It was a bit frosty and misty this morning when I took Lydia out.
We were earliesh because I was taking her into kennels and then going straight to a poetry group meeting.
After the meeting a few of us went for a festive drink, and I have another sociable event lined up for this evening, going to visit friends.
Lydia will enjoy her weekend break with friends and I’ll enjoy mine.
I’ve also been to a Christmas Tree Festival in our local church, and bought what I think will now be the last of my Christmas presents for this year while I was there.
The house isn’t the same without Lydia but I’ll be picking her up on Monday morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – and that’s just me!
The theme for the poetry group meeting today was ‘food’. We feasted on each other’s interpretations, and as always it was a very friendly and welcoming experience.
Coming home, I did a few practical things around the house, including making a meatloaf for dinner.
Lydia and I have had a quiet day together. She did do quite a bit of barking outside but has just had her tea and is now licking her paws and front legs. She is so good at self care. The vet commented on how clean her ears were at her last health check and I was proud to say that she did it all by herself. Such a clever girl. That’s my Lydia.
1978 was not a good year, for me even though I hold it dear
Try as I might I could not find the key to unlock my brain work out its mystery
Lurching this way and that never finding a hold I fell so many times but got ever more bold
Crashing right down I broke back to the core then inched my way through to daylight once more
The clay in my hand is the life that I’ve led I’ve cried, ached and screamed and wished I was dead
But I never gave up and I never gave in I just kept on going and drank lots of gin
Joking aside – though I do like a drop – I feel like I’ve won I’ve come out on top
For I have love in my life a treasure most true I’m here and I’m now simply human, through and through
2021
1978 was the year I graduated with a degree in Ceramics from Bristol Polytechnic.
I’d reached out to art in my teens as a way of asserting a direction, without knowing where that direction might take me. It was driven by some deep-rooted instinct; an instinct which for a long time I thought had failed me. But it hadn’t.
As it’s turned out, my life has taken many “twists and turns, and loops and leaps”, most of which have left me struggling to find a foothold. Finally, however, I feel I am on firm ground, and astonished to find myself turning back to working with clay, after a break of over 40 years.
What’s even more astonishing is that I’m not only loving working with the medium, I’ve got ideas coming into my head from goodness knows where. I’m not having to push myself just to produce something, anything, as I did when I was at college (although I was proud of what I did produce in the end; it was no easy feat, considering the complexity of mental health problems I was dealing with).
Art didn’t work as a therapy for me when I was younger; the damage went too deep and I had to find ways to dig it out – just like clay has to be dug out. What I’ve got now is malleable and mouldable in whatever way I choose. I can be creative in any way or ways that suit me; working with clay or words; working with my life.
I hope my pots can be poetic; and that my poetry will continue to be potty.
When I was young I didn’t really follow any one I wasn’t into screaming at the Beatles Or collecting singles or going to concerts I’ve always been a bit behind with a lot of things I can never remember names Or who played what or where or when But then that maybe only matters In pub quizzes or if you want to feel flattered By other people praising you for what you know It would be nice though, sometimes, to be the one Who remembers what they heard when they were young And relate it to a first kiss, or a walk in the park But then I never could get up with the lark Always had a bit of a struggle, doing the usual things Although I did listen quite a lot to Cat Stevens Wishing I could be Sad Lisa but ending up just being sad Still, it hasn’t all been bad At least I haven’t got cluttered up With a load of CDs that I don’t know what to do with And now that I’m 61 I can listen to anyone Or anything I choose And my music collection Is out there waiting for me Just as it was All those years ago When I was young
After yesterday’s full-on day at the races, I was up at 7.45 this morning to take Lydia for a walk and then go on to a poetry group meeting.
This may not seem anything to write about, except that for me it is. Just a few months ago I wouldn’t have been able to cope with the day at the races, with all it entailed, and it was a struggle to make myself go to a poetry group meeting once a month.
I know full well that I wasn’t the ‘life and soul of the party’ yesterday, but I held up pretty well, and today I was able to take an active part in the meeting, albeit in a low-key way.
There were ten of us there and, those of us who chose to, read out poems that we had written.
One of the poems presented by the organiser, another Maggie, was about poetry with the heading of ‘Trifle’. It was a very clever and interesting poem, drawing on her own experiences.
I read out three of my poems:
Ambitions
Gleeful Wild Outrageous Contagious
Cheerful Fearful Respectful Disrespectful Full
Mad Sad Glad
Cook Read a Book Make Tea
Dance Romance Work Shirk
Naughty Nosy Silly Me.
I first wrote that poem in 2000 and revised it in 2020. The ambitions still apply, and I’m still working on achieving them.
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’t remember when I wrote that poem but it still applies, now.
The Beat Goes On
Pump, puff Pump, puff The beat goes on The beat goes on
Pump, puff Pump, puff The lights are dim The lights are dim
Pump, puff Pump, puff The night is young The night is young
Pump, puff Pump, puff My body moves My body moves
Pump, puff Pump, puff My arm aches My arm aches
Pump, puff Pump, puff The air bed’s inflated I’ve had enough.
That’s another one that was written over a quarter of a century ago, based on an experience of being marooned on a remote Scottish island, waiting for the weather to settle so that the ferry could come and pick us up. It was a wild night, and we had a bit of fun while we were waiting.
The theme for the meeting this morning was ‘something funny’ so I think I contributed some pieces that were at least mildly amusing.
We’re a mixed group and one person read out her first ever poem at the meeting today.
It’s good to be part of this group. And the beat goes on.
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.
I’ve noticed how her confidence has increased, particularly over this last summer when she makes decisions about what she wants to do and when she wants to do it. The back door is open most of the time, and she comes and goes as she pleases, within the confines of our garden.
While I continue to train her and manage her behaviour around reactivity, reinforcing basic commands such as “sit”, “wait”, “down”, “stay” and “heel”, I like the fact that she works things out for herself, and we sometimes have a compromise. For example, if she’s outside barking at birds or other dogs or motorbikes going by, and I use the “here” command to bring her in, she will often come towards me but then settle down quietly, still outside but near the door. I think this is really clever. She gets what she wants – to stay outside – and I get what I want – for her to be quiet and not disturb the neighbours. I like the fact that we can come to an understanding about this arrangement between us, me using my language and she using hers.
Some people may say that I shouldn’t let her get her own way like this, that I need to be ‘top dog’ but I’ve read that the ‘alpha’ principle that used to be thought to apply to dogs, doesn’t, and I’m happy to go with the latest research.
Lydia belongs here. After the life that she’s had – much of which we know nothing about until she came into our lives through adoption – it’s good to know that she has a strong sense of home now. Her home; our home.
At the poetry open mic meeting that I performed in last week, another reader read out an extract from ‘The House of Belonging’ by David Whyte. I hadn’t heard of it before, but it resonated with me at a level that leads me to want to reproduce it here:
This is the bright home in which I live, this is where I ask my friends to come, this is where I want to love all the things it has taken me so long to learn to love.
This is the temple of my adult aloneness and I belong to that aloneness as I belong to my life.
Glad About 
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