Blog story posts, Poems, Uncategorized

Wintering

There are days in winter when we can’t imagine when we might feel the warmth of the sun again. When we can’t remember the last time we stepped out of our pyjamas, and when illness, pain or fatigue has laid us low and vulnerable. All life is happening to other people, we are left behind, we are empty pages in the diary.

And despite desperately wanting to be in full bloom, our colours have faded. There’s a 50p sticker on our pot. But what if; just when we think we have lost our leaves forever, perhaps we are simply wintering, and slowly nurturing new, even healthier growth?

In recent weeks I have spent an absurd amount of time creating and editing photo books. It has been a monumental labour of love.

The company I have used for 18 years have changed their uploading methods and for a relic like me ( my daughter would tell me,) this has messed with my previous understanding of a system which I had become very good at using and could do without really thinking about . Now, I found myself clunking my way through hundreds of images over and over, re- uploading, re editing, and swearing a lot. Automated technology was making the job so much harder, and it became an unwanted never ending mountain of a job.

Initially I was getting really sick of seeing the same images, only to find them disappear, having to go back, do the job again. So I started to chunk the task up, and edit it in sections, paring the groups of images down as I went. I began to realise that I was starting to choose pictures based on the ones which truly caught our best moments, and in doing that, my cinema reels started to play. It stopped being annoying and from my bed, started to make me more grateful.

I persevered for weeks, and finally finished, dividing up the albums into categories to share with different people.

Everyone could focus on their important bits !

Some favourite presents at Christmas.. Saving the best for last.

Coffee at Cotehele with my friend

Beautiful moments to slow down and re-cherish, secret treasures, unexpected happenings, appreciating Art and a night at the ballet

Since making the books, I feel relieved to have ticked off a long awaited task but more importantly enjoyed reliving plenty of poignant and hilarious memories. Moments to treasure and draw on when life has other plans..

And of course, a dress for every occasion..

Like so many of you, there are days when my rheumatoid, lupus and arthritis pain are overwhelming, Especially in the damp, cold months. It can be so easy to believe when we are in pain that there is no end to it. That it will stay dark. I know that what gets me through is connecting with the amazing people in my classes, who have become friends. When we create and share stories, feeling empathy with others, our minds don’t get to focus on just our stuff. We feel more than just a body. We take courage from each other. And singing does the same. Endorphins are great pain relievers. Many a night would have been so easily spent in bed, but car sharing to two choirs is a way to boost morale and is restorative and so beneficial to our health.

The light and warmth we feel from our tribe, whoever they are can help get us through. I am honest if asked how I feel, although I might not always show my pain. But When people know you, they know, and on a pain day they do the bending! And the kindness and camaraderie of friends is the best medicine.

Highweek Art Group

It has been a busy few months of Art and craft here in Devon . Our Art class Artwork is showcased on the gallery below every Thursday. And also includes work from Artists in Scotland in a previous Art group as well as individuals working from home.

Sea Sparkle – Art and Adventures by the Sea

Cosy Craft Club

Every other Sunday, between September and Easter, my living room fills up with lovely ladies trying out new craft projects. This year it has been needle and flat felting .

Drawing and Painting

And in the quiet moments, is when I allow myself a little Art !

Choir

Between singing in Rock Choir and Choir 86

And Poems!

A new poem- ‘ Tracy’s Nails’ read at our choir 86 dinner dance.

Many friends have been unwell in recent weeks. A couple of my closest friends are still very poorly. We carry them in our minds and prayers and live more fully on our better days, for them and ourselves.

As below the damp, cold earth at Imbolc, valuable growth continues on whether we can sense it or not, our roots are extending, grounding us, stretching towards the future warmth of sunnier days, preparing for our next bloom; and our strength our patience, will reap rewards.

Check out some proper pictures, between selfies. Some things are better below the cloud.

Poems, Poems

Boots



If only we could know first
How many steps we'd take;
How much our journey shapes us
before we start to break.

Each crease as lined as leather,
Each soul and upper too.
Each print our tread is forming
as our path guides each shoe.

My boots they knew no heartache
They suffered no regret
They dreamed of mountain ranges
And no arthritis yet.

They fitted glove like, sturdy,
Belonging to a time;
When striding came so easy.
When all the time was mine.

Together we stepped lightly;
Conquering each land.
Jumping each new puddle,
Footprints on wet sand.

We climbed upon Ben Nevis,
A trek- but it was reached.
Meandering each corner,
Strong knees, no pain, no creaks.

Soon other shoes were needed.
Some smart, not really me.
A uniform, creating;
The package they would see.

The ones I'd entertain in.
The ones I'd never wear.
Misguided online bargains,
Essential! Every pair.

A rack of rainbow choices,
A dance through every night,
A dance on every table.
Steps pure, and keen and light

Time plays tricks with bodies,
And nothing stays the same.
each ache a crumbling cliffside,
A daily maze of pain.

No more heels that teeter,
Wardrobes filled with waste.
Slippers , clogs and loafers;
Comfort over taste.

Sun streams in this morning
Spring is in the air
Too cool yet for barefoot
What is a girl to wear?

Dusty still they sit there;
Cobwebs in the shed.
Hope on each horizon,
Earthbound treks instead.

Found again companions!
Better still with time.
Every crack a story,
From a life that's mine.

Slide each sock in easy.
Patience taken root.
Climbing my own mountains,
Grounded in my boots.

Liz Walker











Poems, Uncategorized

Oh Santa

Oh Santa !


Christmas smelled of burning coal when I was very small,
Curled beneath the eiderdown, shadows licked the wall.
A torch sat by the bedside, insurance just in case.
On Christmas eve, in fervent hope, to catch sight of his face.

Christmas smelt of spices rich, upon a Christmas Eve.
When darkness fell, and flames were lit, their festive scents I’d breathe
For this was where the magic was, when he'd be here quite soon.
A bell, a thump, a cloud of smoke; inside the living room.

I'd picture him amongst the stars, a map within his hands.
He’d plan his route with chimney pots as satnavs in each land
Wrapped in furs and jingling bells to sound his swooping flight
Pockets full of tasty treats grabbed for this long long night.

His cheeky rounded cheeks and his bristly fluffy beard,
His soft and round red tummy, never shrinking year on year.
In my childhood, Santa had no socks from Tk Maxx,
He didn't carry iphones and hair straighteners in his sacks.

He took delight in filling socks with oranges and sweeties.
And no-one mentioned tooth decay or early diabetes!
He ate enough mince pies to keep weightwatchers very rich,
But I could never see his tummy, pop a single stitch.

And if he drank the auburn whiskey nestled on each plate
Would Santa not be very drunk? Or least of all quite late?
Would he not muddle every present on each waiting hearth?
Creating chaos in his fluster. That would make me laugh.!

Perhaps this year he’ll go all hygge and mooch in his pyjamas
Leave the reindeer nuzzling hay and fly to the Bahamas
Hunker down with ready meals and strange but tasty gin
Watch the same old movies loudly, not let neighbours in.

For times can change for everyone, and sometimes we get tired
He has so much to do each year, despite the fakes he hires.
So maybe he can franchise, find a warehouse in each town,
And make TV appearances when funds are running down.

As crumbs are found, I hear the sound, of children young and old
Believing every detail, from the festive tales we’re told
Just close your eyes, remember all the feels of Christmas eve,
And how this world can still produce, some magic from its sleeve.

He'll maybe just decide to see the ones who see him too.
For magic only happens if you first believe in you.
However, he still does it, whether Amazon or sleigh
Keep back your inner grinch, keep things jolly for one day

Nothing truly wonderful can ever be explained.
Santa lives in all of us and needn’t ever change
Hang your hat on someone good, you might just be surprised,
And maybe you'll wake up to find a bite from your mince pie.
Liz


A very Merry Christmas from us at Liz at The Beach Hut xxx !

Poems, Uncategorized

Being Mother

Softly she falls, a girl, tumbling, slow.
Kissed by each glistening web as she goes.
Paper her wings, diamonds her eyes,
Gazing through leafy, blue glimpses of sky.

Snatches of songs sound,
time softly fades.
Windows flung open as years are replayed.
Sharper and brighter than ever they were,
She is the mirror reflected in her.

Clearer her senses, kinder her eyes:
Shaking off each heavy, dusty disguise.
Knowing herself as she knew all along,
Venturing forward, with courage so strong.

All that she searched such an age to unearth,
 She’s finding in places, not tied to her birth.
Little by little each piece is restitched,
A tapestry woven from every last wish.

Skin may be loose now, 
hair not so bright;
But here still,
the child;
trading dreams in the night.

Little by little, she paints every stroke.
Watching her fears, softly vanish, like smoke.

Every sense woken, she’s watching her hands.
Sculpting her future on firm golden sand.
No longer falling but flying through space. 
Walking each step with her back to the race . 

LW









	
	




Poems, Uncategorized

Path

Walking Free

Path

The blue gate was broken and gnarly,
Its ivy clad paint chipped and torn.
A keeper of secrets behind there,
Forbidden since first she was born.

She tried to avoid this direction
For fear of what might her, befall. 
Inevitably, one rainy morning,
A dog she was with, lost his ball.

Now, if this were a regular story,
A rainbow or two would appear. 
But this was a dreich Scottish Friday, 
And no meddling unicorns near.

The hall, it had flown quite a distance.
There was nothing else she could do. 
So yanking the rusty gate open,
She broke all the rules and curfew.

A path lay within what can only,
Be named as a forest of roots.
A tangle of overgrown bushes,
And mud which leaked into her boots.

So typical, and so annoying, 
The dog disappeared out of view.
To grab hold of those thorny bushes,
Was probably all she could do. 

A pair of embroidery scissors, 
Remained from a felt-making class.
To have such abundant filled pockets.
Was suddenly, useful at last.

She snipped, and gave whack to the branches.
Her boots kicking tangles away. 
Her progress, though slow, was unveiling. 
A twist, to this strange kind of day.

Old legends of haunted, bad forests, 
Had kept many feet from this path.
And parents forbidding their children,
From straying too close after dark.

She noticed a snippit of colour, 
A mosaic of bluebells and ferns.
The path began opening wider,
Revealing a copse and a burn.

Now, hidden from all the familiar,
She stood in a moss covered dell.
A  circle of ruby red toad stalls,
Inhaling this rich woodland smell.

The path forked in several directions, 
Green light from its canopy sparked
And it wasn’t scary or haunted
And it wasn’t lonely or dark

Instead there was no worry lingers,
Instead there was breathing slowed down.
Instead there was crisp air contentment,
A velvet room; green, blue and brown.

A hoot from an owl in the distance,
A rustle as fox sniffs new prey.
A dormouse who scuttles so swiftly,
Chased moths and his brothers away. 

As forest sounds turned up their volume, 
She noticed how each living thing.
Was moving and breathing together,
How whispering woods really sing.

A bat with long ears swooped beside her
No trace of a vampirish grin.
This soft silky creature emboldened, 
By autumn light falling on him. 

Her hand brushed the bark of an oak tree
its acorn like cups at her feet,
She lay on the soft green moss carpet, 
Sleepily soothed by its heat.
 
A shriek from away in the distance, 
Where are you ? The dinner is cold. 
You better not be in the brambles, 
You better have done as you’re told !

Turning to step on the pathway,
She noticed familiar sounds.
A curl of smoke rose from the tree tops,
Too close to the secret she’d found.

And suddenly there was her mother,
Wide eyed and in puzzlement stared.
A tear in her eye she remembered,
How as a young girl she’s been there. 

She sat down beside her and listened,
To all of the silence and noise.
To all of the melodies playing,
To feeling her fears be destroyed. 

The years fell away in an instant,
She let them be gone and be still.
Her daughter re-finding her pathway, 
Much further than just down the hill . 

A path feared to tread by a mother, 
Will feel to the young heavenly.
For when we are caged by another, 
Our journey can never be free.

Inside every dark, gloomy forest, 
Lies layers of stories and charm.
Each tiny new magical detail, 
Will find you the journey to calm.

Together they stepped on the pathway,
A little less sad and alone. 
As time bent like rowan around them,
They followed their lost dog back home. 

Liz