Morning meditation

Five o’clock wakenings to birdsong
and the slow scratch of lizards behind glass.
Sunlight filters through slatted blinds
calling cats from sleep;
Whilst the first coffee of the day
Steams gently as it pours.

Tell me a lie about the sea

‪The sea whispers quietly, enticingly‬
‪Slipping over sands to caress my toes‬
‪I will be gentle, it sighs‬
‪Winding round my legs like a cat‬
‪Come; explore my hidden depths‬
‪Discover the secrets I hide‬
It cries
‪As its  current pulls me ‬
‪further from the  shore‬
‪I will rock you in my arms‬
‪And keep you safe‬

In the undertow

seeking a new normal

 Last week normality ceased as the broadcast came
 and doors shut on faces we greeted every morning. 
Now we move through days as if underwater;
along quiet corridors, where small shoals of children ebb and flow;
weaving their way from space to space on parallel paths; pulled by invisible currents away from the solid anchorage of familiarity.
 Hours seem longer and direction rudderless,
 as we tread water and drift with the tide 
to a place in time where a new normal can be found.

Beach combing

This small shell

Washed by waves 

That ebb and roll in timed rotation

Wearing away ridges

Smoothing sharp angles

This delicate fan

Half buried under grainy sand

Fits tight in my palm

Leaving the echo of salt on skin

And sunbaked afternoons

Barber shop chorus

The barbers has a rhythm all its own

Muted news, soft soul tunes 

  clipper hum 

and faint scratch of razor on strop

This  emporium of masculine grooming

tolerates my presence as I sit 

enfolded in soft leather sofa

breathing in sandalwood and eucalyptus

Slipping on the sixth step

There is a cat on the stairs, who stands and stares 
as I slip on the sixth step; 
my joints as stiff as his smile. 

I slip, he topples, dents and bruises bloom;
 whilst in the downstairs room the TV mutters,
masking my tumble . 

These darkening days of Winter,
 that pleat skies with heavy cloud, 
and breathe river mists over garden walls; 

slow all motion.

The numbing cold and damp transforms me 
into a stumbling creature,
 graceless and disjointed;
swathed in wools and cashmeres 
to ward off the slowly creeping stiffness 
that seeps deep into bone 
and lingers like rust on a gently rotting hull.

The witching hour

This is the witching hour; the time before dawn where a faint glow low on the horizon filters through dark skies, shepherding in a new day. 

A time of small songs, when crickets sing  oblivious as water dragons wake from sleep, warmed by lamps, eager to eat

This is the time of cats, uncurled from slumber; who pad on soft paws to scratch at doors, demanding to be let free to roam once more along high walls and down amongst the toppled stones of quiet graveyards.

This is my time; with steaming mug in hand and glasses perilously perched on nose; wrapped in words that whirl from thought to page whilst the house breathes quietly on.

rainy days and Sundays

Grey day.Steady rain slicks patio paving, and pools in empty planting pots.  Cats clamour to go out, then stand beneath scant shelter, fur ruffled by damp droplets, before scrabbling to be let back inside.

Days like these require different rhythms ; long slow breaths and the quiet rustle of turning pages. Time slows to the spatter of rain on window panes and the bubble of soup simmering on the stove......... and we dream the hours away,waiting for a gap between clouds, and a glimpse of the pale winter sun.

Jamming

Market stall apricots, warmed in August sunshine; blushing pink with ripened promise as they tumble from scales into a waiting  paper bag. This is the start of a ritual long remembered from childhood summers, when fruit would fall from bag to table; to be transformed over an afternoon into jewelled jars of apricot  jam.

 Juice slowly drips from blade to bowl, as each fruit is split ready to slow cook in lidded pot.  Scales groan under a weight of sugar, and lemons are squeezed of their juices. This is the science; a fine balance to create the alchemy of sweet amber delight.

Jam making is an art; I merely an apprentice following my mother's calm directions as I  assemble ingredients in the pan; feeling sugar, gritty under a stirring spoon, as heat begins to dissolve each granule, whilst apricots slowly slide and bubble.

Now the wait, as thermometer line creeps ever upward, and occasional slow stir keeps thickening juices from sticking. Here is the skill; an ever watchful eye, waiting for that magical moment when fruit, juice and sugar combine into the perfect consistency, to hang from spoon edge; or wrinkle on chilled saucer. This is the revelation, the secret passed from mother to daughter, to finally capture the familiar taste of childhood in a simple glass jar.

Deja vue

The slow dance begins once more;
this time my mother's pas de deux......
and we,
weary from past duets,
recall each stumbling step of this strange ballet
crafted from DNA's complex choreography.
From the wings, the poise and elegance
with which she glides across the floor;
Seems effortless
So we remain in the shadows
silently awaiting our cue.........
a stalwart corps de ballet.

Of mice and Mum

My mother has always drawn mice; not the anatomically correct, scrabble footed, twitch eared images from the pages of a nature book ; but stroke of a pencil, pointy nosed, whip tail squiggles on paper scraps and the back of envelopes..
An enduring image from childhood, they peeped from the pages of  home made books to remind us when to sit 'quiet as mice' on unyielding church pews during Sunday service.

My father would find uniquely mousey gifts to bring back home from across the seas; my childhood favourite being a gilded green bellied brooch with fiery red eyes and an articulated tail, that we would beg to have pinned on our warm woolly jumpers. My mother would willingly oblige..... until the day it was taken to the jewellers where she discovered it was, in reality, far more precious than we had all believed it to be; not just paste and glass after all! After that, it was assigned to the jewellery box to be worn only on high days and holidays.

Over the years mice of every shape, design and texture arrived in the guise of birthday , Christmas and Valentine gifts; slowly jumbling the shelves of the corner cabinet we named 'the glory hole'. They were an eclectic collection; treasured by stubby fingered wide eyed grandsons who were granted leave to touch and explore just as long as each mouse was returned to its allotted place.

This weekend marked the first anniversary of my father's death. A bitter sweet time to gather as a family and celebrate his life. I would have taken flowers to arrange in vases and brighten each room; but then I saw these pink nosed, beady eyed felted marvels; dressed in the colours of our childhood, just begging to be set free from the dusty confines of a forgotten bargain bin. They seemed such a fitting gift somehow, and I have the strangest of feelings that my father would have thoroughly approved.

Rambling

Walking under tall trees, where dappled light casts moving shadows on dusty paths, and small creatures rustle under feathered ferns.

Our footfalls break the stillness as we step from path to bridge, led by signs mapped out in twigs and fallen branches gathered by small hands. As we stroll the sun catches exposed trunks where fungus blooms with soft strange beauty all its own; whilst in the shade oozing mud awaits a careless slip from wooden logs, that serve as smoothed down stepping stones. 

From woodland route the earthen path transforms itself to rutted gravel; cracked and scared by frequent rain. A scattering of wild flowers straggle their way along the verge and unseen birds sing warning chimes somewhere beyond the hawthorne hedge. And now we take the grassy track, mown flat across a grazing field; where doe eyed cows of every hue stare soulfully into middle distance, chewing on  cud and dreaming their bovine dreams.  

After the fall

These weeks after the fall  find me anchorless; ghosting through days, slipping in and out of worlds between pages, as I search for comfort away from this dull ache of knitting bone. Sleep is fitful, and often I find myself gliding through a soft breathing house at dawn to submerge in deep, hot water swirled with scented bubbles; where I lie waiting for pain to ease, accompanied by a deep throated dove cooing in the morning.

To temper this aimless existence, I make new routines, setting small goals on this exhausting journey back to fitness. I forge deals with myself - scrubbing and cleaning in awkward wronghandness  before curling on cushions, book in hand and cat on lap.This strangely rigid interruption in my normally fluid existence, is a way to fill the hours and keep torpor at bay.A way to ignore this dull ache that accompanies my every movement,until the sweet relief of a heated wheat bag and a few moments of calm.

Morning has broken

As of late, it is the sharp sound of an insistent blackbird that jars me from sleep; often to discover a small ginger cat curled under covers by my left knee.
We rise together, slowly stretching in the half light of a pale sun filtered through dark cloud and slatted blinds; before he gracefully leaps onto the windowsill, where his tail twitches in time to the cacophony of magpies squabbling  on nearby rooftop perch.

Today is mostly grey, the odd shaft of light breaking through; and has been given over to snails who languidly dance under the patio table; tentatively elongating tentacles beneath rain washed skies. One inches his way up the window pane and I fleetingly wonder if he studies me as keenly as I study him.

In the corner of the cloud washed sitting room,the first coffee of the day steams as I curl on cushions, pyjama clad, luxuriating in this little oasis of peace before the scramble of the day
begins.

A small death

 We found her this morning, head gently resting on outstretched paws. Not on her cushion, but  tucked away in a favourite hideaway beneath the table. 

She looked in death, as she had in life; comfortable and content, curled in a question-mark, ready to dream the day away. Yet no soft purr vibrated through her chest and the tips of her whiskers remained untwitched. 

Gently , we carried this now cooled body into the sun warmed garden, and  laid her in rich brown earth beneath the apple tree. 

She was loved.

Hitting the floor

A week ago I fell. Not one of those small, inconsequential trips easily disguised by a quick double step and wry smile; but a messy, flailing, uncoordinated affair, played out in public. One minute I was balancing carrots and tomatoes in overburdened hands, the next I was hurtling towards a room divider; frantically twisting to avoid full impact.  I landed, as gravity decreed I must, hard; shoulder first upon unforgiving floor, as discarded vegetables rained down around me.
 In my head, I pictured jumping up with a loud " tah daaaaaaaaaaa" and comedic curtesy; but in truth I sat, dazed and clammy,  watching blood slowly dripping onto lino.

The quiet chatter of concerned colleagues faded into white noise; my body bracing at the first wave of pulsating pain. Eyes closed, I focused through each assault...  in two three; out two three....breath technique from maternal memory riding the surge and fall. And then, through half closed eyes, a flash of green uniform  proffering the welcome suck and hiss of gas and air, that pushed pain into dark recesses as I finally rose to my feet.

 So here I sit, my upper arm and left eye a palette of colour; greens and blues slowly seeping into deepest of purple. No plaster cast or tapestry of steristrips; just a simple collar and cuff to immobilise broken bone and a scar, newly formed, to dissect my eyebrow and lend a rakish air.

Out in the field

Out in the field, crows perch on high branches still bare from winter's ravages; overseeing the to and fro of wild geese gliding down to graze the fresh grass.
Here we stand, braced against chill breezes, wrapped in layers to ward off the creeping cold; focused on a small yellow circle.
 Bows in hand we begin the now familiar ritual - inhale, draw, focus, breathe, release;  a rhythm born of muscle memory, forming the focus of a morning meditation.
There is no need for words; the silence broken only by the slight vibration of a  loosened bowstring, and  solid thud of arrows meeting their mark.
Looking down the line, we wait for the final release before a short stroll to the boss, where the tug and click as arrows are gathered and  requivered is masked by a pair of rowdy magpies laughing from their fence post perches.
This is the field, and this our moment of peace in a hectic world.

dull, damp day

The house breathes quietly to the rhythm of soft paws on carpeted stairs, the slow click of needles and  rustle of turned pages; as rain slowly trickles down the window panes. 

Today I have draped rebellious joints in the softest of fabrics, as they rage against the cold damp air; causing slips, trips and loss of grace. I used to run, not fast; but sure footed on sprung treadmill to the rhythm of music set on shuffle. Now I stride, then slow apace as hips and knees rebel and seize like a faulty engine in a clapped out car. 

The daffodils are blooming, yet still I hibernate , curled on comfy cushions; waiting for storms and gales to cease, and the sun to shine its thin pale light through slatted blinds once more. 

Creating calm

                                                
Yarn.....soft to the touch strings of glorious colour, that fade then deepen as they loop and turn around smooth metal needles. The click, twist, turn and slip create a rhythm flowing through once fumbling fingers, as stitches tumble from pointed ends. 

Needles click and my mind empties of all but the mantra of a counted pattern , beating time to the pull of skeins through my hands measuring deftly intertwining loops, that weave together in ever growing intricate ways.
From hesitant beginnings, structure is formed; a rib, a seed, a measured fold; even the most delicate of cables snaking through a mundane stretch of stocking stitches ..... and suddenly I am taken aback at what these loops and twists can do, as elvish hats for bright eyed children slowly  emerge from depleted skeins.... and my mind is calmed by meditative motion.

Grief

Grief has a complex rhythm all its own. Staccato....beating triple time; then suddenly syncopated.
It swells and ebbs as grey days seep slowly one into another, and nights stretch beyond endurance.
With old photographs and fresh memories to anchor us, we move in time to this strange music; finding solace in remnants. A penknife, smooth and heavy; that sits in the curve of a palm, or the whisper of cashmere; a final warm caress.