular place for it, a sacred space if you like, both virtual and real.

Two months ago I decided to stop writing small stones. I can't even remember exactly why. I was doing too much and it was starting to feel like a chore, something to tick off the daily list of things to be done. But I've missed it. And I find I need that connection to the world. I've been too cut off lately, living too much inside my own head. It's a dangerous habit. Always has been. When I get stressed, I tend to withdraw, lose perspective, give up doing the things that nurture me. This is one of the ways I hope to break that habit. I hope you'll join me over there, from time to time.

Vacation

2011-06-15T19:55:00.001Z

,not to another galaxy!”

“Oh really? Is that why you’ve packed this monster freaking BLANKET?”

“It is not a BLANKET. It’s a hypoallergenic, mulberry silk, summer comforter. It hardly weighs a thing.”

“Uh huh. So I’m paying through the nose for us to stay in a four-star hotel so you can bring your own blanket? I know it’s been awhile since we’ve had a vacation but it’s the 21st Century. These days, hotels have their own blankets.”

“Yeah, and do you know how many people will have used those blankets? Gloria used to work in a hotel and she told me that they never wash the blankets. All that dead skin and God knows what else.”

“But it’s going to be 100 zillion degrees. You won’t even need a blanket.”

“Yes I will, because the room will be air-conditioned. And don’t even think about switching it off and leaving the windows open at night. We’ll bake AND be eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

“What’s a zozigo Mommy?”

“Mosquito darling. It’s a flying insect that bites people.”

“Will it bite me Mommy?”

“It bites everyone with sweet blood, so yes, it will probably bite you and me both kiddo. But not Mommy.”

“Ha ha.”

“But I don’t want zigo to bite me…..”

“It won’t bite you darling. We have special medicine to chase the zigos away. And we’ll keep the windows closed so they can’t get in. Okay?”

“Kay…”

“Wait a minute, what are these doing here? Where are the boots I told you to pack?”

“Right. With your frigging monster feet your stupid frigging boots take up half the frigging case! We’re going to the Maldives,

~

(275 words ~ Prompt: galaxy)

How to...hold the sea in your palm

2011-06-14T10:03:00.007Z

The latest prompt is now up at 26n. Go take a gander!
(This post will make more sense too...)

(Photo taken at The Turner Centre in Margate)

Tears, ghosts and morning glory

2011-06-09T18:06:00.010Z

Jake shrieked with abandonment when I left him at nursery today. Asking repeatedly for one more cuddle, one more kiss and then clutching my neck, “I want to go with you Mummy!” As I walk away to catch my bus to the hospital, I see myself throwing his shoes across the room, the ones he decided he didn’t want to wear as soon as I’d fastened them on. I see myself shouting at him, telling him I’m going to be late for my appointment and that the Doctor will shout at me. I hear myself asking him, “Is that what you want?”

I see myself walk away in impatience as he wails, on the pavement now, for me to fix the wheels of his bus or he won’t go to nursery. I see myself thinking I should stop, that it’s mean to let him run after me, crying like that. And yet, I don’t stop, my head mired in fury about how sick I am of having to go through this every week. Then I see him fall, flat on his front, palms slapping the concrete, screams up a decibel or three. I’m a cow, a cow, a total fucking cow. No wonder he cried the way he did, when I said goodbye. And there goes my bus.

I get the next one and it is only on the bus that I realise I cannot just nip to the Museum of Childhood on the way home to pick up a present for Jake. And I marvel at how my brain had been holding onto this twisted logic for days, absolutely disregarding the fact that Whipps Cross hospital is nowhere near Bethnal Green and that the only reason I believed it so easily was because my last dental appointment was at the Royal London. I ponder whether this is due to age or stress. And yet, even knowing, there is still a part of my brain that traces a route from the Royal London to the Museum of Childhood, following it as if I was reading a map of my day, as if my mind had the ability to tear up roads, uproot hospitals, relocate inconveniences.

At Whipps, I just make it for my appointment, only to be told they are running 45 minutes late. So I settle into Michael Cunningham’s A Home at The End of The World. The first few chapters are set in childhood. Unhappy parents unable to overcome their humanity, seen through the eyes of 5 year olds. My old friend guilt rises to the surface and I pick at it like a scab. As I read I decide Michael Cunningham is my new favourite writer, resolve to read everything he’s ever written.

His writing has me in goose bumps, inspiring me as I read, releasing images for stories I want to write, like ghosts that want to be seen. I scour the depths of my bag for a pen. There isn’t one. I close my eyes instead, choose to memorise the contours of one ghost, imprint it onto a flickering screen to look at later.

An hour and 20 minutes later, my name is called. A nurse asks me if I’ve had the scan they sent me for, at the Royal London. I say yes. They ask me when. I can’t remember. I am told to sit down again. Another 10 minutes and I am finally seen by the oral surgery consultant. The impacted wisdom tooth they want to take out is not only awkward in that it has three roots instead of two, but it is also sitting very close to a nerve. Although they will try their best not to nick it, there is a risk that I may lose some sensation to my bottom lip. It’s so complicated the consultant says he wants to do the surgery himself. I take it as a good sign. I’ve heard wisdom teeth extractions can be brutal. Maybe they’ll be more careful this way, more gentle. I’m told that I will need someone to look after me for 24 hours after the procedure and I wonder what would happen if I didn’t have Paul. I’d have no one, I keep saying to myself. I’d have no one. I want to feel angry about this, or at the very least, a little bit sad, but the thought of it suddenly bores me and I don’t have the time.

They tell me I need to have an x-ray done but I have to leave to pick up Jake. The bus I need doesn’t arrive. It’s threatening to rain and of course I’d decided not to bring a coat. I take the next bus that comes which gets me halfway. The rest of the way I walk, stopping at Greggs to buy some food. Just as I’m debating the pro’s and con’s of eating while walking, it rains. I stuff the food in my bag and start London-walking. It’s nearly one o’clock and I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast. All of this makes me angry but all I can do is swear at weather.

Jake runs to me when I arrive, stumbling onto a sleeping child in his eagerness. Zanab tells me that it took him 15 minutes of crying that he wanted his mummy before calming down and then helping her set up the garden and the room upstairs. She tells me how he polished off his lunch, forking each bean on his plate and eating them one by one. Before she finishes talking, Jake starts waving at her and saying goodbye. She quickly tells me Jake told her he likes her and it makes her face light up. After we leave the nursery Jake asks if the Doctor shouted at me. “No darling, I made it on time,” I say, wondering if he’ll remember this, brood on it, write about it someday.

On the walk home, Jake sees a morning glory bloom that’s wound its way through someone’s hedge. He asks me to pick it. “I want it,” he says “it’s beautiful!” Then he sees his shadow holding the flower and he stops. “Oh, look it’s my shadow and the flower shadow!” It’s a photo moment. Just as I press the button, a butterfly lands on the flower. “Ohhhhhh, a butterfly!” Jake says, still smiling as he watches it flutter away.

Jake says, “I can plant this can’t I? I can grow it Mummy.” And I hate having to tell him that he can’t, hate realising that all I’ve done today is disappoint him. I think how wrong it is, having to tell a child he can’t plant a flower he’s just plucked, that it’s a Universal flaw, along with cancer and homelessness.

At home, I devour my egg sandwich while cbeebies entertains him. Then he wants to read. He picks “Uh Oh, Gotta Go ~ Potty Tales from Toddlers” and after I read to him, my potty resistant toddler wants to put on pants and sit on the potty. Later, as we’re tidying, I pick up the bag from Greggs which I thought was empty but contains a lemon cupcake. I show Jake and his grin is as big as mine. I slice the cupcake in half, revealing a gooey yellow centre.

I don't like morality tales that try to teach people a lesson and this isn't a tale or a lesson but sometimes in the midst of a crappy day, something simple and beautiful and perfect happens and everything shifts and for a moment, you forget the past and all you can't undo and the future and all you can't make certain and you see life, just as it is, new and unfolding.

A do-it-yourself guide to getting lost in your own mind

2011-06-07T18:03:00.013Z

If you have a minute or ten, try having a go at one of these...

Yes, it is a bit of shameless promotion. And why not? treeshadowmoon and I have been posting weekly prompts to 26n for months now and haven't had much response. We're starting to wonder if we're talking to ourselves out here in cyberspace.

So I thought a reminder wouldn't hurt. And a nice dreamy photo to attract your attention. (It was taken at the Turner Centre in Margate and yes, the little chap in it is Jake.)

Masks

2011-06-01T22:27:00.001Z

Everyone wore their masks except me. I pretended I’d forgotten it at home. No one would check my bag, and if they did, I’d pretend I’d forgotten to look there. “Remember to wear the mask Junie, the strength of the costume is in the mask. Otherwise, what are you?”

I was a kid in a sheet. It covered my whole body except my feet, which were shoved into old sneakers. I’d never felt so many people looking at my idiot face.

I knew Elsie would tell on me. I’d seen her face when we were parading through the quadrant. She’d furrowed her brows, mouthed, “Where’s the mask?” I pretended not to understand.

They’d spent hours on it. Elsie’s Dad and my Mom. Hours planning it. Hours making it. Hours. On a stupid skeleton face. I could’ve drawn it in 10 minutes, 20 tops, even to make the holes and tie the elastic. All he’d used was black marker on white card. Hours laughing, drinking ‘lemonade’, eating cookies.

“Mr Connors did such a good job on this Junie, wear it and be proud!”

The morning of the parade, I went to the toilet and ripped the mask into pieces. I would have flushed it, but I was sure the pieces would float. So I stuffed them between the pages of my science book.

Mom would be livid, but I knew what to do. I’d spent hours in front of the mirror, perfecting my sorry face. I’d wear it and be proud. (250 words)

~

(Prompt: strength from oneword.com)

thick shadows hover

2011-05-31T14:35:00.000Z

the ground darkens

with the smell of rain

thick shadows hover

cormorants

returning home

that tree full of shadows

2011-05-30T16:03:00.001Z

in this meadow

of buttercup and green

a leafless birdless

tree

Go read this!

2011-05-28T11:38:00.000Z

My most lovely and talented friend of tree shadow moon has just had a piece published in Litro. It's wonderful. Go read it!

Congrats Na!!!

365 Complete!

2011-05-26T09:56:00.000Z

Today I finished my year long photography project, the 365 project. Here are a few collages comprising photos from each month.

I think it's the first time in my life that I've seen a project through from beginning to end over such a long period of time. I guess a celebration is in order...

Connected

2011-05-25T09:20:00.001Z

Kelly rubbed her arms faster. It worked. Within seconds, his green fleece jacket was wrapped around her shoulders, his warmth settling instantly on her skin. She shivered.

“Still cold?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Thank you,” she said. She knew it pleased him, even though he was stamping his feet, rubbing his hands together. “I didn’t think it would be so cold,” she said. “That sun’s weaker than it looks.”

He frowned. “The sun is never weak. Only people are.”

Kelly’s heart sank. “Of course,” she muttered.

She scrabbled round her mind for something to say, to get back on course. “It’s just, my faith. It hasn’t been so strong lately.”

He turned to her, his eyes warm again. “That’s why we’re here. There’s nothing like being in nature to feel the immensity of His Love. This was a good idea Kelly.” He squeezed her arm and she wished away the images that came up whenever Todd said the word Love. Her mind did as she wished, gave her an image of barbequed sausages instead. She laughed. She could feel Todd’s eyes on her. “I think I just connected to the joy of the Holy Spirit!”

“Really?” Todd asked. She nodded.

Todd raised his palms to the sky. “Praise Jesus!” he shouted, as he punched the air. The hem of his shirt rode up, revealing skin.

“Praise God!” Kelly yelled.

She closed her eyes and sent off a prayer. That shirt’s coming off, whether you like it or not.

(250 words)

(Prompt from showmeyourlits.com)

Conversations with Jake

2011-05-19T10:36:00.001Z

Jake asks me what's wrong and I tell him I have a headache.

He says, "Do you want some musics? Shall I get some musics for you, so you can dance?" He runs to the computer and somehow manages to open Spotify. We select some music and he starts dancing and I start dancing and hey presto, I feel better.

~

Jake tries to switch on a torch. It doesn't work.

"Mummy, it doesn't work. Can you fix it?"

"The batteries have run out Jake, we need to get new ones."

"What?"

"The batteries have run out."

"Oh. Why doesn't it come home?"

~

When Paul gets home from work...

"Daddy, do you see your friends at work?"

"Well, no, Daddy doesn't really have friends at work."

"You have friends here. You have Jake and you have Mummy. You can see us and talk to us."

~

At bedtime the other night, Jake told us he loved us for the very first time.

"I like you Daddy. I love you."

"Awwwwww. I love you too Jake."

"I love you too. I love you Daddy. I love you Mummy. I love you, I love you, I love you very much, I love you."

And then a few seconds later he said, "I like to have a drink."

Oh and did you notice, he said it to Paul first!!!! There were tears (on my part) and I actually said, "But I gave birth to you and suckled you for 13 months!"

To which Jake replied, "suckle me".

~

Over dinner...

Jake: Look Daddy, my dolly doesn't have hair.

Paul: That's right. She's had an operation.

Me: She's had an operation??

Paul: Yeah.

Me: What, like brain surgery?

Paul: Uh huh.

Me: And it hasn't grown back?

Paul: Nope.

~

The door buzzer goes and I let in a man to read our electric meter. He's in and out the door in 30 seconds. After he goes Jake says, "Has he gone? Good. I didn't like him."

~

Paul: What are we gonna do for Jake's third birthday?

Me: Check ourselves into rehab?

~

After a long day, Paul collapses onto the sofa.

Paul: When's he gonna start looking after us?

Me: When we're collecting our pensions?

At which point Jake enters the room with a mop and bucket.

Jake: I cleaning the floor.

Me: There you go, he is looking after us. He even tried to do the washing up earlier.

Paul: I mean bringing us icecream and things.

Me: Would you like some icecream bringing in?

Paul: Oooh yes please, a mix of the icecream and the sorbet.

Paul puts some music on and starts telling me about Sufjan Stevens' latest gig.

"Apparently it had great reviews. Like a mix between a weird cult and a circus sideshow and Jesus Christ Superstar with wacky costumes and naked people doing yoga."

"Naked people doing yoga?"

"Yeah, apparently he had a weird background where he grew up in some sort of Amish commune and people did naked yoga."

"Amish naked yoga?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure about that, cos you don't normally hear Amish and naked yoga in the same sentence."

Shrug. All the while, Jake is busy standing on a stool, holding up a mop, trying to reach the cobwebs. Still cleaning. I go fetch icecream and sorbet.

From the kitchen, over loud music...

Me: Paul? Does Jake like the sorbet?

Paul: What?

Me: DOES JAKE LIKE THE SORBET?

Paul: NO THANKS, I DON'T FANCY CAKE.

Looks like Jake may have to start looking after us sooner than we thought.

~

Dive

2011-05-18T15:19:00.002Z

Chris didn’t think anything of it. It was just what he did. Two hours a day, six days a week. He thought that was how everyone lived. Or should live. What else was there to do with time but fill it with purpose? Better than wasting it. “You’re very determined.” That’s what she threw at him. Just as he was pulling himself out of the water. Didn’t even introduce herself. He’d seen her before, sitting in the stands. But he’d never made the connection, that she was there for him. Why should he? She’d never smiled, never spoke. Just sat there, shirt untucked from her skirt, hair a mess, black leather jacket at her side.

“Hey, I’m talking to you. Have you got things in your ears? Like those plugs those synchronised swimmers put on their noses?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

But she put her fingers on her nose and pinched so he shook his head.

“It’s not determination,” he said. She stops, her fingers frozen on the bridge of her nose. “It’s practice.”

“Oh” she says and her voice comes out funny. She lets go of her nose and laughs.

“Did you happen to be counting?” he asks. “Was that the 10th or 11th?” The corners of her mouth settle back into seriousness. “Actually it was the 12th.”

As he walks past to get to the board, she says, “You want to watch that arch in your back.” He turns and sees a smile in her eyes. (250 words)

(Prompt: determined, from oneword.com)

Travelling with 26 people...

2011-05-16T16:16:00.000Z

...was easier than I expected. Especially considering that almost half of that number were children under 10.

On Saturday, a big bunch of us went to Brighton on a day trip. It was pretty chilled out. We didn't lose anyone, it didn't rain and grumpiness was at a minimum. Toys were shared in good spirit, with all the boys (except Jake, who was the youngest there apart from a 7 month old baby) reverting to type and gathering in a group and shooting at each other at regular intervals throughout the day. Jake wasn't quite old enough to be brainwashed by the arcade on the pier so we took a ride on the little Volks railway to the Marina and back, just for the heck of it.

However, it was somehow still exhausting. I'm still recovering!

"Yesterday, I can't do it, but today, I can!"

2011-05-12T15:57:00.000Z

There's a playground near Jake's nursery. We go there at least twice a week. He loves the swings and the maze, but one thing he's found tricky for a long time is the slide there. It's very high and part of a jungle gym thing that's actually designed for older children. You have to climb over a steeply curved metal bridge to get to the slide and it can get slippery. The first few times he tried it, maybe a year ago, he got over the bridge by himself no problem. Then he'd get to the slide, look down and decide he didn't want to go down it. He did that a few times and then he went for a long period of simply ignoring it. Then one day he decided to go down the slide. He enjoyed it. So he went to try it again and slipped while going up the bridge and then for some reason, went down the slide too fast and tumbled over when he reached the bottom. It upset him and for a very long time, he wouldn't go back on it. He'd go up the stairs and he'd even go over the bridge - always asking for my hand to help him - but he'd look at the slide and decide no.

Yesterday, in the middle of playing chase with me, he ran over to the slide. He got over the bridge without my help and then he went down the slide without tumbling over. He was delighted. He did it again. And again and again and again. At the top of the bridge the first time, he called to me, "Mummy! Look! I did it! I went over the bridge by myself!! Yesterday, I can't do it. But today, I can!!" I had tears in my eyes.

So many times, we'd watched smaller and younger children go up and down without any help, without any fear but I never made him feel like he had to do it. I never pushed him. I knew he'd get there when he was ready. And he did. And that sense of accomplishment he felt, well that was priceless. He'll always have that feeling, knowing he was never pushed or coerced to get there. It totally belongs to him.

Now, imagine I've just been talking about potty training. Why shouldn't it the same? Why must pressures be applied for children to reach certain milestones quicker than others? Ok, some people might not think going down a big slide is a milestone, but for Jake it was a Big Deal. And I was so happy that I didn't push him or make him feel like a scaredy cat or a lesser child for taking longer than other, perhaps younger children, to get there.

A few weeks ago, the manager of the nursery Jake attends started putting pressure on us to start potty training him. The reason is, once they are 3, they get moved out of toddler room to pre-school and in pre-school, they don't have the staff ratio to do potty training. Jake is 2 years 9 months old. We have started introducing him to the potty already, but it's been in stops and starts. We've read books with him, we've asked him if he's wanted to use it and never pushed when he said no, which, despite a few successes early on, he has continued to do.

When the nursery asked me about this, I told them I didn't think he was ready but we could give it a try. It didn't go well. After being settled and happy at the nursery for a long time, Jake suddenly had the biggest, angriest tantrums I've ever seen him have. Even after they stopped and we told him we weren't going to make him use the potty, he has continued to feel upset about going to nursery. Today was the first day in about 2 weeks that he hasn't cried when I dropped him off.

When Paul & I tried to talk to the nursery manager about it, and about what would happen if he wasn't potty trained by their cut-off point, she became very defensive and kept telling us that it would be for Jake's own good to start potty training him properly now, because otherwise, he'd be "delayed in his development." Even though it is quite normal and not at all bizarre to find 3 year olds (especially boys) who are not yet fully potty trained. She didn't even want to hear that possibly Jake's experiences around constipation / hospitalisation / being poked and prodded and examined by countless strangers might be contributing to his feelings about potty training. Luckily, not all nurseries take this inflexible approach. But it's been an upsetting experience, not least because I feel anxious about the process myself. But I'm not willing to push my anxieties onto Jake.

I'm doing an Eastern Therapeutic Writing e-course at the moment. This week, one of the exercises is to write about an experience that is still unfolding, the outcome of which is unknown. We were asked to make two columns - one listing all the things that are known about the experience and the other, the things that are unknown. I decided to do this about Jake's potty training. In doing this, I realised something about Jake. Some things he picks up really quickly - anything to do with language for example. And using the computer. And reading people's moods. But physical things have always taken him longer. He didn't start walking till he was 16 months old. He didn't really cruise. He just crawled loads and stood up, and then, when he was ready, took his first steps. He didn't really go through a shaky toddly stage where he walked with us holding his hands. He pretty much mastered walking within a couple of weeks. He's also always been cautious about physical things - from climbing stairs to going on slides. And now, potty training. His temperament seems to be that he'll test things out a bit and then bide his time until he feels confident.

Reflecting on all this, I realised that I've been thinking that soon, I'd be able to stop worrying so much about Jake. That potty training would be his next big milestone and then starting school and then things would be easier and I'd worry less. Now I see it isn't the case. Now I see that being a parent really is "to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." (quoting Elizabeth Stone)

Even when he's older, we're probably going to come across all sorts of people and institutions that'll try to make him fit into their way of doing things. Sometimes, they may have a good reason for it. Other times, they may not. How are we going to deal with it? How is Jake?

At the playground today, I heard a father with his son. The boy was older than Jake, probably over 4 years old. The whole time they were there, the father didn't stop telling the boy off. Everything he did was wrong - he was running too fast, he shouldn't have pushed ahead of his little sister, because he was older, he had to be more careful, more responsible, he was holding his sister wrong, he should help his sister down the slide, he should let his sister go down the slide by herself. When the child tried to disagree or speak up for himself, the father said, "Even if you think you have a very very good reason for doing something, don't do it. Listen to me instead. My reason is usually better." Even if you believe that, and even if in many cases, it may be true - is drilling that into the kid's head really going to help him? How is he going to learn from his own mistakes? How is he going to learn to trust himself?

Some people might think I'm overthinking things, overanalysing, making them more difficult than they need to be, or that I'm taking the soft approach to parenting, and mollycoddling Jake. But we can cause so much harm by acting without thinking, even if we have the best intentions. Do we even understand where our motivations come from, our need to do things in a certain way? Do we understand why we sometimes need people to do things the way we want them to, rather than letting them be themselves?

This has now become long and rambly. I'm not even sure how to end it nice and neatly. So I'll just leave it there.

4-ply

2011-05-11T13:23:00.001Z

Adequate napkins. This is the measure of integrity for my mother. And by adequate, she means the very best. Not cheap paper squares imprinted with blue swirls. Just feel that, too shiny, they won’t absorb. They’ll be useless in the face of her fried pork-bread triangles. So go back out he must. I feel sorry for him, but I remember the hours I spent on the roof, watching over the drying bread triangles, shooing away the birds and I don’t like the feeling I get, of his thoughtlessness. There is already no time to send him out for a proper table cloth. She has already come to terms with the sheet. It wasn’t an elasticated one, thank god for small mercies. Once she ironed out the creases, it could pass. But shiny paper squares? Pah! 4-ply or not!

He’s late getting back, too late for the cream-coloured linens. Someone has opened the 4-ply monstrosities he’d left on the side table and they are spreading fast among the crowd. The pork-bread triangles are a hit, but when they leave, all she remembers are the greasy chins and fingers and the places she will have to wipe down again in the morning. (200 words)

(Prompt: integrity, from oneword.com)

Look, he's alright...

2011-05-08T17:08:00.000Z

Just thought I'd post some evidence that Jake has not been damaged by our botched attempts at hairdressing. Look, here he is, running, being a normal kid.

"It's nobody's fault"

2011-05-07T15:30:00.007Z

So this week, I've been:

a) having voracious sweet cravings - giant chocolate eclairs every day would have been nice. I had to make do with marshmallows and chocolate. Poor me.

b) taking everything very very personally. I can't decide if it's because sometimes, my PMT isn't very noticeable, and other times, it makes me feel like I've ripped my heart out of my chest and started wearing it strapped to my back instead, OR whether it's because, due to the effects of the counselling and the mindfulness and the meditating I'm allowing myself to feel more. For most of Thursday, it was a struggle, but I tried to let it be. I only tipped over late in the day, when tiredness hit. I lay down and closed my eyes and even though I could just have been tired, even Jake sensed something and he said, "Mummy, are you not happy?" I said, "I'm just very tired honey." And he said, "But are you not happy as well?" He's such an astute child. He offered me a cuddle and things were better, until today when I bit Paul's head off.

So what I've learned is this. When it feels painful to simply feel what comes up and be mindful of it, I veer off into familiar, entrenched habits - like blaming other people, or feeling sorry for myself or believing that I am personally bearing the entire world's suffering on my shoulders because no one else cares. So, yeah, self-righteous self-delusion. I'd like to be kind to myself when I catch myself doing this. But I find it hard. It's hard to let go of those habits, those illusions. Because the need to be RIGHT and BETTER than everyone takes over and stamps on everything else. Which makes it harder to step down, step back and see things as they are. Which takes me to...

c) This week, I've also been making my child look like Hitler. You see, I thought it would be fun to give Jake a side-parting while I was trimming his hair. I was totally confident that I would be able to do it. Never mind that I've never trained as a hairdresser or even googled "how to give your child a parting without making him look weird" or even watched a real hairdresser cut a child's hair. Soooooo.....when Paul saw my handiwork, he set about putting it right.

Here are some things you probably don't want to hear when your parents are cutting your hair:

Oh crap.
(SIGH) I'm so sorry.
Hmmmmm.
We might have to use the shaver on him.
Ooops!
How long does it take for hair to grow out?
Well if only you'd sat still...(yes, two year old, how dare you flinch and duck while we wield scissors in your direction with furrowed brows and tuts of confusion)

And one thing you don't ever expect your two year old to say: please don't shave me!

Post-Hitler parting, take 1
(or Auditions for Psycho, The Toddler Years?)

What he looks like now.
(Was your Mommy drunk when she did that to you?
No, both Mommy & Daddy were.)

Still. Jake doesn't care what he looks like and it's nice to see more of his face.

Puffs

2011-05-04T16:12:00.004Z

Joanie's plan for the alumni reunion was this: stand near the creampuffs (that she herself would be bringing) and stuff as many in her mouth as possible if anyone approached her and asked if she was married, what she did for a living or how many brats she’d produced in the last 20 years. It was possible of course that no one would recognise her. When she’d gotten Ryan’s varsity jacket out of the attic, it ripped when she tried to force it over her shoulders and left her smelling of mothballs and dust.

She could take her Mom’s advice and not go at all but that would be losing without even trying and that was just pathetic. The least she could do was aim for maximum spatterage.

She’d talk with her mouth full of green food coloured cream filled puffs then cough at carefully judged intervals, at close range. Discretely at first, but then, as the night wore on, more violently, ending with the coup de grace of spitting out half a dozen chewed puffs (she’d been practising and could easily tuck that number away in one cheek in preparation) onto a napkin square perched daintily on her hand.

(200 words)

(Prompt: alumni, from oneword.com)

Fiction Project flashes

2011-05-04T16:09:00.000Z

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I'd start posting my stories here, the ones I wrote for the Fiction Project. These are very short flashes, 350 words or under, and were written around the theme of Jackets, Blankets and Sheets.

I find it easier to write if I have some rules and restrictions so I decided I would write 24 stories (each one to begin with each letter from Jackets, Blankets, Sheets - including the commas), and that each one would not only mention a J, B or S but would also be written around a prompt chosen at random.

In some cases, there is mention of a towel or a sleeping bag instead of a J, B or S. And in some cases, I didn't choose a prompt.

I'll be posting one of these stories a week. Thank you in advance for reading.

Exploring non-violence with toddlers

2011-05-03T15:57:00.003Z

A red wind-up ladybird walks across the floor.
A toddler enters, toy drill in hand.
Toddler aims and shoots.

"I shoot the ladybird Mummy."
"But he was just walking along, being a ladybird, why did you shoot him?"
"He didn't like me."

We don't buy Jake toy guns, he isn't exposed to violent video games or images and he's had a lot of positive interaction with ladybirds of late. And yet...

I guess this is why toddlers aren't allowed to go into politics, though it seems a few of them have managed to slip through the net.

Versatile? Moi? Why, Thank You Beau-coops.

2011-04-30T11:31:00.000Z

Annette over at hoofprints in my garden has given me a blogger award. Thanks Annette!

I think I’m supposed to share 7 things about myself, then pass this award on.

So here goes.

1. I have a potty mouth. I thought having a kid would curtail it, but if anything, it’s only made it worse. My only consolation is that my nearly 3 year old at least only swears in context.

2. I still find farts funny.

3. I am not mad about Shakespeare. (Go ahead, shoot me.)

4. I am a constantly-lapsing, confused vegetarian who loves fried tofu but is drawn to fried pork rinds.

5. I believe that drinking (non-herbal) tea after 5pm disrupts my sleep.

6. I am rather fond of ranting.

7. I love the smell of my kid’s toes. Even when they’ve been in sweaty socks all day.

Now I’m gonna pass this award onto:

Lickety Split Cleaning Service

Skippedydoodah

Tales of A Very Ordinary Madness

Tree Shadow Moon

On The Proper Use of Rodent Eyeballs

2011-04-28T21:04:00.010Z

Today, my fiction project notebooks were sealed into an envelope and posted to the US of A. I finally finished. I thought I’d feel really excited about sending them off. I thought I’d feel something. But guess what? The earth did not move (not any more than usual anyway) and I thought – huh. All that hard work and it hasn’t made a blind bit of difference. Like all I was doing today was collecting my giro. Except, it's the 21st Century, I'm not a pensioner and I hardly ever hang out at the post office anymore. That was the only extraordinary thing about it - sending solid objects in the mail.

Maybe it was the lack of feeling where I thought there would be some, but for the rest of the day, I pretty much over-reacted to everything else.

Some teenagers congregated in the playground where Jake & I were and sat around smoking pot. They weren’t bothering anybody, weren’t even being loud or obnoxious or throwing rubbish about. But I overreacted. I felt uncomfortable and took Jake out of there as quickly as I could.

Then I got a text from the place where I take yoga classes telling me they are putting up the prices. I misunderstood everything and really overreacted. I sent an angry email to them, then a completely self-important email to my yoga teacher about how I'd rather take private lessons with her twice a month than pay the increased fees every week. All this over a £1 per class increase. Seriously.

And then, because I was bored and wanted to escape, and kept trying to escape instead of just being where I was, when I was, everything Jake did irritated and annoyed me.

It makes it all the more bizarre that the whole country / world seems to be overreacting big time to some wedding that’s happening tomorrow, while I could not give a gerbil’s infected eyeball. Well, maybe I could. I mean, if I was legally forced to give a crap about it, the way I would show my obligated appreciation would be to carefully wrap a gerbil’s infected eyeball in some tissue paper and send it to the happy couple. Of course I’d make sure the gerbil was dead first. By natural causes, due to his infection! Come on. I’m not that sick.

Actually, there was one person who seemed to have the right idea about tomorrow. The guy in the post office queue in front of me:

Guy: Can I have it for tomorrow please, from 6am.
Lady behind counter: Tomorrow? Really?
Guy nods.
I wonder - poor guy, does he have to work? What is it? Congestion charge payment or something? Are they letting traffic into Central London tomorrow?
Lady behind counter: But you're supposed to be celebrating tomorrow, not going fishing!
Guy shrugs.

I wish

2011-04-26T13:29:00.005Z

I wish I wasn’t such a control freak. I wish that I wasn’t so easily wound up. I wish I was fitter. I wish I hadn’t regained my bacon belly after breastfeeding Jake made such good use of my extra blubber. I wish I hadn’t bought so many frumpy dull clothes when I was still earning my own money. I wish I didn’t have pillow-neck issues. I wish I didn’t look in the mirror and feel stricken about looking more like my mother every day. I wish my mother had been happier to be a mother. I wish she hadn’t lost both her parents when she was so young. I wish our kitchen window wasn’t so hard to open. I wish I was more into fruit. I wish we didn’t have a carpet in our bathroom. I wish we had our old garden rather than the long, thin, spider-trap that we have now. I wish my family lived nearby, or at least in the same country as me. I wish we were getting ready to move in with dear friends in a house in the beautiful Italian countryside. I wish doing something like that was even a realistic option. I wish I could pluck pockets of time out of thin air so I could give more of it to everybody. I wish I could write like my friend Jo. I wish I could be the sort of woman who can crochet exquisite baby booties and blankets and anything out of stunning organic wool and bake effortlessly for a family of four and be able to cope with having more than one child and still have enough time for myself without feeling like a permanent grouch. I wish the bit between my shoulder blades would stop aching all the bloody time. I wish I had better impulse control when it comes to buying shoes. I wish nursery hadn’t pressured me to start potty training Jake this month and I wish I’d found somewhere that didn’t have a problem with him not being potty trained by the time he’s three. I wish I didn’t hate talking on the phone. I wish I didn’t feel so guilty about everything. I wish we had a modern toilet with a flush I didn't have to pull. I wish veggie bacon tasted as good as the real thing. I wish I could do a full bridge pose. I wish, I wish, I wish.

But what’s the point? Like my yoga teacher says, wishing we could do more with our bodies doesn’t make it happen. We have to work with what we’ve got. It’s not just zen Buddhist philosophy, it’s a FACT. I am who I am. Life is what it is. It doesn’t mean I won’t ever change or it won’t ever change, but dwelling in the wishing is like weighing my pockets down with stones, walking into the sea and wondering why I’m sinking. Being aware of this doesn’t always make it easier to let go. But if I don’t, then how will I ever float?

Nearly there

2011-04-25T16:49:00.001Z

So I managed to write all 24 stories and copy them into my notebook. Now I just need to do the drawings (about a dozen), and I'm all done with the Fiction Project.

I'll start posting the stories here (one a week) in May.

And if anyone is interested, the arthouse co-op has just opened The Sketchbook Project 2012 for sign-ups. ANYONE can take part, wherever you are in the world, no matter how old you are. (I've heard of schools signing up and having children fill in a few pages each for example.) You have until 31st October 2011 to sign up and until 31st January next year to complete. PLUS, for this project, the sketchbooks are going on a World Tour (rather than just a US tour), which will include London!! I wasn't gonna sign up for this, but now that I know the tour's coming to London - how can I not??

Oh look!

2011-04-18T11:34:00.002Z

Dandy-lion siamese twins!

OM

2011-04-17T11:41:00.009Z

It's a beautiful day. The sun is out. I did yoga this morning while listening to the Gayatri Mantra. I heard about this mantra from my yoga teacher. We don't chant it in class, but she wrote about it on her blog.

Ever since I first heard monks chanting at a Buddhist funeral in Thailand, I've been in love with chants. It's been a secret, shy sort of love. I've felt all sorts of emotions about chanting - from awe to a deep sense of peace and joy to worrying that I'll look or sound silly if I follow suit to wondering if it's too close to that dangerous edge of euphoria-seeking singing that I did when I was a born again Christian, many many moons ago (the answer to the latter is, I think, that it can be - it all depends on what you cling to). So I've never really chanted much. Sometimes at the beginning and/or end of yoga classes, sometimes by myself at home, sometimes while listening to cds. The most I chanted was when I was heavily pregnant with Jake and I was battling with my own fears, an unsupportive midwife and the stony face of the hospital when I decided to have a home birth. In those last few weeks, I listened to chants of Om Mani Padme Hum constantly. I love that that chant is sung. That particular chant is said to invoke a Buddha of Compassion and it made me feel calm and helped me to believe that everything was going to be okay. Sounds cheesy, but it helped.

Last night I did indeed watch Eat Pray Love. It wasn't quite as cheesy as I was expecting it to be. In fact as a film adaptation, I think they did the best they could with it. It was already two hours long and yet felt like they'd condensed far too much for my liking, making a lot of difficult issues seem too simplistically resolved. All that aside, the middle part of the film, when she goes to India, reminded me of my love of chants and this morning I did a random search for chants on youtube.

I came across the Gayatri Mantra and reread what Hayley wrote about it on her blog. I love the idea that it came out of a situation that began with a tortured moment. That enlightenment can come even when you are trying to bash your head in with a rock.

Then I listened. It's really beautiful. I've been listening and teaching it to myself, and singing it all morning. Even when I stop, I can still hear it going on in my heart. And yes, it has been giving me a deep sense of peace and joy. (And made me realise that peace and joy go together, or that joy seems to arise naturally out of peace). Anyway, I just wanted to share it because even if you don't believe or believe in something else or are cynical about all things spiritual, there is something beautiful about singing a song with all your heart. For a start, it's a wonderful way to Be. And why not a song to invoke enlightenment that is thousands of years old.

What to do when you have 48 hours to spare...

2011-04-16T18:36:00.010Z

Paul and Jake are away for the weekend. Jake's visiting his "grandma and dad with white hair on" (as opposed to the grandma and dad he only sees through the computer).

It's the first time I've had two whole days and nights to myself in...well, forever. Some people have been asking me what I'm gonna do.

So! What are your plans?
Uh....writing?
What, all weekend?
Um, yeah. Sort of.
Aren't you gonna go out?
I have been out. The garden IS out.

Ok, so my social skills might be in decline. Big fat hairy balls. If it makes you feel better, I will not be spending ~~any~~ much time on Facebook. And, I really did spend 40 minutes sitting in the garden today. Just sitting and being in the sun. It was bliss. I had my eyes closed for most of the time, just listening. I find it's easier to listen-observe than look-observe without thoughts and words interfering, without the need to identify and name.

I've also factored in some time with Maggie O' Farrell, a chick flick (possibly Eat, Pray, Love - despite the fact that it is bound to be "cheese on toast" as my yoga teacher so wonderfully put it), and Pistachio kulfi. No one needs to know that Maggie is a book. Don't ask, don't tell. Oh, and there are also some (dancing) prawns waiting for me, right this minute. Yes, dancing. And they're Mexican. Ok?

Sooooo....What am I writing? How nice of you to ask.

Well....remember the Fiction Project I mentioned a few months back? (The arthouse co-op website is being remodeled at the moment, so I don't have a link for you.) It's the one where I had ooodles of time to fill a themed notebook (with words AND pictures!) then post it to New York by May 1st? I don't know if I happened to mention that I signed up to complete two notebooks, but that is indeed what I have done.

I've finished one (Nighttime Stories) and had just about decided that there was no way I was going to finish the second one (Jackets, Blankets and Sheets) on time, since I didn't even have any ideas on how to fill it. Then I had the stroke (of inspiration). I know, I thought, I'll write 26 24 micro stories (250ish words, maybe more), each beginning with a specific letter, each written to a random prompt and each mentioning a jacket, blanket or sheet. Fandabydosy right? YEAH!!!!

Well, I've written 8 stories so far. Not all today I might add. Today I've managed two. TWO!!!! Did I mention the deadline is May 1st? Except, that's a Sunday so really it's April 31st though the post offices are only opened for half a day on Saturday, so really, it's April 28th to be on the safe side, since there's some big shebang happening on the 29th and the post offices will inconveniently be shut. Uh huh....better get to it then!*

In the meantime, I leave you with my cover for Nighttime Stories.

*If I somehow manage to write them all, I will post them on my blog - one a week for 24 weeks. There you go, something to look forward to ;-)

No one told me mothers aren't omnipotent

2011-04-15T15:20:00.004Z

In the last 24 hours...

Jake has learned a lot about my limitations as a mother. In the playground yesterday, he wanted to go home with strangers.

An unusually friendly and cheerful woman had come up to us and said hello to Jake, trying to get her son to make friends. We chatted a bit then her boys took her off to another bit of the playground. Even though Jake was his usual shy self when meeting new people, as soon as she left, he asked where she’d gone and then demanded that I bring her back.

“Mummy, want go bring lady here to talk to Jake! Mummy, go DO IT NOW!!!”

What do you say to something like that?

“Mummy can’t ask complete strangers to do whatever you want” was clearly the wrong answer because it was followed by this:

“Yes you CAAAAANNNNNNN!” and then eventually….

“MUMMY! DON’T make me grumpy!!” complete with wagging index finger.

Since Mummy was clearly incompetent, Jake decided to follow the woman and her boys to another part of the playground, but wasn’t quite brave enough to go up to them. I managed to distract him and we played happily for a whole half hour.

Then, as they were leaving, he piped up, “Oh no! They’re going!!” They overheard and waved at us, saying goodbyes and nice to meet you’s. Jake started getting really upset, saying, “No!!!! I want go wiv them!!!” and then when he realised that wasn't going to happen, he kept on waving over and over, waiting for the lady to notice and wave back. She didn’t.

~

This morning, we were woken by the door buzzer. I ran downstairs to answer it just at the moment that Jake woke up, screaming that he wanted to come too. I asked him to stay put, but he wasn’t having it. He ran down the stairs after me screaming, arriving just as the Parcel Force van was pulling away and I was shutting the front door. He grabbed the door handle, opened the door and literally screamed in RAGE because the van was pulling away. God knows what the neighbours thought I was doing to him.

After the feral scream came this:

“Make man come back Mummy!!!! I want man come back NOW!!!!”

When that wasn’t forthcoming, he grabbed the parcel out of my hands and put it outside, on the front door step, demanding that it stay OUTSIDE.

I didn’t know what to do so I left him to it, hoping he would calm down. He did, following me into the kitchen with the parcel, after having shut the front door. But then as soon as he saw me, he started wailing about the parcel being HIS and how it was his birthday and the parcel was his present. He continued to cry even though I wasn’t even trying to take the parcel away or tell him otherwise.

We then had an hour where he made constant demands and said no to everything I said, even when I was agreeing with him, interspersed with him telling me to do such and such NOW! even when I was right in the middle of doing said thing.

So, perhaps it wasn’t surprising that soon after this, we had a role reversal and I had a meltdown over the computer doing something weird. He watched me for about 5 minutes while I tried to figure out what had happened and how to fix it. Then he said, “Mummy, do you need a cuddle?” which was just what I needed and we had a lovely cuddle together and then I resumed trying to fix the computer and it didn’t work and I got annoyed and he said, “Mummy, do you need a cuddle again?!?!”

Since then, we’ve both had numerous grumpy shouty tantrums (one of which was a tussle over the mouse during a cbeebies computer game where Big had to try and brush Small’s teeth with foaming hot pink toothpaste and another was about a hole in my cardigan) followed by numerous apologies (offered on both sides) and cuddles. At one point, I retreated to the kitchen to eat chocolate. Then brought some out to Jake, to which he replied, “Oh! Chocate for Jake! Thank you.” A moment of calm before the storms resumed.

During one of my tantrums, I happened to shout jism. Shortly after that, Jake said, “Mummy do you want to eat jism?” whereupon I dissolved into hysterical laughter. I’m pretty sure that hysteria is where I’ll be resting comfortably for the rest of the day.

(Incase you’re wondering where my mindfulness was in all of this, I have two answers for you: 1) JISM, 2) Hysterical laughter)

Being & non-doing

2011-04-13T14:50:00.002Z

It's harder to be than I thought it was. That's what I'm finding. I try not to judge, try not to react by lashing out at myself. Try instead to just bring my attention back to the moment, or to my breath. Stringing together moments of mindfulness. It may be obvious, but trying to be mindful doesn't mean you suddenly become a different person - whole, holy, no longer flawed, no longer human. It doesn't mean you cease to be you, or that you have to try desperately to be someone else. And yet, what I notice is that I have this expectation that I must be different, better. Even though mindfulness is about being who you are right now, accepting that. But that's always been part of me, feeling like I must be better. That whoever I am is not enough. Taking up mindfulness practice brings this acutely to my attention. And kindly gives me an alternative to hating what I see.

I've stopped keeping my praise lists. Not because I've stopped being grateful or stopped trying, but because the focus on my making the list was getting in the way of the reason why I was doing it in the first place. It became one more thing I had to do, and so I stopped. I am trying to focus on feeling whatever I feel, and seeing if praise naturally comes out of that instead.

This is a struggle. I wonder if I am failing somehow, not being able to keep to a practice that is good for me. But I need to let go of shoulds. And know that I'm not going to fall apart if I don't keep such a tight grip on all those things I'm supposed to be doing. And sitting and being with whatever comes.

I haven't stopped writing stones, but I am deliberately not sharing them all because the process of writing the stone, crafting it, polishing it and then sharing it was getting in the way of my moments of stopping and looking. If I know that I'm not writing stones to be seen, to be commented upon, then the process of stopping and looking will once again be the important focus, and not how the stone might be received. But if I happen to want to share one, then I will. Like this one...

Watching cherry blossoms fall, I step quietly over my wounds.

Being

2011-04-10T13:34:00.000Z

The weather's getting warmer, spring is here, summer's on its way. On Friday, Jake and I spent four hours out on the marshes. So, I'm feeling like I need to spend more time just being, and being with my little guy, and more time outside. So there's going to be less blogging. Of course, it's probably gonna pour with rain tomorrow, but two entries every day was probably a bit much anyway.

8th April ~ stones

2011-04-09T11:38:00.000Z

apple trees abandoned of blossom
branches left with exposed stamens
bunches of bursting stars

~

the slender reflection of a coot
as it stretches its neck
towards the ripple
of Jake's pebble

8th April ~ praise for

2011-04-09T11:34:00.001Z

New blooms everywhere ~

The multitude of daisies covering the grassy banks of the nature reserve ~

The cormorants we saw all day – flying here and there, perched on their nests, and the one we saw up close – taking a swim and sunning itself ~

The reddish flutter of a butterfly I later learned was a Comma ~

The presence of grass snakes on the marsh (I saw one swimming in a ditch) They are rare now and are considered a vulnerable species ~

This time, this age – when it is perfect joy to collect pebbles to throw into water from a bridge, to hear and see the splash ~

The lovely time Jake & I had at the café near Springfield Park, having the most delicious wholemeal tuna baguette, sharing a Calippo and chips and just being together ~

The friendly Indonesian lady from the next table who came over to say hello and have a chat (even though Jake refused to look at her or speak to her) ~

The tiny pink boat someone had made out of a used carton and some card that was floating down the canal ~

The grey heron in the water under the railway bridge (which flew off just before I could get my camera in position) ~

7th April ~ a stone / poem

2011-04-07T18:22:00.001Z

stuffing snow foam down Jake’s top
I catch the scent of a free sample
I’d sprayed earlier, on my wrist
It conjures up a row of steel grey
matriarchs, sitting in pews
in florid horrors and paper skin
made superior by Elizabeth Arden

it makes me feel how far I am from that
rolling around on the floor
letting my toddler get a fistful of bra
for snow foam revenge
but every time I sniff
there they are again

faint now
but still hanging around

I feel a rant coming on...

2011-04-07T18:17:00.000Z

Remember when I started all this gratitude/praise business and I said I knew there would be days when I wasn’t going to be feeling very grateful? Well here I am. Today, I'm not feeling very grateful. Today I’d really rather rant about all the crappy things that got to me, especially about the stupid meltdown tantrums Jake and I had because we were both tired and because I personally, even though it is only April and I’ve been longing for warm weather all winter and it’s finally here and it's been sunny and beautiful and not even 20 frickin’ degrees, found the heat a bit too much today. So, I’m feeling just a little pathetic. How the hell am I gonna cope with summer when I can’t even deal with spring??

And as to writing stones, sure I have a nice one, a pretty poetic one, but the moment where I felt most painfully awake today was when I was trying to lie down and Jake was screaming his head off because he didn’t want me to. Just before, he’d been in a tizzy where one minute he wanted to go out and the next he didn’t. One minute he screamed at me to close the front door and then he screamed at me when I did. I told him if he didn’t stop screaming, I would go upstairs. He didn't stop. I could feel myself getting worked up and needed to leave the room, so I went upstairs and tried to lie down and he followed me, wailing. When he found me on the bed with my glasses off, he came in and tried to make me put my glasses back on and I was holding his arms and trying to stop him because he kept jabbing them into my eyes and then, when he saw that I’d closed my eyes, I could feel his fingers on my eyeballs, trying to prise open my lids. And then he screamed at me to sit up, and went and sat where I’d been lying and pushed his feet against my back and kicked me and every time I turned around, he shouted and pushed at my back or my face to turn back again, shouting at me to not look at him. Then he threw my glasses at my back and some sharp bit jabbed me and I turned around and slapped him on his leg and he cried even louder and said, “Don’t hit me, don’t hit Jake!” and I felt like such a complete shit because it’s the one thing I’ve never done, have vowed never to do and there I was, being a complete hypocrite.

I’ve been reading a lot about mindfulness and meditation practices in Buddhism and in that moment, I could hear a voice saying, “Try to be mindful about whatever you’re feeling” and I could hear myself arguing back, “I don’t want to be mindful, I want to punish myself because that’s what I deserve.” “How will that help?” was the answer I got. I didn’t have a response to that. So Jake and I sat in silence and then I apologised to him and as always, whenever I say sorry to him for shouting, sorry to him for being mean, he holds out his arms and asks for a cuddle. I’d like to tell you that was the end of it, but neither one of us had had the nap we needed, so more grumpiness and shouting ensued, and then later, the smearing of yoghurt on my face and a fracas involving a roaring dinosaur head with snapping teeth. But no more hitting.

So now that I’ve ranted, do I try squeezing something to praise about, out of my day? Yes, the voice says. And make it 15 squeezes rather than your usual 10.

It has been positive you know, taking the time each day to sit and think about what I have received, what I have. It’s made life feel richer, and has made me happier – not dwelling so much on negatives. That’s not to say that I don’t ever feel anything bad anymore (obviously) – that would be ridiculous, but lately, I haven’t felt overshadowed by those feelings, they’ve been given perspective and for that well, I’ve been very grateful. I am grateful. So, here are the things I’ve appreciated / praised / feel happy for today…

A blossoming rosemary bush ~

Scrambled eggs with baby plum tomatoes and feta cheese ~

The fact that they sell gourmet jelly beans in Holland & Barrett ~

The sight of Jake laughing when I went to pick him up at nursery, even though he wasn’t with his key worker (whom he adores) but someone new, doing their placement ~

Getting to share Jake’s Calippo with him (eating what he left while pushing him on the swings) ~

The sunshine – even if it made me feel pathetic when I went out in it ~

Horse chestnut blossoms ~

Jake always forgiving me when I say sorry and having a cuddle ~

Jake singing, “I’ve got the choi choi choi choi down in my fart, down in my fart, down in my fart…” (original version is joy, heart) ~

The lovely man in the Londis who always gives Jake presents – today there was the snapping dinosaur head, and instead of his usual quiet shyness, Jake had a little chat with him about it. (I feel the need to point out that it is the man behind the counter, who keeps freebies aside for the little kids who come in with their parents, not just some random bloke hanging around giving presents to children on the sly) ~

Longer days (last night, I looked out the window at 7:38pm and it wasn’t dark yet!) ~

My sun hat ~

Getting ideas for stories while riding the red elephant in the playground ~

John Siddique’s poem Born Here ~

After the afternoon we’ve had, and after writing all the above, rolling around on the floor with Jake, being a crocodile eating him up, stuffing snow foam down each other’s tops, loud, unabashed belly laughter ~

6th April ~ stone

2011-04-06T15:59:00.001Z

still this feeling, on such a beautiful day, that there’s something I should be doing, though I can’t think what – make another list, write it out, write through it? Still that need to contain, control. Just stop. Lie on the floor in corpse pose, breathe. Oh look at that - silver birch against blue sky. There are new leaves swaying in the wind. It is spring. Finally it is spring. Oh, it is here. Oh. Is this my stone for today? It feels like it, something tearing straight out of me.

Why do we/I try to do so much? When so much arises from doing less, from paring down, from being still in the fear of emptiness, the pain of it. So much arises. So much springs up, blooms. Despite ourselves. We don’t disappear, we don’t shatter. Every year, softness breaks through dark wood, each tiny petal – a whole season.

6th April - Praise for ~

2011-04-06T15:56:00.000Z

A beautiful, warm day ~

Jake back at nursery calmly, though quietly ~

Cotton wool clouds in the sky ~

Bulging fat red tulips ~

Time to use as I wish! ~

A small tree full of thin branches popping with tiny white blooms (not apple blossoms, but tiny tiny flowers) ~

The impending possibility of red sandals and impractical but pretty summer dresses ~

Holby City on catch up ~

Looking for a poem to match the colour of the day, and finding one about war instead, because life’s like that ~

Sharon Olds’ poem, Free Shoes ~

5th April ~ a furry stone and some conversations

2011-04-05T17:50:00.001Z

I go upstairs and find the long-legged bunny rabbit wearing Jake's baby sandals, the soft ones with the tractors on them. Rabbit's fur is sticking out the top of the shoes.
~

Paul: What were those apples you wanted?
Me: Pink Lady.
Paul: I prefer cox myself.
Me: That’s the first I’ve heard of it.
Paul: What?
Me: It’s the first I’ve heard of it, that you prefer cox.
Paul: Yup, English cox.
Jake: What did you say Daddy?

~

Paul: Oh look Jake, it’s raining outside.
Jake: Oh, yes.
Paul: That means we’ll have to go out later.
Jake: Do you want to jump in muddy puddles Daddy?

~

Paul: I’m going out soon Jake, remember?
Jake: No, Daddy don’t want go out.
Paul: But I do, I’m going to watch football with my friend.
Jake: I want come wiv you.
Paul: I don’t think you’d like it Jake, you’d have to sit still for two hours in the cold. And then, you’d have to sit for another two hours in the pub.
Jake: (Nodding) I want to do that now.

5th April ~ Praise for

2011-04-05T17:47:00.001Z

Paul taking the day off so I could have some time for myself (Thanks Paul) ~

Jake doing the soggy juice dance (singing the soggy juice song which goes like this: soggy juice, soggy juice, soggy soggy juice while jigging head, elbows, hips and shoulders) ~

Jake taking his doll pram upstairs to the “train museum” with Daddy ~

Nostalgia trips courtesy of Nik Kershaw’s Wouldn’t It Be Good (thanks Na!) and Howard Jones’ Like To Get To Know You Well ~

“what is looooooooooove anyway, does anybody love anybody anyway, whoa, whoaaaaaaa, woah oooooooooh….” ~

Ah, you tube. ~

The joy of following your gut while editing a story (and hoping your gut is right) ~

The expressiveness of Jake’s eyebrows ~

Completing my 8th flash on Show Me Your Lits – whether said flash is pants or not ~

My friend the till monkey, for putting me onto Show Me Your Lits and Duotrope's Digest – without which I wouldn’t be flashing every week, submitting work or had my recent pieces published ~

4th April ~ small stone / poem

2011-04-04T20:24:00.001Z

Thai lukthung music takes me to a dark
air-conditioned restaurant
the taste of fried beef

the sound of Thai awakens
the dormant shapes
my mouth once knew
how to make

the almost familiar patterns
my body yearned
to know
unfurl from my spine
and snake through my hips
as I close my eyes
and dance

not the Thai way
but the only way
I know
now

4th April ~ Praise for

2011-04-04T20:23:00.001Z

Jake mumbling in his sleep, “Mummy I need a cuddle”~

The 30 minutes I took to do yoga (and the cuddles Jake gave me during it) ~

“The Journey” by Mary Oliver (I’m reading a poem a day as part of National Poetry Month) ~

Making Jake smile ~

Greek salad & prawns for lunch ~

Mr Bloom’s Nursery (filed under things that shouldn’t work but do) ~

Music from The Sound of Siam cd ~

Teaching Jake to say Sawadee Krup (a Thai greeting) and him being able to say it after a few attempts come out as D-cup! ~

Finding snippets of time throughout the day to edit a short short while Jake kept himself entertained ~

Each breath ~

"The great work of awareness..."

2011-04-03T23:32:00.001Z

"Nisargadatta: By being with yourself...by watching yourself in daily life with alert interest, with the intention to understand rather than to judge, in full acceptance of whatever may emerge, because it is there, you encourage the deep to come to the surface and enrich your life and consciousness with its captive energies. This is the great work of awareness; it removes obstacles and releases energies by understanding the nature of life and mind. Intelligence is the door to freedom and alert attention is the mother of intelligence." - Nisargadatta Maharaj, I Am That

(As quoted in Jon Kabat-Zinn's Wherever You Go, There You Are)

3 April - small stones

2011-04-03T17:43:00.001Z

through the playground
the smell of grilled
fish
and new rubber

~

Jake climbs up and flies
down the slide
one hand holding
an invisible teacup

3 April ~ Praise for

2011-04-03T17:42:00.002Z

A Sunday morning lie-in ~

The pleasure of Jake’s company ~

The little girl in the playground that Jake took a shine to ~

Positive, supportive comments about my story ~

An ice cream cone wrapped in gold paper without labels ~

Jake holding a clementine to his chest and saying, “Boobies!!” ~

The film “The Malta Story” which I accidentally caught this morning ~

My shallot and aubergine omelette turning out nicely ~

The heart shaped sticker containing a smiley pig that Jake just stuck to my shirt ~

This paragraph from Sharon Salzberg’s book Faith ~ Trusting your own deepest experience:

“As we open to what is actually happening in any given moment, whatever it is or might be, rather than running away from it, we become increasingly aware of our lives as one small part of a vast fabric made of an evanescent, fleeting, shimmering pattern of turnings. Letting go of the futile battle to control, we can find ourselves rewoven into the pattern of wholeness, into the immensity of life, always happening, always here, whether we’re aware of it or not.” ~

The Mother's Day card Jake drew for me - with lovely misshapen balloons drawn round the border ~

2 April ~ Praise

2011-04-02T19:38:00.002Z

Jake waking up happy ~

Jake standing on the pavement with his sunglasses on upside down, waving goodbye to me, not wanting to stop till I walked away from the window ~

discovering that my short story recently published in State of Imagination is in the same issue as a story written by the editor and founder of one of the most well-respected online literary magazines out there (my response when I found out? HOLY F**K!!!) ~

Hayley's magic yoga class ~

finding edamame ~

being bought toasted corn snacks ~

being able to treat myself to (responsibly sourced) jumbo prawns thanks to a build up of nectar points, which were delicious stir fried with ginger and garlic. The prawns weren't bad either. ~

when Jake heard yoga made my back better, his face lit up and he immediately asked for cuddles (I've been telling him lately that I can't carry him because my back hurts) ~

the sweet crisp iceberg lettuce leaves in my salad ~

"Black Snake" by Mary Oliver ~

2 April ~ Small wet stone

2011-04-02T19:22:00.003Z

Jakey's ghost
skulks through long grass bent by wind
through a lane of dandelion flowers
he sniffs and stops
his hind legs drop and
his wee draws a circle
on the pavement

Pecking Order at State of Imagination

2011-04-02T10:57:00.000Z

Issue 2 of the online zine State of Imagination is now up. (And I'm in it!!)

Go take a gander...

One week later

2011-04-01T15:03:00.000Z

One week away and we come back to apple trees in full bloom...

My writing up at The Pygmy Giant

2011-03-31T21:24:00.001Z

Needle & Thread - a non-fiction piece I wrote is now up at The Pygmy Giant.

Go read it and maybe weep, maybe not.

Small stone

2011-03-23T17:04:00.000Z

on the way to counselling
buds on trees in shadow
remind me of shrapnel
metal wounds blossoming
from flesh

~

I'm off on holiday tomorrow for a week. See you on the other side.