There was a tree overlooking the back garden of the house that I used to live in, before this house.
I felt a strong connection with that tree, as its branches extended over the fence into my garden, from the wood where it lived.
Thinking about this tree leads me into thinking about another one of my rules for self-management: establish a good relationship with a stationary (or stationery) supplier.
The tree provided me with a sense of protection, somehow. I know this is really just an invention of my imagination – or at least I think it is – but I liked to think that the tree was looking out for me, as we shared the seasons from one year to the next.
There was a time when I thought I would never leave that house and garden, but I did.
The tree remained but I brought it with me in the form of a poem that I wrote while I was still there. I wrote it from the perspective of the tree.
I, The Tree
It is afternoon soon to be evening as I wait for her to return from the business of her day
I always wait for her and hope she never goes away
I am reaching, always reaching into the garden she has tended for many lonely years
I know that she knows I look out for her and would love to wipe away her tears
But the fingers of my hands are too hard bent and curled
The best I can do is to soften her sorrow with the surprise of spring and after the cold white of winter the promise of a green and bright tomorrow
Summer comes a time I love to share with her and the garden
She – stooped – digging and weeding me with arms outstretched in full and joyous glory once again her in her own way also feeding
Together we grow each through our seasons
Every year I provide a carpet for her feet she thanks me from her heart I feel and looks out for me the Tree hoping I will never go away
I know with all the branches of my being I never will
This morning, in the dog park, while Lydia was enjoying her time off-lead – sniffing and running and chasing – I stood under another tree and did some repetitions of the Qigong ‘Healing Form’ movement. I am continuing to grow, as is the tree.
Once, upon a green and white day, I walked, with shades of blue and grey above, and occasional muted pools of golden light along the way.
Cold and still, it was as, wrapped in thoughts and clothes, I lumbered on, taking weary steps in heavy boots, glad to be out but ill at ease and with no easy motion.
Then, suddenly, up ahead, a quick quiet movement of life and limbs, and fur of warm brown red.
A dog, I thought, at first – but no – a fox!
I stopped and stared, and thrilled at each tight turn.
Alert though not aware of me, she moved, close enough to see the splash of white upon her breast; no cunning vixen, she, with body, mind and spirit in perfect poise and purposeful grace beside the still and silent trees.
Doing what she needed to do. Being what she needed to be.
But then I moved and she was gone.
So I carried on through the green and white day with shades of blue and grey, moving easier now but missing her and wishing, that our eyes had met, that I hadn’t seemed a threat.
For in her hungry hunt for food she had nourished me, and warmed my heart while her cold search went on.
Alone, both, and alive.
She free, and I a few steps closer now, to being me.
I’ve recently been fortunate to have taken part in a group poetry project.
Group experiences have been central to my mental health recovery for many years.
Some group experiences have an uplifting, energising and inspiring effect; others lead to alienation, isolation and degradation.
The poetry group experience that I’ve recently had was a good one, thanks largely to the enthusiasm and encouragement of the group leader https://mariafrankland.co.uk/.
In case you don’t want to buy the book, or perhaps as a taster (I’m one of 12 poets in the completed work), here are my poems from the collection:
Now
Now at the Pinnacle 14-and-a-half per cent proof point of my existence I’ve reached the Nottage Hill sub-station of my life I haven’t got a Sauvignon Blanc’s clue about what to do next other than to ‘méthode-champenoise’ my way through and hope that if the cork crumbles the bottle won’t be blue and the sieve will be fine so that just for now I can at least drink the wine
I can dance
I can dance without moving my feet at all I don’t have to do the foxtrot or quickstep my way to any ball I can cry without moving my lips I can laugh without making a sound all I have to do is know that the earth is flat, it isn’t round The dance is mine to make up from the music of the wind a sense of something swirling in and around my mind I don’t need a choreographer an audience or loud applause I just need to dance in my own way and then I’ll dance some more I can dance without moving my feet at all on and on and on and on it is my dance my life my call
Here’s to Wealth!
Cheers my dear to the love that you bring into my life and though I never want to be your wife I want to share with you all the good things that life brings
I love it when you sing as I know it comes from within your soul and as we learn together to love each other something magical unfolds
The trees without leaves that you hung around my neck and from my ears help to take away all my fears of things undone of words unsaid the sadness of never nurturing a child upon my breast
Where once was hope and then despair becomes a sense of stillness in the air and from that place of breathing and of wings comes freedom to wonder and wander into the rich realms of being together feeding the birds with the wealth of our love
Instant Coffee
Heading for instant gratification no time to waste or spare I take my mug into the kitchen only to find a queue of people there
Halted, suddenly, empty cup in hand my thoughts spill over into the needs of others heads bowed or lifted as we together stand
I only needed coffee and soon the queue was gone my waiting time was over but for someone else it had only just begun
***
I’m also proud of the back cover copy that I wrote for the book:
A relationship break-up can be a difficult experience at any age. It isn’t always easy to see the opportunity beyond the heartache, and even less easy to find ways of putting the experience into words.
The triumphs of Maria Stephenson’s emergence into a new life as a writer and teacher are embodied in her collection of ‘Poetry for the Newly Single Forty Something’ (2017). Maria didn’t just stop at publishing her own collection though. She inspired others to explore their creative approaches to the theme, leading to this exciting anthology, which is more than the sum of its poems.
The words of each poet paint a picture of part of their own unique life story. Demonstrating diverse responses to life and writing challenges, threads of commonality emerge and unite.
What are you waiting for? Dive in, explore, share in the joy of words and wonders of life that these writers have explored and shared. These poems aren’t just about being newly single, or about being forty something, they are about being – essentially – human.
The reason for my pride is partly because I think it stands well as a piece of writing in its own right (and even being able to credit myself with that is a remarkable* achievement in its own right), and partly because of what it represents for me in terms of having come through what I’ve come through, still fighting, still writing, still reaching out.
* https://iamremarkable.withgoogle.com/ (#IamRemarkable is a Google initiative empowering women and underrepresented groups to celebrate their achievements in the workplace and beyond.)
It’s not my real name, but ‘Glad’ is better than sad, and I’ve worked hard in my life to be Glad, not sad.
I’ve recently started decorating my house – our house. This may not seem like an amazing revelation or achievement, but it is for me. I’m 64 years old and have had a long struggle to be able to enjoy doing the everyday things that I can focus on now.
It’s taken about fifty years of unlearning and then re-learning how to be me. Poetry hasn’t been the only vehicle I’ve used for recovery and discovery, but it has been a regular companion along the way.
As a teenager – like many teenagers since and still – I developed a very negative self-image of myself, inside and out.
Out
Out, out into the world That’s where I wanted to go What I wanted to do When I was young But when I looked in the mirror All I could see Was an ugly, unattractive body Looking back at me
I went on a diet from the age of about 15 that lasted for the next 30 years or so, and affected every aspect of my life (or more accurately non-life that it had become). I didn’t think I had anything to offer as a person, didn’t know how to form relationships, and put all my energy into losing weight. At least if I was thin, that would be something. Except it led to nothing, because it wasn’t solid ground on which to build a life. It was the best I could do at the time, but I did eventually realise, after I’d had a major breakdown in my late thirties, and was trying to get myself going again in my forties, that I needed to eat, to give me energy, to be able to live. I had to finally, eventually, push through that awful sense of self-loathing that I associated with putting on weight in order to emerge as a (literally as well as generally) well-rounded person with an appetite for life.
I still have to work at it, still take anti-depressants, can’t use shop changing rooms or look at myself naked in a mirror, but on the whole this does not affect my ability to enjoy my life – with my partner – and try to make the most of every day.
I can still very easily cut myself off, go into ‘zombie’ mode, more readily associate with entropy than energy, so decorating my house – however long it takes – and writing this blog – wherever it takes me – are positive signs of engagement; action rather than inaction.
I hope my poems and other musings may resonate with anyone who has struggled to find their own identity and path through life. I know now that there are endless possibilities and I hope that the following poem (in six parts) helps to show how important it is for each of us to find our fighting spirit:
Jacket 1 It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on But far too big for me Drowned in a red sea Shapeless, I feel A baggy, saggy, faceless entity
I look at the jacket On the chair In limp, loose folds of red, and seams This isn’t the jacket of my dreams
It’s theirs to wear Not mine to keep Their tears to cry Not mine to weep
It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep So I’ve put a price on its head To let it go free To someone who wants it But when will that be?
Jacket 2 It’s there, on the chair The red fleece jacket With hood and drawstring waist That I don’t want to wear Don’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on But far too big for me Drowned in a red sea Shapeless, I feel A baggy, saggy, faceless entity
I look at the jacket On the chair In limp, loose folds of red, and seams This isn’t the jacket of my dreams
It’s not my layer These aren’t my lies With drawstring waist And nylon ties
It’s not my jacket They’re not my dreams These aren’t my ties They’re not my seams
So I leave the jacket On the chair To go my way While they go theirs
Jacket 3 Now it hangs upon the door That red fleece jacket That I didn’t want to wear Didn’t want to keep
It’s warm and soft when I put it on And not too big for me Warmed in a red sea Shapeless no more No baggy, saggy faceless entity
I look at the jacket On the door In limp, loose folds of red, and seams It’s not the jacket of my dreams But just a layer to keep me warm From frozen looks And glares of scorn
It is my jacket With hood and waist To wear a while From place to place
Jacket 4 What next?
Jacket 5 Jacket in?
Jacket 6 No!
Gladabout.life blog posts from March 2020 to September 2024 are now available as an e-book on Amazon for Kindle:
Rules, Rhymes, Recovery, Recipe, Random: Glad About Life
Fox, Alert
Once, upon a green and white day, I walked
with shades of blue and grey above
and occasional muted pools of golden light
along the way
Cold and still, it was as
wrapped in thoughts and clothes
I lumbered on
taking weary steps in heavy boots
glad to be out but ill at ease
and with no easy motion
Then, suddenly, up ahead
a quick quiet movement of life
and limbs
and fur of warm brown red
A dog, I thought, at first - but no -
a fox!
I stopped and stared
and thrilled at each tight turn
Alert though not aware of me
she moved, close enough to see
the splash of white
upon her breast
no cunning vixen, she
with body, mind and spirit
in perfect poise
and purposeful grace
beside the still
and silent
trees
Doing what she needed to do
being what she needed to be
But then I moved
and she was gone
So I carried on
through the green and white day
with shades of blue and grey
moving easier now
but missing her and wishing
that our eyes had met
that I hadn't seemed a threat
For in her hungry hunt for food
she had nourished me
and warmed my heart
while her cold search
went on
Alone, both
and alive
She free, and I
a few steps closer now
to being
me
(c) Maggie Baker 1998 & Glad the Poet 2020
Glad About 
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