A rushing kind of a day
Deep within the demands of work
So I concentrate
Get things done
And forget myself
Now it’s evening and
I peel myself away from the TV
Put on some music
Slow down into
An hour later
Reawoken to the truth
That if I slow down
Underneath the rush
Below the fear, the fuss, the resistance
Peace is always waiting
There were holes in
This one wonderful creative life
It had got a little threadbare
Over the years
In need of darning
A light had dimmed
And now, I’m adding threads
Wild snatches of music
Experienced from the inside
Part of a circle of people playing
For themselves and for each other
Sharing tunes and memories
And weaving a richer life
The warp and weft of friendships
Stories, rhythms, rhymes
And the hills of the Lake District
And a scattering of colour, paint on canvas,
Feeling the lines and texture flow from the brush in my hand
The peace of deep, relaxed movement
Taking time to reconnect
The wake of a canoe across the lake
Adding a silvery thread
All absolutely necessary
Now I know what I’ve been missing
All of this is what I need
Now there are no threadbare patches left
In the tapestry that is
This creative life
This week I have been curled in upon myself
like a fern frond
waiting beneath the snow
for spring warmth
and lengthening days
as the bitter eastern winds howl
A blessing and a curse
this vivid imagination
conjuring up so many pleasant daydream worlds,
and paintings, stories, poems, music.
Allowing me to put myself in another’s shoes,
Enabling me to imagine the worse possible catastrophic outcome
for any situation I find myself in.
My body doesn’t know
that the stories in my head are not real,
and responds with pleasure, excitement, fear, dread, anxiety,
feeling it all, deeply.
And it takes a strong rational act of will to calm down,
to find a way back into the here and now.
Leaving the world of the imagination is not easy.
A blessing, and a curse.
said the monkey mind
‘that I think too much’.
And he scampers off busily
up thought trees tangled
Narratives twisting towards the light
thrusting up strange blooms,
every shade of the emotional rainbow.
Curious to know more,
the monkey scampers on.
the voice chattering away
in the jungle of my mind.
Does that monkey ever sleep!
Those small things that you deny yourself,
The movie, or book,
Night out with friends,
Or bunch of flowers
That you think you don’t deserve.
Leading on to more denial,
The kind words you would bestow on a stranger
But wouldn’t consider saying to yourself,
Preferring instead the harshness
Of an inner critic
The chances not taken
By the likes of you,
Paths left unwalked,
A life half lived.
You can’t deny
You need to lighten up.
Be kind to yourself and
To the joy in this world.
The clouds dispersed to reveal the estuary
domed with blue.
A cold north wind blowing
but in the shelter of a hedge
the sun felt warm, springlike
and the first frogspawn in a ditch.
The rising, full moon high tide paused
at the outer edge of the saltmarshes
where the birds gathered;
curlew, oystercatcher, redshank.
Then the sea quietly,
relentlessly, marched on over the marshes
scattering birds, forming islands of green
that gradually disappeared underwater.
A stream of sea pushed in past our feet
to the railway embankment
signalling the time to leave
this inbetween place
to the sea and sky
and the birds.