Home thoughts from home

Writing from the Body  INVISIBLE WOMEN She loved swimming up and down the pool, the ritual of the programme, 6 lengths of breaststroke, 6 of crawl, the rhythm of it was comforting and satisfying. She felt virtuous, the throbbing of her heart and lungs after a length in one breath satisfyingly complete. It was a solo activity, really, but occasionally a friend joined her for it, but both did the same tasks, firing each other up to greater speeds. She began to understand the concept of the pace-maker. They worked well together, each with strengths in different strokes. It was lunchtime so often the pool was virtually empty. Maybe a couple of business man chatting in the Jacuzzi, or a guy who’d told her friend he was learning to swim via the internet, and ploughed up and down the lanes with an odd stroke.  Not a social time; people who were in this pool were here to swim. This day, the pool was empty when they arrived and they experienced the  gorgeous feeling of br

Sonnet On Sudden Death A hand turned upwards holds Only a single, transparent question The ‘why’ that fortune has not told The shock of her untimely action Anticipation of a routine day Shot through with lamentation The future no longer ‘come what may’ Tainted with terrible expectation The other question arises where ’Why not me’, I hear again My parents’ voice, Life isn’t Fair, Suffering for all, their share of pain From this day take each moment as the last Cherish the friendship, reach out and hold fast.

Fingertips They arrive on the bay with due status, as if a fanfare has blown. It’s the ward round. The Consultant, his Registrars, and in the rear,  the student doctors, one anxiously carrying a sheaf of papers whilst attempting to make notes of the words the Great God Consultant will  pronounce. All the faces gather around her bed – they don’t make any eye contact with her, look only at the torso as the nurses pull back the dressings. He pulls his disposable gloves on, and then uses his fingertips to poke around in her revealed insides, where the skin has gone, and open interior gapes. ‘See’ he says, pointing, ‘this thickening here means the wound is beginning to close from below, from the inside out. We have to hope that no infections is sealed in underneath.’ ‘Hope’, she thinks. ‘We have to hope .’ Is that the best she can be offered? ‘Trust me’, his body language insists, ‘I am the God Consultant and I know what I’m doing’. And underneath she detects a small hint o

This is the first homework for a new course I'm doing at the Writing School: SATURN RETURNS “Whatever your age, your body is many years younger. In fact, even if you're middle aged, most of you may be just 10 years old or less.” So proclaimed a New York Times article in 2005. I’m sure we’ve all heard of this idea, which arises from the fact that most of the body's tissues are under constant renewal. That turns out to be not completely true as a few of the body's cell types endure from birth to death without renewal, and this special minority includes some or all of the cells of the cerebral cortex. But the average age of cells in the main body of the gut is 15.9 years, the cells lining the stomach last only five days and red blood cells, bruised and battered after traveling nearly 1,000 miles through the maze of the body's circulatory system, last only 120 days. An adult human liver probably has a turnover time of 300 to 500 days, and the ent

Article/blog from everyday-mindfulness.org, website I am involved with: How Mindfulness Changed My Life ‘Waking up is ultimately something that each one of us can only do for ourselves’ (Jon Kabat-Zinn) I think there is a problem with my enthusiasm for mindfulness and wanting others to benefit from it too. I struggle with keeping quiet, so I am pleased to have this opportunity to write about my own journey to this website. But Kabat-Zinn always says that it is important to not talk about your practice too much with other people; it’s  your  practice. ‘Don’t bother wasting your energy by telling everyone how amazing meditation is and how much it has helped you in your everyday life. Never proselytise and tell others that they should meditate, too.’ It’s great advice but hard to put into practice when something has changed your life so profoundly! I was always anxious, a worrier, with a quick mind that raced from worry to worry, always one step ahead of myself, planning w

So this is what editing does:    Who would have thought…. Sitting in a Buddhist centre Rows of high-backed chairs Pews in a church Cushions on the floor kneelers in the Cathedral the quiet of silent prayer. Swimming the pool Not planning not  thinking Not worrying, not remembering Being in the moment Feeling the cold air on my  lifted arms The warm water on my submerged legs. Walking the local streets Not miles away in my head, But watching this step, and this. I am arrived, I am home, In the here, in the now. Who would have thought The chatter-box, the show-off, Shaking with panic, frozen with fear, Would sit and walk in silence.

Homework, inspired by   Who would have thought by Maggie Butt Who would have thought…. Sitting in a Buddhist centre Rows of high-backed chairs As pews in a church Cushions on the floor kneelers in the Cathedral the quiet of the silent prayer. Swimming the pool Not planning and thinking Not worrying, not remembering Being in the moment Feeling the cold air on my  lifted arms The warm water on my thrashing legs. Walking the local streets Not miles away in my head, But watching this step, and this. I am arrived, I am home, In the here, in the now. Who would have thought The chatter-box, the show-off, Shaking with panic, frozen with fear, Would sit and walk in silence.

Poem produced in class from stimuli: The scars of sorrow bear an extreme heat The scars of sorrow bear an extreme heat Tougher than normal skin I’m proud of mine; they make me who I am, And ashamed and keep them hidden. Tell them my story? Who would want to hear it? Has no wider meaning, unusual, too personal. Nobody wants to think such things can happen, And since it mostly won’t, remains my private grief. Pump up my tires and get back on the bike of normality. High on the pleasures of a day without pain. The joy of turning off my own bedroom light, Sitting in silence on the park bench, enjoying every moment.

Week 3 of Poetry Toolkit  Attention paid to women The looks that women get enclose their life So wary of appearing fast or loose We’re bound by roles as worker or as wife That reins us in and limits chance to choose The woman reads the news in clothes that show She is a serious person, not a girl When Strictly calls her, she can let it go Wear little cardis, even do a twirl But still she is a holder of our dreams Directing what we can and cannot be She must be more a person than she seems The sides of her that we can never see I do not want my girls to end this way Not true to self in each and every day.

More poems from week 2 of Poetry Toolkit, based on observations in the week Invisible Woman The pool Adults only, lunchtime, Empty, quiet, no thumping soundtrack. Muffled bangs from the gym. Ploughing up and down an imaginary lane, No ropes. Suddenly a guy saunters round, slips in,  No stairs for him, Swims the crawl straight towards  me. Unbelievable. I have to veer to avoid him. I’m invisible, seems he never even saw me. Old woman. Been swimming here for a decade or more. No woman has ever done this to me. An awful noise In the restaurant I say “We want a quiet table So we can actually talk to each other”. We get a quizzical look – two woman who want to talk, To each other? The noise is awful, Too many people talking too loudly Because they can’t hear each other, Because the noise is awful. Tesco Just popped in to the big one for some crisp breads The atmosphere is horrid. It’s the middle of the morning o

Doing a great course at Leicester Writing school called Poetry Toolkit run by Alison Dunne. Homework was to write a poem modelled on the poem What I really believe by Selima Hill from the Bloodaxe book "A little book of meat".  This is my version: What I really believe I believe that aubergine tastes better than steak; I believe that no-one is born evil, they become so through lack of nurture; I believe that marriage is for life, not just for Christmas, though Christmas is particularly hard; that you shouldn’t judge people, especially if you’ve not walked a mile in their shoes; that you should over prepare, and then go with the flow; that children really are the future, and nurturing them is the most important job in the world; that if Shakespeare was alive today, he would be script writing for Eastenders. that the only time we have is now, And we should be happy each day with how we’ve spent it; that there is

So finally got a short piece published anonymously in the Guardian, really pleased and proud. The only caveat was the sub-heading on the online version about   'I've no intention of ever going back to paid work. I'm 59 and I nearly died from a perforated bowel. Work isn't everything'  which isn't quite what I meant. Work is fine if you love it, the important thing is asking yourself the question about how you spend your time. http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/feb/23/what-really-thinking-survivor-serious-illness If you knew you were going to die at eight tonight, would you want to have spent today doing what you're doing? That's what I'm asking myself every day. All through my recovery people said, "Bet you can't wait until you can get back to work." No, I've no intention of ever going back to paid work. I'm 59 and I nearly died from a perforated bowel. Work isn't everything. Family, friends, films, art,