This morning over a cup of coffee I saw cows, perhaps bullocks, charge down a narrow track into a wide open expanse of a lush green field. A full on stampede ensued across the breadth of the fresh meadow grass until herded into the furthest corner they turned en masse and charged back across the field to where the farmer stood and had let them loose.
The chase was on as groups of cows ran one way then another, it was definitely a special spring equinox day, hooves were flicked and kicked high, a few galloped almost as fast as thoroughbred race horses.
Others gambolled along the hedgerow, and a few turned into pogo cows boing-ing about the place on fully wound up springs.
As the skipping and jumping continued a few locked horns, well lowered heads and playfully butted each other before suddenly splintering off to charge in different directions. It wasn't a contest or a hostile act, more an acknowledgement or introduction- so this is what you do in a big green field after being locked up in a barn all winter.
Once the high jinx had run their course all heads lowered to the ground to munch the fresh greens on offer.
It's gone quiet in the field now, no more a crescendo of hooves on semi packed earth. There was a definite sense of new found freedom in the air this morning as these lovely creatures thundered down the track and I feel very privileged to have witnessed this small event.
Goodwood
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Thursday, 29 January 2015
Unexpectedness…A strange notion
Nothing in life is certain and the older I get, the more I realize that within reason most ‘events’ in life are beyond my control and my life is about unexpectedness.
I have choices.
This morning I chose to sort out my airing cupboard. It’s an easy, simple task that centres me as I’ve always enjoy doing laundry …cool clean sheets do it for me! I’d seen some beautiful bed linen and I thought it might be wise to check whether I did need to buy it or need to splurge or more simply want new linen.
It turns out I’ve plenty of bed linen but on closer inspection it’s getting old and tired and in fact some of it definitely could do with being retired.
Almost all of my time I’m a full time support/carer of a young vibrant woman and most days my expectations are modified by external issues not directly related to me.
Each day now is about ‘unexpectedness.’ I may have an overall plan but that can change in an instance, and this new-revised-situation no longer knocks me off course.
I’ve adjusted to the uncertainty and the surprise of not being where I thought I might be… according to the overall plan. As a full time caregiver I’ve learned that I’ve absolutely no control over my 'caree’s' condition. However, I do adjust how I react to each new day’s events as my days often consist of some happenstance whereas other days might flow as usual.
I no longer have a ‘to-do list’- it got scratched a while back, it’s too frustrating to watch a list grow, with little hope of changing things.
Sleep is always a priority and exercise for me is moderated to avoid flare-ups. With enough sleep I’m human. Without sufficient sleep I’m not worth knowing as I function well below par. I dislike those grouchy-fug-filled-days most. last night for some reason my brain would not shut up talking to me so this morning I'm a more tired and functioning slightly below par.
So I’ve decided that throughout 2015 I’m going to dedicate more passion to everything I do, even to my chores. I’ve one life, one chance and I’m going to live ‘my life’ with passion.
Now I make Choices! This freshly drafted list of choices has a balance of happy events and some tasks. I rationalize which are more important and pick two.
Events have just taken another turn for the unexpected... I find I've more free time than originally planned.
I have choices.
This morning I chose to sort out my airing cupboard. It’s an easy, simple task that centres me as I’ve always enjoy doing laundry …cool clean sheets do it for me! I’d seen some beautiful bed linen and I thought it might be wise to check whether I did need to buy it or need to splurge or more simply want new linen.
It turns out I’ve plenty of bed linen but on closer inspection it’s getting old and tired and in fact some of it definitely could do with being retired.
Almost all of my time I’m a full time support/carer of a young vibrant woman and most days my expectations are modified by external issues not directly related to me.
Each day now is about ‘unexpectedness.’ I may have an overall plan but that can change in an instance, and this new-revised-situation no longer knocks me off course.
I’ve adjusted to the uncertainty and the surprise of not being where I thought I might be… according to the overall plan. As a full time caregiver I’ve learned that I’ve absolutely no control over my 'caree’s' condition. However, I do adjust how I react to each new day’s events as my days often consist of some happenstance whereas other days might flow as usual.
I no longer have a ‘to-do list’- it got scratched a while back, it’s too frustrating to watch a list grow, with little hope of changing things.
Sleep is always a priority and exercise for me is moderated to avoid flare-ups. With enough sleep I’m human. Without sufficient sleep I’m not worth knowing as I function well below par. I dislike those grouchy-fug-filled-days most. last night for some reason my brain would not shut up talking to me so this morning I'm a more tired and functioning slightly below par.
So I’ve decided that throughout 2015 I’m going to dedicate more passion to everything I do, even to my chores. I’ve one life, one chance and I’m going to live ‘my life’ with passion.
Now I make Choices! This freshly drafted list of choices has a balance of happy events and some tasks. I rationalize which are more important and pick two.
Events have just taken another turn for the unexpected... I find I've more free time than originally planned.
Friday, 5 December 2014
Adored…
Distracted by iridescent bubbles as they rise on a soft breeze, you chased these appealing spheres and tried to catch one. Hands came together and missed the bubble and each other. Fingers splayed wide you stared at the empty palms of your hands. Astonished you look to me as if to ask where did it go?
When you were newborn I checked your fingers, delicate tiny tendrils with talons as sharp as an eagles’ claws. I tried to wrap them in soft cotton mittens tying the silk ribbons as tight as I dare round each fragile wrist. That turned out to be one futile exercise as you waved your fists and wriggled those fingers free. Scars, fine spider thin strands decorated your soft velvet skin. Tiny filaments of red lacerations.
Brushing my hair was a game you enjoyed immensely. Standing behind me on the sofa, you would aim the brush. In your hands my wooden hairbrush was your preferred weapon of destruction as its wooden side cracked my skull. My hair teased and scrubbed until it became a cobbed mass of mayhem.
The performance involved in blowing your nose always bought a smile to my face. Rude noises. Huffs and puffs. Tissues smooshed up. to be aimed then lobbed at the bin. Invariably you’d direct this squished missile and not notice you had missed the intended target. Discarded the remnants lay strewn across my kitchen floor for me to tidy later whilst the bogey still hung, dangling from the tip of your nose.
I spent hours on my knees assisting you. ‘Left over right and right over left.’ Spaghetti string laces that were too fiddly for your uncoordinated fingers and you would lose interest after a couple of attempts, to race off with those unsecure laces trailing in your wake. I would watch ever vigilant in case you fell.
The first day at nursery school as we entered the room hand in hand and you spied the sandpit. Undeterred you made a direct approach, picked up a spade and as I knelt beside you, (to reassure myself) you turned, ‘Go shopping,’ and a balled up fist pushed me off balance.
I never saw you wipe away tears of frustration with the back of your hand, you would stand there with a lost look in your eye and let the big fat tear drops splash on the ground. And then one day, when a rude man spooked me, you thrust your hand in mine and shouted: ‘Race you home.’ We ran as fast as your legs would allow, holding each other fast.
Your skin’s fine and brittle like tissue packing paper, nothing like mine and there’s a coolness and an oldness to these small hands that worries me but you seem not to notice or care. As the years passed you grew and the day you tugged your hand free from mine at the pelican crossing, ‘I can cross the road on my own.’ Left me reeling.
When you were newborn I checked your fingers, delicate tiny tendrils with talons as sharp as an eagles’ claws. I tried to wrap them in soft cotton mittens tying the silk ribbons as tight as I dare round each fragile wrist. That turned out to be one futile exercise as you waved your fists and wriggled those fingers free. Scars, fine spider thin strands decorated your soft velvet skin. Tiny filaments of red lacerations.
Brushing my hair was a game you enjoyed immensely. Standing behind me on the sofa, you would aim the brush. In your hands my wooden hairbrush was your preferred weapon of destruction as its wooden side cracked my skull. My hair teased and scrubbed until it became a cobbed mass of mayhem.
The performance involved in blowing your nose always bought a smile to my face. Rude noises. Huffs and puffs. Tissues smooshed up. to be aimed then lobbed at the bin. Invariably you’d direct this squished missile and not notice you had missed the intended target. Discarded the remnants lay strewn across my kitchen floor for me to tidy later whilst the bogey still hung, dangling from the tip of your nose.
I spent hours on my knees assisting you. ‘Left over right and right over left.’ Spaghetti string laces that were too fiddly for your uncoordinated fingers and you would lose interest after a couple of attempts, to race off with those unsecure laces trailing in your wake. I would watch ever vigilant in case you fell.
The first day at nursery school as we entered the room hand in hand and you spied the sandpit. Undeterred you made a direct approach, picked up a spade and as I knelt beside you, (to reassure myself) you turned, ‘Go shopping,’ and a balled up fist pushed me off balance.
I never saw you wipe away tears of frustration with the back of your hand, you would stand there with a lost look in your eye and let the big fat tear drops splash on the ground. And then one day, when a rude man spooked me, you thrust your hand in mine and shouted: ‘Race you home.’ We ran as fast as your legs would allow, holding each other fast.
Your skin’s fine and brittle like tissue packing paper, nothing like mine and there’s a coolness and an oldness to these small hands that worries me but you seem not to notice or care. As the years passed you grew and the day you tugged your hand free from mine at the pelican crossing, ‘I can cross the road on my own.’ Left me reeling.
Thursday, 4 December 2014
My Lindor moment
“Lindorgasmic"
30 minutes she said
building a snowman
for two Lindor balls
her favourites
that’d be worth it
surely if nobody saw
me
eat
them
then I could have two more.
one is never enough
don’t you find?
they soothe my stress
as I hear that hard outer shell crack
to reveal a
soft
smooth
buttery texture
my tongue salivates
waits
irresistible temptation.
Do you dream of chocolate?
can you hear the red wrapper teasing you?
as it crackles with its
twist to open action
do you split the shell?
or slide it whole…
on
to
your tongue
and wait?
For this chocolate porn to melt
the pleasure contained within
is mouth-wateringly good
over-riding all common sense
compelling you
me
to eat another
but stop!
How many points is it worth?
delicious, velvety, smooth, it may be the most seductive pleasure
however,
a mouthful of happiness
is a lifetime on my hips!
it’s not that awesome
at two pro-points per ball
but my weight loss is!
30 minutes she said
building a snowman
for two Lindor balls
her favourites
that’d be worth it
surely if nobody saw
me
eat
them
then I could have two more.
one is never enough
don’t you find?
they soothe my stress
as I hear that hard outer shell crack
to reveal a
soft
smooth
buttery texture
my tongue salivates
waits
irresistible temptation.
Do you dream of chocolate?
can you hear the red wrapper teasing you?
as it crackles with its
twist to open action
do you split the shell?
or slide it whole…
on
to
your tongue
and wait?
For this chocolate porn to melt
the pleasure contained within
is mouth-wateringly good
over-riding all common sense
compelling you
me
to eat another
but stop!
How many points is it worth?
delicious, velvety, smooth, it may be the most seductive pleasure
however,
a mouthful of happiness
is a lifetime on my hips!
it’s not that awesome
at two pro-points per ball
but my weight loss is!
Wednesday, 3 December 2014
Cherished
These hands that touch me… which have the strength to bend copper pipe at a forty five degree angle, yet gentle enough to hold our daughters tiny fingers and guide her faltering steps across the polished beechwood floor.
Un-tanned, broad spans of palms act as shovels to scoop up Lego bricks, discarded by our son. Large bright coloured bricks that earlier in the day you lay on the floor to build, with care into towers. Only to have them smashed by a single swipe of his hand and as you mockingly complain, ‘Oh no!’ Peels of laughter ring out as he squeals with glee, ‘Again, again.’
You dislike public displays of affection they’re not your style. Surrounded by ice cream sundaes and pink roses that same hand trembled as you dipped to one knee to propose. Just for a laugh those nimble fingers snapped the engagement ring box shut, with such a crack I jumped off my seat, before I had time to say yes.
At our engagement party we were fooling about, you picked up the sherry trifle, turned it upside down and span the glass bowl round my head. The room erupted; our guests couldn’t contain their laughter as dribs of jelly and drabs of custard slopped down my arms. Afterwards you teased out tinned pineapple chunks and cubed lumps of pear as you showered the mess from my hair.
When there’s a storm brewing and I resemble a small boat tied to a forgotten mooring, you stroke my arm. Your touch calms me, steadies my nerves. These dependable hands that hold me with adulation and after we’ve made love those same hands that hold our bull mastiff on a tethered lead for her morning walk round the village common.
If I’m nervous you place your hand, in the small of my back, guide me to safety. The same soft fingertips with trimmed nails that before you vacate our crumpled warm bed know how and where to plunder me with a lightness of touch which draws such sweet music. Unable to resist, my body twitches to your love tap, bringing forth moans of joy before I end with a big bang that ensnares me in ecstasy.
At the end of a tough day when my back aches your experienced fingers massage liniment to dislodge tight knots. This deep kneading action and pungent menthol odour, eases my tension. Your hands work their magic, as balm for my soul.
Once the children sleep, cradled in your arms I rest. The full length of our bodies touch, skin against skin, as your tenderness traces a never ending pattern across and down my bare back and after we talk through the days events, as I drift off to sleep you enfold your fingers through mine, wrapping each finger, one between the other you cup my hand in yours, and press our enclosed hand together, against your heart. These unwritten rules of your hands, these coded messages fill me with desire.
Un-tanned, broad spans of palms act as shovels to scoop up Lego bricks, discarded by our son. Large bright coloured bricks that earlier in the day you lay on the floor to build, with care into towers. Only to have them smashed by a single swipe of his hand and as you mockingly complain, ‘Oh no!’ Peels of laughter ring out as he squeals with glee, ‘Again, again.’
You dislike public displays of affection they’re not your style. Surrounded by ice cream sundaes and pink roses that same hand trembled as you dipped to one knee to propose. Just for a laugh those nimble fingers snapped the engagement ring box shut, with such a crack I jumped off my seat, before I had time to say yes.
At our engagement party we were fooling about, you picked up the sherry trifle, turned it upside down and span the glass bowl round my head. The room erupted; our guests couldn’t contain their laughter as dribs of jelly and drabs of custard slopped down my arms. Afterwards you teased out tinned pineapple chunks and cubed lumps of pear as you showered the mess from my hair.
When there’s a storm brewing and I resemble a small boat tied to a forgotten mooring, you stroke my arm. Your touch calms me, steadies my nerves. These dependable hands that hold me with adulation and after we’ve made love those same hands that hold our bull mastiff on a tethered lead for her morning walk round the village common.
If I’m nervous you place your hand, in the small of my back, guide me to safety. The same soft fingertips with trimmed nails that before you vacate our crumpled warm bed know how and where to plunder me with a lightness of touch which draws such sweet music. Unable to resist, my body twitches to your love tap, bringing forth moans of joy before I end with a big bang that ensnares me in ecstasy.
At the end of a tough day when my back aches your experienced fingers massage liniment to dislodge tight knots. This deep kneading action and pungent menthol odour, eases my tension. Your hands work their magic, as balm for my soul.
Once the children sleep, cradled in your arms I rest. The full length of our bodies touch, skin against skin, as your tenderness traces a never ending pattern across and down my bare back and after we talk through the days events, as I drift off to sleep you enfold your fingers through mine, wrapping each finger, one between the other you cup my hand in yours, and press our enclosed hand together, against your heart. These unwritten rules of your hands, these coded messages fill me with desire.
Sharing
In the run up to Christmas I thought I’d share some of my writing.
Pieces I like whether for sentimental reasons or because I surprised myself after an exercise had been suggested at writing group.
‘Cherished’ was written after class. We had been focusing on ‘hands’ and this short story, a flight of fancy and not autobiographical…came to me. *Enjoy.*
Pieces I like whether for sentimental reasons or because I surprised myself after an exercise had been suggested at writing group.
‘Cherished’ was written after class. We had been focusing on ‘hands’ and this short story, a flight of fancy and not autobiographical…came to me. *Enjoy.*
Thursday, 9 October 2014
Change one small thing
Well my writing has been a bit hit and miss over the past three months, and recently I asked myself what would happen if, I could change one small thing.
My hair has been my crowning glory (vain I know, but honest) and often once it’s freshly washed I can’t bear the idea of going swimming, you see swimming is all about the hair.
A little under twelve weeks ago I was diagnosed with Osteoarthritis and this news came out of left field. No one in the family has this condition as far as I know. So its diagnosis came as a surprise.
I had ceased up so much, I went out to buy a walking stick, because I was uncertain where my legs were under my hips. I felt insecure every time I stood and then tried to walk!
As I handled the elegant walking cane with an exquisite carved handle I began to think differently and question if this device was what I really wanted. To be seen leaning on a walking stick, needing support… the stick was replaced and wasn’t purchased.
Instead I came home and put on my swim suit and took myself off to the local pool. My timing was perfect, my hair was ready to be washed so it didn’t matter or need consideration.
Since that day I’ve been going swimming twice a week, usually on Wednesdays and Thursdays to keep my hair-washing time to a minimum, seriously I’m not joking. I’ve been lucky to use a Hydro pool too and have physiotherapy regularly.
The improvement in my whole body has been tremendous. I still need to monitor how long I sit, especially when I sit to write at my computer… or reading and driving too because if I sit too long I can barely stand on rising. It can be quite a scary feeling to be that insecure, when my limbs don’t work as expected.
I’ve also change my attitude towards food which has been reviewed and heavily edited as I’ve investigated anti-inflammatory foods which I’ve readily adopted into every day meals as I’m certain that activity (the right sort) and good food will go along way to reducing the pain from the Osteoarthritis. So far so good.
I’m off to the pool this morning and now considering buying a swimming hat…one like Ester Williams used to wear? Perhaps…but have you seen how expensive they are? I’d really like a swim hat that’s a wig all neatly coiffured.
What would happen if you I could change one small thing?
My hair has been my crowning glory (vain I know, but honest) and often once it’s freshly washed I can’t bear the idea of going swimming, you see swimming is all about the hair.
A little under twelve weeks ago I was diagnosed with Osteoarthritis and this news came out of left field. No one in the family has this condition as far as I know. So its diagnosis came as a surprise.
I had ceased up so much, I went out to buy a walking stick, because I was uncertain where my legs were under my hips. I felt insecure every time I stood and then tried to walk!
As I handled the elegant walking cane with an exquisite carved handle I began to think differently and question if this device was what I really wanted. To be seen leaning on a walking stick, needing support… the stick was replaced and wasn’t purchased.
Instead I came home and put on my swim suit and took myself off to the local pool. My timing was perfect, my hair was ready to be washed so it didn’t matter or need consideration.
Since that day I’ve been going swimming twice a week, usually on Wednesdays and Thursdays to keep my hair-washing time to a minimum, seriously I’m not joking. I’ve been lucky to use a Hydro pool too and have physiotherapy regularly.
The improvement in my whole body has been tremendous. I still need to monitor how long I sit, especially when I sit to write at my computer… or reading and driving too because if I sit too long I can barely stand on rising. It can be quite a scary feeling to be that insecure, when my limbs don’t work as expected.
I’ve also change my attitude towards food which has been reviewed and heavily edited as I’ve investigated anti-inflammatory foods which I’ve readily adopted into every day meals as I’m certain that activity (the right sort) and good food will go along way to reducing the pain from the Osteoarthritis. So far so good.
I’m off to the pool this morning and now considering buying a swimming hat…one like Ester Williams used to wear? Perhaps…but have you seen how expensive they are? I’d really like a swim hat that’s a wig all neatly coiffured.
What would happen if you I could change one small thing?
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