children dash from side to side
delighted bursts of laughter
as the fountains spurt
suddenly
somehow responsive
I watch
delighted too
spirit lifted upwards
children dash from side to side
delighted bursts of laughter
as the fountains spurt
suddenly
somehow responsive
I watch
delighted too
spirit lifted upwards
Posted on May 30, 2011 at 08:44 PM in Small Stones, Writing Our Way Home | Permalink | Comments (0)
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A tiny blue, yellow and black ball of feathers hops from branch to branch of the rowan tree, before my window
A small miracle, right in front of my eyes - like a special message to tell me that, yes, the time is right for me to start writing. Now I'm snug in bed again, under the duvet with my new notebook and pen, listening to the Cumbrian rain on my roof. Cup of coffee to my elbow to warm my hands on this chilly morning as I start the first of the morning pages. Bodhipaksa said, 'ten minutes, no stopping - write first, evaluate afterwards - if you don't get them in that order you won't write'.
Enclosed by wood - you'd think that wood walls and ceiling would be dark, but it isn't so. The wood has glowing light and life to it. I love this lodge and was totally resistant when the park owners suggested we 'upgrade' to a new one which would look more like a city centre loft flat - all formica and stainless steel!. This is much more simpatico, much more my style.
And it reminds me of living on the 'Mulroy', beautiful Victorian yacht that I was on for seven years. Reminds me of sitting of an evening in the lamplight, with the hanging plants in the overhead hatch slowly swaying as we moved gently when the tide was in. It always felt like some spacecraft, not by looks but by the feeling of being separate from the rst of humanity. A solitariness that I found comforting. Reclining on the velvet cushions, reading or listening to music. A feeling of great contentment - some of the happiest days of my life.
Posted on May 28, 2011 at 10:52 AM in Morning Pages, Small Stones, Writing Our Way Home | Permalink | Comments (0)
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I had a Facebook conversation this morning in which I explained why I couldn't write....I found myself being quite ridiculous.
It went like this -
Me: Radical Honesty has arrived, also Mary Oliver's A Poetry Handbook. I'll take them away with me. Taking the latter doesn't mean I'll actually write anything. Keep buying beautiful notebooks in order to tempt myself onto paper, only to decide that they are far too beautiful to sully with the mundane drivel I'm likely to produce!
ET: pleased I'm not the only one with that notebook problem!
LG: Used to have the notebook problem, then one day decided to try it anyway. Haven't stopped writing since! Just give it a go!
IC: This discussion is very timely for me as I sit in FB land instead of writing...I read somewhere that, "It's better to write shittily than not to write at all". Any advice on the best physic for 'constipated' authors?
Me: In order to work *with* my 'Scottish Protestant work ethic' conditioning, I have signed up for Fiona Robyn's http://www.fionarobyn.com/ecoursestapa.html. See, I've *paid" for it...so I'm more likely to do it (laughing at my silly bombu self!)
Me: We should be 'writing buddies' even though our writing is for different reasons and audience, what do you think, IC?
IC: Yes, please! Am off to Istanbul in 24 hours so when I come back, let's sort out buddying!
AM (my dad): Your drivel is never mundane, or hardly ever.
BD: My writers' group is really useful for prompting me to write! There's nothing like an artificial deadline, and the possible shame of turning up with nothing to read, to get the keyboard clattering.
..... I hope to look back at this and smile fondly at myself. Right, about to jump of the high board...
Posted on May 27, 2011 at 08:56 PM in Writing, Writing Our Way Home | Permalink | Comments (0)
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