Hello, Gorgeous!

Today I am going to write the words "Hello, Gorgeous!" on my mirror and let it be the first and last thing I say to myself every day.

Fuck self-hatred. 
It is the prison gates of my own making, stopping all progress on the superhighway to where I want to be.
These days I can even see the vision of my destination through its bastard blockade. 
It is the only thing barring my way forward and I am the only thing holding it in place.

Today I am grasping the iron with both hands and I will cast it down,
to present myself to life with a visceral, heart strong - "Ta -dah!"

Then I will step over the gate and keep on walking.



What is the first thing you are going to say to yourself today?
When I see you I will say "Hello, Gorgeous!"


Thank you for the inspiration and generosity I have so gratefully received this week:

Christine Storm: Chrysalis Business Consulting
Perfect PItch : Natasha Cica and Rosalie Martin

and Elizabeth Gilbert

Why I write

Why I Write

I write to amuse myself, to see what comes out or, as someone famous once said, 'to find out what I am really thinking'. To be quite honest, I think my thoughts are better on paper. Words stumble and fumble out of me and I lower my eyes and send out unspoken apologies when I try and speak. Writing is clearer, more strident, more ... what I really think.

I write because if I don't write I become dark and mean and bitter and twisted and frustrated and I froth at the mouth and spit fire.

I write because it puts what's inside of me on the outside of me.
Its sweet relief and gentle progress. Word therapy.

I write because I am shite at drawing and painting.
Because words are the way I paint pictures.
Words are the bomb.
Words are bombs.

Writing leaves a mark. Good writing leaves an indelible mark.
To write a picture that another person can look at and say 'Hey, hang on ... that's me!'  - now thats something.

How does my writing differ from others in my genre?

I am not sure what genre I fall into? As a blog writer I think my writing is different as it aims only to share a moment with the reader. More forthright blogs that teach or tell or have themes can be so fantastic, but my blog writing does not seek to teach or instruct in any way. I am just sharing thoughts and ideas as they come in a stream of consciousness. My only agenda is the desire to connect.


Why do I write what I do?
Last year I lost my father and I couldn't stop myself from writing about that. Its not easy to read other people's difficult emotions, I know that. But after one of my posts a woman wrote this to me "I lost my husband suddenly, inexplicably, almost six months ago. Your beautiful words here sum up exactly how I feel. Thank you." 

A few short months earlier my beloved aunt died and I couldn't stop myself writing about that. My cousins read my blog post as my aunt's eulogy. 

I wrote two posts years ago - one about restlessness and the other about presence and they struck a chord with other women. 

Thats why I write what I do. In the hope that what I express touches and connects me to someone else. That the story I am writing is not just my story and that what I write could mean something to someone I have never even met. 


What am I working on?
Today I started work on a novel - a story for young girls. In ten months time I will have a first draft in my hands. 

I write for my luthier at www.philipsmithluthier.com

I have joined a Writing group and now I call myself a 'writer', just in case its true.

And  I have invited a friend to work with me to turn this piece  into something. She has agreed to help me create a book from it, agreed to turn the words into actual pictures and I will watch her in awe.

How does your writing process work?

A recent course called "Unlocking Creativity"  taught me the discipline of short, timed bursts of writing to themes. No time to edit or proof as you go. Silence that inner critic and "Just get it out, baby, get it all out!". This process taught me a LOT.


Did you ever watch the Elizabeth Gilbert TED talk where she describes the Greek concept of the muse and the Roman concept of 'genius' as a being or force separate from yourself? A force that inspires and generates the work of writers and artists? Where the inspiration works through you and is not of you? I get that. 

When I write blog posts I lie sequestered in my bed - (my favourite place in all the world) with my scruffy dog curled up like a hairy doughnut nearby.  I look out of the window, through the magnolia tree with its fairy flowers or its barren stalks and  up to that sweet little nest at its top.  I take in a great big breathe then I write ... whatever. I have been known to type a whole post on that ridiculously small keyboard on my phone. Being alone and writing relatively uninterrupted, in our tiny Smith house bursting with five people and a dog, is the most lavish luxury I have. I dream of a study, one's very own room, just like Virginia, but until then ...

This post has been written as part of a 'blog hop'. Bloggers all over the interwebs have written posts about why they write.  Thanks to Deb at Sew Craft Goodness for inviting me to participate. Part of the hop is to invite two more bloggers to participate, but I think all the bloggers I know have already been a part of it.But,if you would like to post on why you write, please leave a message in the comments and I will link you here with a photo and a bio! 

And Still I Rise - Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.


Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.


Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.


Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.


Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.


You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.


Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?


Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise. 

Maya Angelou

In the Night

In the dead of night she comes
creeping, creeping
padding on the ice cold boards.

When all is pitch and shadows she comes,
dodging phantoms and breathing smoke
creeping to us in the night.

She comes to a stop at the end of the bed,
burrowing deep under covers,
wriggling and writhing, emitting frost, like Jack,
garnered on her journey through the pitch.

In the darkness of every night she comes
creeping and writhing,
colding us from our dreams.

Shrinking to the bed sides, we awake annoyed.
We turn, ready to roar and rage our irks,
 to a sweet, blameless face and humid, breathy snufflings

In the dead of night,
fast asleep and glowing,
she rests in the warmth between us.

Winter Son

Today the winter sun shone clear and bright in an endless aqua sky.
Today my second son learnt to ride a bike in that crisp winter light.
Today he shone, my son, riding strong and proud
basking in the rosy glow of self-propulsion.
The suns, today, were brilliant.

Breather

Relentless mornings, negotiations, push,
'Put your jumper on'
push again, white knuckles, tensions, shouting,
'No!'
push again
'Don't speak to your brother like that.'
Schedules, lunches, homework,
'Are you picking them up?'
cling, whine, cough
'Watch me, Mum'
'No, watch me.
'Just get in the car.'
'What's for dinner?'
'Have you done your homework?'

InhaleExhaleInhaleExhale

But this model runs too fast. You can't see that I miss you. Love you. Miss you hard. But there's nothing left in the tank to give. The engine has run on the edge of empty and just made it for the dinner-bath-bed-books-'Goodnight. I said GOODNIGHT' run to couch fall. Juice for nothing but apps, impatience and surly boredom.

Breathe.

Holiday.

Pause.

Breathe.

Sweet Time.

Us.

Yes.

Saturday Morning

Waking from tense, work-addled dreams to steaming tea and porridge apparated to my bedside. Alone for one precious moment.

Yellowing magnolia leaves are shadows through droplets on the glass. The air and the floor are chill.

I lie and listen.

Out there, a blanket-wrapped child bashes at a poem about Captain Cook, while ugly cartoons blare beside him. He wrangles and mumbles until the pen and pad are chucked with a curse.

Another, retreated behind the closed door of his sanctum, to the rustle of tiny blocks and the weird recesses of his imagination.

She sniffs. Heaving on boots with tongue out, all the while arguing the case for 'No jacket', then swapping the red tartan skirt for the denim with pleats.

I lie and listen.

Swaddled, I stare at the leaf shadows, negotiating with a resistant Spirit to leave the drudge-mire of the week behind, to reject its hearts' desire for hermitage and to eke life from the precious weekend. Pleading with Humour and Grace to likewise emerge from Spirit's maudlin malaise.

Fantasizing that those looming clouds, heavy with the weight of the coming week and the infinite weeks to follow, will disperse, blown to another space and time.

Children crash into the fragile space, demanding hugs and answers. Spirit recoils instinctively but Will battles for open arms. Thought lost in the fog, Heart stirs and with it heavy slow motion.

Shower. Heat and steam. Dress. An actual dress. Heave on boots and focus on one step, then another. Children attached, I head out. Leaving the shadows for autumn sun, for hot market coffee and the chance of longed for company.

Ennui

Ennui

It's such a
Bore
Being always
Poor.


Langston Hughes

Summer

Languid pyjama mornings with feet up,
Dallying and dreaming over the Vogue Living
and everlasting cups of tea,

Days of sunshine and steamy heat,
slapped out of the malaise
by thunderstorm and deluge,
over in a flash,

Major Mitchell's parrots
cloud the greengage tree in pink and grey,
squawking and crying and tossing the pits,

Children industrious, exploring toy boxes,
unearthing forgotten fluffy friends and games,
playing and bickering,

The luthier leaves for the workshop just a little later in the morning
and maybe an 'early minute' each afternoon.

Cousins, aunts, uncles coming and going,
shouting and joking, instigating adventures.

Art sparks and easels at the gallery
reminded Grandpa that despite shaky hands,
drawing is possible

Water fights, swimming pools, parties at the beach to look forward to,

Evening marked with Magner's pear cider on ice.

Today, a cool breeze, blue sky, cotton ball clouds and no plans.

Sweetness

The sun is out on the island and days are officially longer.
Energy is higher and anticipation of sunny times abound.

Yoga in the mornings, salad on the menus.
Life after school.

Work in the garden.
Black-eyed Susans, lavender ruffles and fairy magnolias.

Clean sheets, bags to the Salvos.
Flowers in the vase.

Chaos under some control.

Totem tennis, footy at the park.
Picnics, and bike rides.

Garden parties. Pimms.
Dresses and laughs.

Difficult Dirt

Once there was a friendship.
Exotic and dark, it sprouted in difficult dirt. Tended with anticipation,
its potential was thrilling. It flourished, intertwining us two.

Ensnaring us in its tendrils, it encircled us through life and death,
the occasional blooms spectacular.

But time rot perished it,
Apathy pruned abusively and those rare blossoms failed.

Obligatory revivals were attempted, forced and bitter,
Like CPR on a dead man.
Leaving us at a distance to stare at its remains.

Left to a dusty corner pot it hangs, dry and brittle,

Like a macrame-clad maiden hair. Present, but a memory.

Once I had a friendship.
It sprouted in difficult dirt

But it flourished and intertwined us two.

Grace and Me

Grace and Me

We head out into the world, Grace and me.

Treading surely on the Earth, our fingers tightly entwined,

we hit the road together.

We tear down the path,

shedding our layers as we run sunward,

beaming and grinning, light and free.

Raucous cubs, we race through fields,

wrestling and roaring, in the grasses

till our innards ache and that rascal laughter thieves our breath.

Wandering in our forest hides, we share our secrets, Grace and me.

With O’s for eyes, we cautiously unwrap and reveal our dreams.

Eye-to-eye the solemn oath is made to cherish and keep them always.

We tackle the rocks and toil the hard roads together, always together.

And when the bear clouds menace, growling and rumbling,

we stand strong.

On gloomy paths, a cheerless mist snakes itself around us.

Grace opens wide her arms and enfolds me like a blanket,

Her down-soft cheek barely rests on mine,

Grace is with me, with me, until that chill creeps on.

Now we are lost.

We stop. Silent. Still. We breathe together.

Leaning in close with a murmur for my ear,

Grace tells the way.

Up we go, hand in hand, to reach the sunny summit,

Our legs swinging as we overlook the Earth,

‘Ooh-ing’ and ‘aah-ing’ at the fireworks and fireflies,

revelling in the show.

And when day sets and night ascends,

when we are weary and warm-wanting

we hit the road together. Grace and Me,

our fingers tightly entwined, we lead each other home.

Georgia Sutton Copyright 2011

Morning Song 

by Sylvia Plath

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry

Took its place among the elements.

 Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.  New statue.

In a drafty museum, your nakedness

Shadows our safety.  We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother

Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow

Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath 

Flickers among the flat pink roses.  I wake to listen:

A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral

In my Victorian nightgown.

Your mouth opens clean as a cat's.  The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars.  And now you try

Your handful of notes;

The clear vowels rise like balloons.

I love this poem. Especially the onomatopaeic first line. 

The description of that first night with your first babe. 

And the third stanza describes something about motherhood that I 

sometimes sense ,but have never been able to put into my own words. 

Aah, Sylvia, love set us all going like a fat gold watch, even you. 

How sad that you stopped your own watch. 

This poem, Sylvia and the ticking love remind me to get out of my own

 head and back into life, into my kids and others I love. It reminds me 

that worries don't lead me to the good stuff. Not like my daughter's 

ability to burp on request, Sacha's inflammatory declarations that our 

Prime Minister is sexy ( eyew!) and DJ J's endless crooning of 

popular tunes will. 

Love set them going like fat gold watches. May they tick on and on. 

Tread Softly, Love

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light.

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet;

But I being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats

This is just how I see love. Loving someone is the ultimate act of vulnerability, is it not? To lay your very hopes and dreams under the feet of another in order that they may tread on the softest cloth, to save their feet. This is the love of a child to its mother and of a mother to a child, and every other true love.

Tread softly then children, even though a mother's love-and-dreamcloth can withstand some childish trampling. Tread softly mother, ever softly, as I fear the childrens' dreams cannot.

My Bubble

My Bubble.


I have made a perfect bubble and I like to live inside.
A shiny, perfect bubble, in which I like to hide.

Inside my pristine bubble I place everything just so.
Ted sits on my quilted bed, my toys stand in a row.

From in my crystal bubble it is very clear to see
that my special little bubble is perfect, just for me

No one ever comes inside my bubble just for me.
Although I guess, it could be nice to have a friend for tea.

Inside my precious bubble, a friend could come for fun.
A friend and me could play and laugh and jump and bump and run.

But,

they might make a dreadful mess, I don't think I could take it.
They might jumble bubble up, or even worse, might break it.

So in my bubble, all alone, I will stay inside.
For if my bubble were to burst, then where would I hide?

CopyrightGS2007