I’m struggling for ideas this week. Sometimes words just flow from the pen and other times one searches for any excuse to get up and move away from the blank page or the keyboard. These are the times I don the headphones, put the favourite music on and tramp through the woods. Spring is at its prime and the hedgerows and the fields are at their most vibrant. The blackbirds are busily feeding their chicks and nature seems at its most busiest. How could one not be inspired?
Sometimes, at times like, these I am prompted by the lines of a favourite song or the words from a favourite guru. There is so much to be grateful for and so many heartfelt words that make my own heart sing. So today, I’d like to share with you some of my own words, they are taken from the inspiration of others, so they are not totally mine, and yet, they are. All things come from little threads we pick up and blend into our own tapestry of life.
Do you spend too much time worrying? Cast your cares aside, even if jut for a moment. Start again tomorrow.
Do you sometimes feel confused and wonder what life is all about for a moment, and then suddenly you catch the notes of a familiar well loved song, or read some old notes you wrote long ago and all of a sudden, things fall into place again? You remember what is important to you. You feel like things are okay.
When dreadful things happen in our world we feel at a loss to know what to do. Maybe we feel rage and question how any higher being could let such atrocities happen. I like to think of the explanation a close friend gives when he says it is not until we move on from this world to the next that we will know real peace and all our questions will be answered. He likens it to the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally fitting together and forming the picture we have waited for all along. All we can do today is pray for all the broken hearts.
This week at Dove Lane has seen me questioning a few things. I’ve been working quite prolifically lately – writing is my passion and I’m more than happy when I have some time to sit at my desk and write for my various projects. I’m lucky to be able to do what I love. But there’s the thing. Sometimes writing takes us to different places than we are used to; different spheres and different continents even. Sometimes it takes us right out of our comfort zone. I like to write from the heart and I shy away from stuff that’s too controversial, or too, as my father would say ‘near the mark’. I try to write about things that have a ‘feel good’ factor, or throw a light on a subject that may reflect someone getting a bad deal in my view. This doesn’t mean I don’t reflect on the bad news that unfolds everyday in front of our eyes in the media. I do. But I think there is enough out there already to fill a thousand other features if you want to read them. I don’t shy away from listening to heart rendering news and sometimes it does colour my writing and maybe even my judgement, but when I write here I try to help you keep a step away from the hustle of everyday life, if even just for the few minutes you may take out of your day to read my blog. (A big thank you for that🙂)
But this week someone mentioned that my writing was a bit too ‘nice’. Maybe a bit like a pleasant conversation. Hmm. That was a bit thought provoking. And in the context of what the person was referring to, they were right. Sometimes I need to toughen up my writing skills and dig deeper. There is a lot more waiting. The pool of new ideas is unfathomably deep. And I know my soul hears echoes from deep and dark places that sometimes have to be explored.
But I was taken right back to my school days when reflecting on my ‘nice’ description. One didn’t dare use the word nice in an essay or the said essay would not have had the chance of being marked with a coveted A+. We were told never to use the word nice; there was always a better word to use. I feel guilty to this day if I use nice as an adjective, even verbally.
However. Look up nice in the dictionary and this is what you read : Nice – pleasant, likeable, agreeable, personable, charming, delightful, amiable, affable, friendly, kindly, genial, good-natured, engaging, gracious, sympathetic, understanding, compassionate, good …I could go on. Quite, er, nice really.
Who could not be happy with those descriptions, certainly if one is viewed in that way it is more than pleasing. There are times when writing I will need to ‘get real’ and assert myself; dig deep when I need to. But there is a lot of nasty stuff out there and sometimes we need to escape a bit. So I will still be happy to write about ‘nice’ stuff, at least here. I will be light, be fluffy and scatter hearts and flowers. I will ‘nice’ the life out of my musings at times. I will still write my blog with compassion and be peaceful.
I will still feature the sayings that help make the world go round.
One I liked today…..
‘Do not forget small kindnesses and do not remember small faults.’
In the future I will not chastise myself when I use the ‘nice’ word – I won’t even mind if I’m deemed to be a bit lightweight and bit cheesy. I really could think of worse things. I might get a bit bolshy though.
This is the time of year my imagination runs wild – I love the way the countryside looks and the circle of trees I pass quite often…..
The Circle of Trees
Mary was looking forward to the day ahead. Through the kitchen window at Honey Banks House she could see grey clouds scudding across the sky, threatening rain, but refused to let this dampen her spirits. She looked out across the garden to the field beyond where the beech trees stood; she could almost hear their leafy umbrellas rustling in the breeze, and felt the pull of the outdoors.
She looked at her watch; there was time to have a quick walk before starting work. Shrugging on her battered old raincoat and her well worn boots she headed out of the back door. She clicked open the gate at the bottom of the garden and walked into the field beyond. It was a cold day for May, but who could fail to be cheered by the sight of the cow parsley filling the whole field almost as far as the eye could see; a frothy ocean of lacy white flowers, interrupted only by the trampled grassy pathway.
She liked to think the beech trees at the far end held a secret; there were seven of them forming a circle, and she liked to imagine fairies sneaking out at night and dancing under the shelter of their handsome branches. She was getting older but she could still believe in such things couldn’t she? They were purple now, but in the autumn, the leaves turned from purple to a showy copper, giving them a majestic air that somehow eased the way gently into winter.
Mary had read somewhere that if you hugged a tree it would benefit your health. She wasn’t sure if she believed that or not but she was drawn to the trees and always felt comfortable in their presence and liked the feel of their smooth, silvery grey bark. She liked the way their lower branches almost reached the ground, sweeping the woodland floor in her wake.
As she had so many times, Mary wondered about the history of “her trees” as she called them. Had their seeds randomly arrived, haphazardly blown there by the wind? Had they been lovingly planted by an unknown person long ago in the hope of establishing a beautiful vision on the landscape for the likes of her? Who could tell?
Mary looked at her watch and raced back to the house. She looked at her pen and paper set out on the table. She should be writing. She had an article to write and a deadline to meet in her job as a journalist, but somehow she felt restless and couldn’t settle. Inspiration just wasn’t coming. She walked from room to room, straightened cushions and folded laundry. She brewed some coffee and listened to the radio. She rumbled over plans for the weekend and made some phone calls. Then she decided to pull down the loft ladder and climb up with some boxes that needed storing away.
With the loft ladder safely locked in place, she climbed up to the attic space. Mary rarely came up here now, but it was oddly comforting to be up in the dusty space among old mementos.
Under the eaves she had stored some old suitcases years ago. Opening one, she smiled as she found the old dressing up clothes the children used to love playing with, including an old lurex evening gown which had been, or so Mary had thought at the time, the height of sophistication in the 70’s. Mary spent some time poking around the various storage chests; there were boxes full of keepsakes and the familiar and well loved Christmas decorations that were faithfully taken downstairs every year. Looking up she noticed a small box she had never noticed before, pushed between the beams. Pulling at it and enveloped in a cloud of dust, she opened the box.
Inside she found a beautifully bound leather journal. Aware that it had laid there undisturbed for many years she wanted to give the book her undivided attention so she set it to one side for later.
The hours ticked by and Mary tried to concentrate on her work. Outside, the sun was setting and filtered through the trees. She sighed and put down her pen. It was no good, work would have to wait until tomorrow. She went back to the field and sat in the protective shelter of the trees, the branches meeting together over her head like a wondrous leafy roof. The peaceful feeling here was overwhelming and Mary knew moments like this were never wasted, whatever demands life held. She lay back until her head rested on the grass and looked up as the last remnants of light filtered through the leaves.
Later, after clattering around in the kitchen, preparing supper and sipping a glass of wine, Mary’s thoughts returned to the journal in the attic. She went back up to retrieve it then settled down in her favourite armchair to look at it.
Inside the front cover she read the inscription:
Lucy Ellen Smith aged 14
Honey Banks House
Mary was astounded at what she had found. Over a hundred years had passed since this young girl had written her journal in this very house. She turned the pages with care. Each page contained accounts of the wildlife in the garden; the plants that were growing and the weather for each day. Some pages had simple but charming pencil sketches of flowers or birds that brought the journal alive.
Mary read the journal to the very last page and then her heart almost stopped. The date was May 9th 1917, a hundred years ago to the very day.
“Today we are going to stay with my grandparents far away from here. We do not know when our Father will return from the war and it is hard for Mother to cope alone. I have been down to the field beyond our garden and sat under the circle of beech trees. The buds have turned to purple leaves. Oh how I will miss seeing them turn to their beautiful shade of burnished copper as the autumn approaches. How will I celebrate Christmas, if at all? I feel homesick already and wonder if I will ever return. But I will think of “my trees” standing firm in a time of adversity, their branches bending but never breaking in the storm. Perhaps one day, someone else will shelter under the very same branches. That thought makes me happy.”
The house was silent, almost lending an air of quiet reverence. Mary closed the journal and looked out of the window and down to the field. The trees stood resolute and firm in the moonlight. She knew what she would write about tomorrow.