Summer Solstice

This morning the air is cool and there is a welcome breeze. A hint of light citrus seems to whirl in on the air before the richness of caramel is detected in a different direction.

Alt text suggests this week’s photo could be a person sitting in the grass with yellow flowers. I say it is my sister crouched in the border in her favourite park with her head nicely positioned between two yellow roses patiently waiting for me to take a photo. I also say it was a difficult photo to try to recreate so the opportunity to seize the moment and take the photo was well embraced.

The hottest day of the year coincided with Summer Solstice, and my sister and I went on a long river walk before ending up in the park waiting for the doughnut shop to open. I love the feeling of walking in intense sunshine, but was immensely grateful for an iced coffee and a fizzy water. I still find it difficult to remember all the things to say when ordering a coffee (or asking my sister to order it for me!) and that’s why the word decaffeinated fell out of my head to make space for salted caramel and oat milk when relaying what I thought might be tasty for my first iced coffee. It is also the reason my head was still buzzing at the end of the day and sleep took a very long time to be hauled in!

This week I completed a six month set of coaching with a person I have thoroughly enjoyed working with, took great pride in the testimonial I received, met a friend in the forest for laughter and a stroll (and vegan cake), landed on the settee in the company of wonderful friends, decided I wanted a new collection of poems that was 42 poems long with every seventh featuring a bird, shared shenanigans time in a zoom room, taught one of my nephews the joy of window cleaning, and consistently came third in Mario Kart when playing against my brother and sister.

A journey to Kent saw me enjoying the driving and my playlists. Different sets of songs fit well with the different legs of the journey, and I balance these with the slices of silences I choose along the way. When I drive the familiar route, it often feels like a road movie all of its own especially when the nights are light and the sun is shining.  I love the familiarity of the different sections of fields which I observe changing with the seasons, and those stretches where I am instructed to continue straight on for upwards of forty miles.

I drove my mum along the seafront on our way home from a trip out and found my mind flashing through memories. I revisited the taste of vinegary tomato ketchup on chips, the feel of the seam when wearing my rubber ring to paddle, the sound and excitement of bingo and slot machines. There was also the first time I ever drove my mum in the car and kangarooed it down her road and round the block whilst muttering a number of swear words and thinking she might need lots of persuading if she was ever to go for a drive with me again. And yet there we were decades later enjoying a smooth ride and one another’s company.

The sunny weather brings to mind the joy of simply lying down outside and watching the clouds. Here’s to moments like that and the thoughts that expand within them. This poem was first published by One Hand Clapping.

SKYLARKING

She searches the sky most days.

Never says skies;

to her that one vastness

holds so much.

Sometimes she forgets 

she cannot contemplate what exists above.

There are days she wants to pull down the clouds 

to build a maze.

Days she wants to swallow the small ones; 

their cold candyfloss hydration.

Days she wants to lie down on the side of a hill

with someone she loves 

naming every shape.

Days she thinks she would be happy 

just watching everything glide by

in the colour of swans.

World Early Stroll Day

This morning the air carries the essence of silage. It is warm and uplifted by floral scents.

Alt text suggests this week’s photo could be a purple ball on a gravel surface. I say it is a deflating balloon which I saw at the end of my early morning stroll on Saturday morning. I don’t always go for a stroll on a Saturday morning, but I remembered that it was ‘World Early Stroll Day’ and I was keen to find out what I would see in the new day. There was a thunderstorm as I was waking up, the claps of thunder were loud cracking booms and the rain was heavy, so I waited for all that to end before venturing out. Work in our road is being carried out to replace the gas pipes so the smell of gas infused clay was hanging thick in the humid air and my photo journey captured that work at first. I enjoyed ignoring the red light of the traffic light outside my house and walking on past it. I also found much to interest me in the lines and shadows of the holes that had been dug, but found myself beginning to wish for something different and colourful. Just as I was wondering whether to veer off to see if I could find flowers, I saw the balloon. It looked like it was having a rest after being well loved. There was a gentle poignancy to this thought that made me smile.

Here’s the montage I put together for the invitation from Andrew Brooks and Ian Macmillan for people to share their early morning strolls. (Traffic lights on red against a blue sky. A purple balloon on the pavement. A hole in the road to expose the gas pipe. A wonky No Smoking sign. Another hole in the ground where the deep rainwater reflects the shadow of the barriers.)

I enjoyed looking at all the different early morning strolls that were being shared on social media. I love the tingle of the joy of early mornings and the fresh potential of a new day. Sometimes when I feel I haven’t seized the opportunity to note it or celebrate it in some way my heart sinks a little. There is an enjoyment to looking back on a day or period in time and reflecting on things that I am grateful for, but the feeling of looking forward is a hopeful kind of joy that shines in a different way.

On Saturday morning as well as my stroll I had treated myself to a ticket for the ‘Badger Saturday’ writing workshop with Clare Shaw and Miriam Darlington. I already had a lovely little kenning dedicated to badgers which I wrote in a workshop with Angela Topping, and I was keen to extend my knowledge and use the time to write what I was calling in my head ‘a full-on, solid badger poem’. That poem is emerging, it is indeed solid, and I look forward to spending time editing it into a finished piece.

Curiosity led me back to my driving to work tweets this week to see what was set down as my record of travelling to work in lockdown. Some of the snippets of writing from that time evolved into poems and I was pleased to see that I had kept all of the original notes as a reminder and a set of snapshots. My first one was short and seems to have focused very much on colour: “Orange and pink sunrise and a Rupert scarf.” The more I wrote, the more I observed, and I found myself tuning into the subtle changing of seasons and the passing of time.  

You can listen to a set of poems that arose from these thoughts on my YouTube Channel if you like such things. Driving to Work January 2023 to March 2023.   

Here’s a poem that arose from my early morning observations in June 2023:

Friday 23rd June 2023

The herbed air is a tonic for my lungs,

a black sandbag an obedient dog

waiting for its owner.

And then,

just when it seemed the thought of her gone

was balancing,

on the central reservation

a white and ginger cat

suddenly a gymnast

frozen in time.

THAT BANDSTAND

This morning the birds have already sung in the new day. The air is still, and holds the scent of almonds.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a person standing in front of a sign. I say it is me behind the bannered and flagged railings of the bandstand at Oswestry Pride saying poems out loud.

I originally gave this post the same title as this time last year before realising I was repeating myself. Changing it to ‘That Bandstand’ instead of ‘The Bandstand’ reminds me of retitling one of my poems and how it brought the object closer. I feel I can bring Oswestry bandstand closer now because I have had the joy of standing on it to deliver poems twice. I have loved bandstands ever since watching Trumpton as a child many years ago. My local park didn’t have a bandstand and it seemed wonderful and slightly exotic to my younger self that some parks actually did!

When I first started sharing my poems at open mics I often used to choose the shortest poem possible so that I wouldn’t run out of breath before the end. I soon realised that my short poems often worked well on the page but didn’t always own their space out loud when read singularly – by the time the person had tuned in to my voice the poem could well be over. When it came to longer readings, I used to imagine that I didn’t have enough breath in me for a whole set of poems which I guess could actually be true if you don’t pause to inhale! It has been an interesting journey to outrun these thoughts and then reframe them.

Now when I am planning a set I have enough past experience to bolster me so that the process focuses on crafting the set not being distracted by thoughts of expiring through lack of oxygen. Last year at Pride I came in a bit short. I confess I might have had my head focused on completion rather than staying in the moment! There’s something rather nice about getting to repeat an experience. You can respond to your own what ifs. What if I had stayed in the moment a little more? What if I delivered the lines with slightly better pacing? What if I didn’t stand on tiptoe all the way through because I was too scared to alter the position of the mic at the start? So this week I planned my setlist on paper and then tested it out loud to make sure it lasted the required amount of time. It did, but it didn’t flow so I readjusted it and then invited Kath to Poetry Corner to hear the revised set. I had given myself the overarching theme of ‘Play’ which felt fun and is also a nod to this year’s National Poetry Day.

I am also very grateful to Caroline Bird for reminding me that no one expects a pianist to launch straight into their performance as soon as they arrive on stage so settling into the space and taking a breath before starting is a good and natural thing for poets to do. I had a few things to say to myself to ground me and I enjoyed adding to this the image of a pianist preparing to perform.

My Hurry Up Driver which springs into action when feelings of stress are present does a very good job of distorting time. Hence that feeling that I need to begin as soon as I am positioned on stage or as soon as someone hands over the metaphorical microphone. Kath assures me that no one at my Dad’s funeral was thinking ‘just read the blinking poem’ when I had to get myself together to even say the title, but to me it felt like a very long pause in danger of turning into a ‘leaves on the line’ kind of delay. My mind can deliver a large number of thoughts in rapid succession at such moments and definitely benefits from being stilled so that time isn’t spent silently responding to these or letting them take root in the space.

So in a week where my joy included a birthday, a many times recandled cake, new songs from Mary Chapin Carpenter, and saying a proper hello to Caroline Bird in 3D life, I am celebrating remembering the following: breathe, the space is yours, give what you’ve got.

Here’s the poem that was once called The Coin which is a love poem for my wife as well as being a reminder of my tendency to need to be early for things. (For me five minutes early used to be late!)

THAT COIN

I imagine putting that pound coin in my mouth

tonguing it from heads to tails

and back again.

As you walked in,

a clock somewhere struck eight,

while the minute hand of the one I was eyeing

clicked its thirtieth tick.

Your hair

your skirt

your make-up

your eyes straight ahead

told me

you were out of my league.

Then that fumble of fingers

had that coin falling from your grip.

Your one flaw was all I needed to say my name.

Like a one-armed bandit on triple seven

I rattled out the stories of my life

and still you said yes to a coffee I wouldn’t make

and paused on the bridge over the canal

to kiss me.

I could love that pound coin forever.

Take its metallic tang again and again.

Turning the Calendars Over

This morning the air smells cold. It is clear and fresh as though it has been rinsed by night. I sense floral elements, but even standing still under the blue sky and breathing deeply I cannot name them.

Alt text offers no suggestions for this week’s photo. I say it is part of each of the photos for the month of June on the two calendars I like to make each year. The #LookThere calendar has Ronnie somersaulting for joy at the Welsh coast with a wind farm out at sea, and the #ElasticBandPhotos calendar features ‘Curled in Shade’ which shows a discarded elastic band curled on the ground. It was lovely to read a comment on social media where a viewer felt the elastic band looked as though it was hugging itself.

I like turning over the calendars at the start of each month. New pictures, new starts. An additional reminder of potential. I also like to choose something to look back on to see where I have come from. This time I chose to reflect on my walking because I wanted to see the evidence of my improved habits. I also knew that it was going to be positive and there is something comforting right now in that reassurance. And when I looked I saw that both my walking apps for May (one for brisk minutes and one for distance) indicated that I worked hard on my fitness for the whole month. This feels worthy of celebration and also sets me up to continue the pattern this month. My walking is good for my physical and mental health and is also important because it will enable me to enjoy the experience of walking up Snowdon for sunrise. I want to be fit enough to enjoy all elements of the climb as I go so that I stay present in the moment.

There was also in the moment evidence that my walking efforts are working whilst on a trip out to Hawkstone Park. The park features a number of follies and the fact that these are set within a hilly area means there are plenty of steps to climb. My legs coped well, and I didn’t have that leaden feeling that I often associate with climbing steps.

I recorded some poetry videos this week and during the process I noticed that I do quite a lot of swinging on my chair. When I work to diminish this so that it is less of a distraction to the viewer I find myself twirling my fingers out of camera shot instead. It makes sense to me now why I was always comfortable leaning on a tabletop when attending meetings, or why I felt the need to constantly doodle on my notepad – I need some kind of bodily feedback to anchor me. I also learned that I am easily distracted by social media videos of thirsty camels drinking water that they are offered from water bottles or the range of clips that show that cats don’t seem to like jumping on tinfoil. Noting all this means I have ways of speeding up the video recording process if I need to in the future!

There has been a new way for me to anchor myself in the moment when out walking because I now have a set of in-ear headphones. I love the way I can be completely connected to music whilst out in the open air. I thought they would be good, and they have exceeded my expectations. I used to long for a veranda overlooking nothing but the sea, or hills, or mountains so that I could sit out on at the end of the day and listen to music while the sun sets. It’s like my wife has bought me my own version of that very veranda in those two in-ear devices. I can sit out with music at a level I can hear without worrying about disturbing the neighbours. It also means I have had music in my ears whilst mowing the lawn, digging out a range of weeds and taming a variety of things that have been growing and growing. This is useful for me because I miss music when I don’t get to listen to it and it also gives a relaxed feel to things that can otherwise feel like chores. It helps to know I can put one of my favourite albums on and use this designated time outdoors.

My garden time this week included digging a decent sized hole to plant a gooseberry bush. Seeing the spade cut through the topsoil and down into the clay reminded me of my brother and I digging in the garden when we were young. I captured my memories of this in a poem. It’s another good poem for my ‘Play’ setlist for National Poetry Day in October and in celebration of that I will share it here now:

Digging that Hole

Day after day she let us dig that hole.

You made the sides straight,

marvelled at lines you called strata.

I just liked the way there was real orange

in amongst the expected brown

how it looked sliced instead of dirty.

I disliked the crumbs at the bottom,

that never diminishing scattering,

that I couldn’t spade out.

You said if we kept on, worked hard enough,

we’d feel warmth from the centre of the earth,

that we’d know by laying our hands flat

on the bottom of our freshly dug hole.

You told me Australia was right beneath us.

It all seemed so worth digging for.

I pictured us emerging in a different country,

staying there until teatime,

coming back to tell Mum.

Each time you pressed your palm to feel for heat

you looked hopeful

silently inviting me to copy.

But I only ever felt the cold damp

of earthworms.

The first thing I thought of each holiday morning

was digging that hole. I pictured you

spade ready, jumping in, getting started,

swinging your loaded spade high.

I imagined myself up top

remembering that excavated piles

took up more room out of the hole than in;

shovelling the earth away as quickly as I could;

being interrupted by your sudden warning –

it’s hot, the lava’s coming.

RAINBOWS AND CHICKPEAS

This morning the day felt quiet as if it was snoozing its way into Bank Holiday Monday, and I found myself almost tiptoeing outside to breathe the air. It was clear and fresh.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a rainbow over a field of tall grass. I say it is a rainbow on the country walk. I also say it is a wonderful sign of keeping going. Colour against grey. My dad always kept going. He was a completer, hardworking, patient. Before vehicles were designed to be plugged in to help find their faults when things went wrong my Dad would work to find the problem and solve it. He was clever, methodical and always determined. I know he wouldn’t have turned around and headed for home when it rained heavily on a walk, so this week I didn’t either. If you tune in regularly to this blog you will know I am very much a fair weather walker, and that I am learning to embrace walking in different weather conditions. (My progress includes learning to be more prepared by remembering to wear the right shoes and take a layer if it’s cold or looks like it might rain.) So I have my Dad to thank for keeping me going this week. As well as the person who wrote to offer condolences and to say, Shine for your dad, Sue. I feel like I am patting myself back into shape, and that keeping going is an important part of this. That rainbow halfway along my walk was a lovely ‘pause, remember and breathe’ moment.

Gratitude too for baguettes from the bakery up the road, for chickpeas, and for black coffee because these things have all accompanied conversations and laughter this week.

Grief has been the perished rubber of a flat tyre, the wrinkled end of a deflating balloon, a dull heaviness to the body, a horizontal. Songs on my playlists have been welcoming me back when I have pulled myself out of my need for silence. Finding colour and light mixing in has given me things to lean in to, something to prop myself up against, a gentle re-plumping.

Reading ‘Hopscotch’ at The Gloucester Poetry Society’s Crafty Crows open mic felt good because I was taking part in things again. And although I shared it on my YouTube channel back in 2022 I had never read it to a live audience so I wanted to give it an airing of its own. Afterwards I discovered that the theme for National Poetry Day this coming October will be ‘Play’. That gives me a prime opportunity to read it again which is good because I like reading it out loud. This news also sent me to my poetry folder to see what other poems I have that will fit this theme and which drafts I can polish in readiness. I look forward to exploring the theme in detail and predict that poets will be sharing some cracking poems on that day.

HOPSCOTCH

The numbers should be in a straight line

like a road, or left to right

with a zero at the centre.

Hopscotching them is wrong

it’s not even that the odd ones make a

pattern for your feet to land on.

You say I should be throwing a stone

to tell me where to jump to

that just going from one to ten

is not how it’s done.

I don’t tell you I am only doing it

because it’s there

or that I think using a stone is wrong.

I like the smoothness of dice and counters,

the satisfaction of rolling fair-weighted ones.

It worries me that the squares aren’t square

and what of the chalk with its impermanence?

I fear I cannot hopscotch with you.

It’s ok if you don’t want to play,

you are saying, I understand.

But I don’t want you to understand.

I want you to change the game;

adapt the rules

and make it better.

I’ll play, I tell you,

just don’t make it stop at ten.

Make it last longer.

Make the squares as square as you can,

go to one hundred,

and find me the smoothest pebble possible.

We can’t use a stone if it goes to one hundred,

you tell me

as you pocket the chalk.

POET FEELING PROUD

This week I had expected to be writing about the air not smelling of cow dung because it never has on a Monday morning…

Sometimes I call my mum when I am out on a walk and sometimes on these walks there is a distinct smell of cow dung. I tell her this. I like this smell. It reminds me of early family holidays on a farm in Sussex. It is one of those scents which seems perfectly organic to me. But lately that smell has been tinged with mown grass and doesn’t smell as ‘pure’. I have been telling her this too. She asked me recently why the air never seems to smell of poo in my blog, and I said it doesn’t on Monday mornings. I expected to be recounting this today and noting that it might one day, but not yet. And what do I find when I step outside this morning… the distinct scent of the cow dung from the field on the country walk! So this morning the air smells of cow poo for the first time in eighty-four blogs!

Alt text describes this week’s photo as a person holding books in front of a bush. This makes me laugh because it is exactly what it is, but it is also me with my three books which have been accepted into The Poetry Library at The Southbank Centre in London. I sent the books for consideration before Christmas last year and remember thinking it was a good mission to complete before the end of 2024. This week I saw an email in my inbox relating to this and did my ‘I need to read this through half-closed eyes in case it’s not the news I want to see’ trick! Fortunately I could unsquint my eyes to read the words again when I saw that it was an email saying the books would be included in the collection there. I felt proud and marked the moment by heading out into the garden with the books for a photo. It is good to mark moments.

I rode my pretend horse across the hall to greet fellow exhibitor Bridie on set up day of my third time at Buxton Wool Gathering because I was excited to see her and to be there once again. Last year my promise to entertain her came in the form of reading to her from Welcome to the Museum of a Life. I chose SHE PUTS ON A SPRING DRESS THE DAY THE TORTOISE COMES OUT OF HIBERNATION and discovered that she too had a tortoise named Fred when she was little. I liked riding my horse and making the associated neighing noises, and stayed committed to completing the journey across the hall despite Bridie not noticing my approach and other people giving me slightly curious looks. Even better than that though was the moment later on in the day when rode her invisible broken-wheeled scooter across the hall to see me! 

Here’s to the joy of shared laughter and here’s that poem…

SHE PUTS ON A SPRING DRESS THE DAY THE TORTOISE COMES OUT OF HIBERNATION

She sits with him on her lap

dips cotton wool into the bowl of water

balanced on the arm of the settee.

Gently and slowly, she works to unstick his eyes

trying to mask the fear

that he is not going to wake up

that he has been dead all this time.

We watch

not knowing which will fascinate us most.

When the flicker finally comes

he empties his bowels

on to her lap.

We are impressed that all this comes

from such a small creature.

She sits unmoving, as the puddle,

now larger than the tortoise itself,

begins to seep through her dress.

EMBRACING MY SHADOW

This morning the air is all sweet grass and tea rose as the cockerel announces the new day.

Alt text says this week’s image is a collage of shadows of a person’s face and a person’s head. I say it is me trying to take photos of my shadow with flowers for eyes.

I laughed when I compared the recent ‘dandelion eyes shadow photo’ with one that I took six years ago. In the older picture I had not at first noticed the flap from my camera which gave me the look of Frankenstein’s Monster. I liked the progress of my photography, but the time gap surprised me. It didn’t feel like 6 years had passed. I have a good memory for some things and this means that I often think things have happened recently even when they haven’t. I also noticed that I hadn’t paid much attention to the proportions of the human head during my art o-level, so my ability to get the eyes in a relatively anatomically correct place was not as easy as I thought it would be.

Seeing those two photos felt like a timely reminder to crack on and take some more shadow photos. My walks this week have been sunny so this gave me the perfect opportunity to experiment a little. I wanted to see if I could find different flowers for my eyes. I found buttercups. And my neck is only a little reminiscent of having a bolt in it.

Having fun with my shadow reminded me of a coaching session I had recently enjoyed which focused on my shadow side. A playful and rich exploration of parts of me that I might typically label negative, but which I could learn from. This was built on this week at a webinar where I began to contemplate other aspects and to lean into how approaching this with honesty and self-compassion would enable me to embrace the shadow. Of course then I had a range of pictures in my head of trying to wrap my arms round my shadow and this became a whole cartoon strip of its own. One of my key values being humour this did not surprise me, and perhaps it was also a way of lightening the mood when I was thinking about shadow elements. I used the thinking time of my country road walks to contemplate my shadow sides, and to build on the thoughts which arose from a conversation which took place in a breakout room on zoom.

Facing my shadows whilst in the bright sunlight of being human feels refreshing. It’s not always easy to acknowledge these aspects, but leaving them in the darkness or keeping them buried doesn’t improve things whereas thinking about their origin and how they are currently showing up becomes interesting and allows them to be talkable to.

Today I will share a poem from my second collection ‘Welcome to the Museum of a Life’ that goes well with thinking about walking along a country road.

I HATE YOU

said the cow.

Yeah, she hates you, whispered the grass,

hates you,

hates you, it swished on and on.

So, I climbed the gate.

Get off, you’re too heavy, said the gate.

Yeah, you’re gonna break us,

said the padlock on the chain.

I stepped over a large muddy puddle,

marvelled at a greeny-brown cowpat.

Imagine creating that!

Then I remembered that the cow

hated me

and I ditched my admiration.

Stop looking at me

and notice how quiet it is, stupid,

said the cowpat.

I lifted my head to the clouds,

caught the eye of a bird I couldn’t name,

saw its beak begin to open.

I wondered if the silence would shatter

like a pint glass, all splinters and nibs,

or just quietly split down the middle

like surface ice on a pond.

There’s only one of you.

The unknown bird was staring at me.

I waited for it to cock its head.

It remained still;

a totem carved in the tree.

You want me to repeat that

don’t you?

mocked a heron

standing on the path,

You think I have ancient grey wisdom

and the key to solitude.

I did.

I wanted to keep going

but as his wings opened like a prayer

I froze.

SOMEBODY’S MISSING

This morning the air has been sung in fresh by the dawn chorus. It carries hints of green and fuchsia.

Alt text suggests that this week’s photo is a person sitting on a lawn with flowers. I say it is a photo of my lovely dad and the flowers we chose to celebrate his life at his funeral.

This is the first new month that has started without my dad being here. I’ve learnt that I want to tell everyone what I learned from him. I’ve learned that one of the best things I can think of to do right now is carry forward the very special parts of him to the best of my ability. I’ve also learned that writing some of this down in a poem felt right, but that reading said poem when we gathered together to say goodbye to him required a large hanky and plenty of time for deep breaths.

I am so glad he came into my life when I was young and built us a family to be proud of. There’s so much that wouldn’t have happened without him. The slideshow that was put together of photos of him had us all looking through our photo albums so that we could bring together our favourites, these small snapshots of time brought back a huge set of memories. They play like the flickering reels of an old film in my head when I am out walking. Light evenings and dawn chorus mornings give me perfect times to walk these thoughts.

I have added the funeral service to all the ways I have been trying to say goodbye and thank you since he died, and I take comfort in the lines from Mary Chapin Carpenter’s ‘Looking for the Thread’:

“… I made a prayer from what you said
that no one is ever dead
because time and love remember…”

And I think I might be crying at Johnny Cash’s version of ‘You Are My Sunshine’ for quite some time, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Here’s the poem, and I hope it gives you a flavour of my lovely dad…

SOMEBODY’S MISSING

So we’re carrying parts of him with us.

The way he took time to lay out the tools

strong-armed and patient in blue boiler suit

always prepared to check and check again.

The way he turned his head to look and smile

never minding being interrupted.

That quiet, gentle, I’m alright, thanks my love.

The time I called him

from somewhere between Crawley and Croydon.

Parked up. Feeling lost.

To hear him tell me exactly where I was

based on the wrong turns I had taken.

Steadfast, kind,

reminding me to take a breath,

look straight ahead

then keep on going.

Meeting me on a country road to lead me home.

HAIR BUNS AND PHOTO OPPORTUNITIES

This morning the air carries the scent of warmed green leaves. It is both comforting and fresh.

Alt text offers no spontaneous suggestions for this week’s photo. I say it is a four-picture montage of my time at Wonderwool Wales. The selfie picture top left makes it look like I have a hair bun which we didn’t notice at the time of taking it and sharing it on Kath’s social media, but we are happy and ready for showtime and I sort of know what that hairstyle might look like for future consideration! Top right shows Ronnie taking the opportunity to have his photograph with the lovely Bridie who delighted me by asking to meet him. She said he wasn’t as big as she had thought he would be from seeing his other photos on social media which made us laugh. The bottom left photo shows me feeling delighted and proud when some visitors who came to say hello to Kath asked for a photo of me at the stand. And the final photo was taken when show ended with giggle time with Liz – a joyful photo of Kath and I as we all celebrated a successful show.

This was the second year of exhibiting at Wonderwool Wales, and it was lovely to arrive and set up the stand in the same spot as last time. The familiarity and routine of this helped me settle in quickly and begin to prepare for the busy weekend ahead. Having my bearings from the outset felt good and meant that I could focus on showcasing all the designs with Kath.

As you may know I sometimes like to take a look back before looking forward when there are particular milestones, so I spent a little time reflecting on last year’s event before heading off this time. Last year I did not leave Hall 3 because it was the biggest show I had been to, and I wanted to keep all my energy and focus on the sorting and selling.

This year I was looking forward to meeting new people as well as catching up with people I know. I wanted to say hello to people I knew before each day began rather than just stay in my space. I also wanted to visit the show sheep like I used to when I was a visitor to the show. In those days I spent quite a bit of time looking at and talking to the sheep because I would have completed my looking at yarn and yarn related things more quickly than Kath. I love the colours, the stories behind the yarn and the other goodies on display, but I don’t spend as long as Kath exploring each stand.

This year Ali, who I chatted to about poetry last time, was there again and I was delighted when she came over to say hello and let me know that she was still enjoying dipping into my poetry book. Other conversations from new people I met included the joy of dawn chorus, the wonderful Dolly Parton, and finding time to treat yourself as kindly as you do others. I love all these things and it was good to converse with so many like-minded people.

The lodge we stayed in was in a wooded area and I was able to practice using my new head torch (perfect for watching the rabbits in the fields) as well as being immersed in the sound of dawn chorus each morning. I have been thinking about dawn chorus a lot lately. The beauty of this moment in each day, the way it becomes so magnificent at this time of year, how wonderful it feels to stand in the start of a new day or a new venture, and how it feels when darkness breaks. In celebration of all of that I will share ‘It is Not About Dawn’ from my first collection Magnifying Glass.

IT IS NOT ABOUT DAWN

It is about that moment

before the dark time breaks,

being present in the silence,

standing still in an exact moment.

It is all about when that first bird sings,

first light,

the fact that there is an order

that layer upon layer

sculpts the day’s beginning.

It is about discovering how long it takes

before the crow starts to echo back

with his rough

cruck, cruck.

TWO SISTERS AND A COW

This morning the air brings the distinct smell of cut grass. The birds have turned up their dawn chorus songs these last few days and are welcoming the mornings with a vigour that is admirable.

Alt text tells me this week’s photo is ‘two women taking a selfie in front of a cow’. I say it is my sister and I on a country walk encouraging a cow to be in our photo after we have told it how beautiful we think it is.

I have been reminded about a couple of things on recent walks:

Number one: Being dehydrated is not good for me. I often talk to the creatures I see on my walks, but when I was dehydrated recently I became judgemental and called a squirrel naughty and told a sheep it looked like a badger. My sister recounts school days where one orange squash drink and maybe a metallic sip from the water fountain were her drinks for the day. How much better we are at hydrating now. I know I feel much better when I am properly hydrated, and I am definitely more conversational with the wildlife (and indeed humans) as a result.

Number two: If you want to climb mountains it’s a good idea to practise by walking some hills! I have not included enough inclines in my Snowdon training and it is going to be important to rectify this ahead of September so that I can hold a conversation as I climb and don’t feel completely heavy-legged when things are steep. I had kept my focus on brisk minutes and increasing the length of walk whilst neglecting the uphill part. On reflection I was finding a comfortable sense of achievement in my improved walking fitness on the flat and forgetting to challenge myself.

The Great Orme and Moel Famau give me two good places to practice my hill walking. Pleasingly on a recent adventure with my sister I was able to be pretty good about climbing the wrong hill and then going down it and climbing the right one! My sense of direction is not very well tuned and the fact that I thought I had once climbed The Great Orme by starting at a particular point in Happy Valley had me confidently telling Katie which path we needed to take. It was only when we got to the top and noticed The Orme was on our right and not under our feet that I realised I was wrong. Down we went and off we set on the proper path. I got my steps in that day. And I also enjoyed walking with her up Moel Famau on a sunny day and am glad she said let’s do the steep route because it felt like another good adventure.

On a more sedentary day recently I set off to meet some friends in Costa. It was one I hadn’t been to before so I looked it up the night before and when I got in my car thought I had pressed the right button to take me to it. I thought I sort of knew where it was so when my directions seemed to be taking me the wrong way I pressed the button and stated, drive to Costa and a branch a mile away was suggested which seemed about right. Wrong! It was an express shop in a garage! I realised taking a stop and a breath and a proper look at the map was beneficial so I did just that and worked it out from there. I wouldn’t be without my sat nav, but I think I can also help myself by looking at the maps properly before setting off. I was still on time because I always leave early for things!

There was a lovely moment when I got out of my car and saw someone smiling at me. I momentarily thought I knew them so smiled back before realising they were a stranger to me. We each smiled at one another again and this encouraged me to go and speak to them. I explained that I was feeling lost and they shared that they were looking for a friend and they too weren’t entirely sure they were in the right place. It felt good to have a shared experience –  an unexpected mini connection with someone. It’s good to talk.

I have chosen ‘Walking to Moel Arthur’ from my first collection ‘Magnifying Glass’ to read because it frames a moment in time when walking in the hills…

Walking to Moel Arthur

We packed the rucksack

with more than tissues and water

tied our boots, checked the laces.

On the way up

we stopped looking at our watches

let time surround us.

But at lunchtime

I worried that if I sat down

I wouldn’t get up;

where we were going seemed so far.

The sun, diluted and dipping,

threatened to leave our muscles cold.

We did not really speak

as we ate our separate lunches,

mine seemed bland and I didn’t ask about yours.

I only sipped my water

as I studied the path ahead;

narrowing and bending,

hiding its end.

I couldn’t tell if we were halfway to our halfway.

I wanted to read your mind,

were you for giving up?

I wanted to ask you,

If we turn back, will we ever come here again?