Tag: poetry

Blog story posts, Uncategorized

Elsie

lizatthebeachhut

Not just any vintage car

A Morris Minor

The radical new Morris Minor was unveiled at the 1948 British Motor Show, and was like a dose of adrenaline for a tired and jaded post war Britain. The Moggy’s journey was to become a long and respected one, as quintessentially British as a Victoria sponge, a village fete and moaning about the weather. And I loved them.

Softly coloured with their friendly curves, roomy interior and huge steering wheel, the Morris was the nostlgia I was drawn to from the start.

You either get it or you don’t!

Why do we love the classics? The simple, unadorned designs of vintage cars are in stark contrast to the modern, often complex, styling of contemporary vehicles. Vintage cars often feature elegant and classic styling, often with soft-top models. Classic cars create a feeling of nostlagia for a time when things were simpler, when time was slower and life less complicated.

Looking through family travels with Mopsie, my grandmother and inspiration

In 1990 on my 18th birthday, Marmalade the moggy became my first beloved car. After too many lessons to mention, I was gifted the freedom of the open road in a fabulous 1970 blue Morris 1000; which just also happened to be an ex police car with a zip in the roof.

I had previously coveted my neighbour’s Morris Traveller and various vintage cars I saw in the big garages of parent’s homes at 6th form parties. And now my neighbour and I were two moggies side by side in the street where I grew up, our joint adventures all still ahead. My trusty little Morris drove back and forth from Ashford and Canterbury to Edinburgh for years between Art college and my parent’s home, making good use of its souped up cop-car engine! And only sometimes making use of its vintage A.A badge ! Passengers even signed the visitors book while Bob Dylan, the Stones and Free crooned away on the tape player, courtesy of my favourite ever playlist. Thanks G! I loved Marmalade. She was cool before they were cool. She even had a giant flower on the boot and striped cushions inside. And she smelt delicious. 

She probably once looked like this!

Breaking down was unfortunately part of the fun of a classic car, and one memorable journey saw me towed back from Scotch corner with a busted crankshaft . The epic recovery ended with my vehicle plonked by a huge flatbed lorry round the corner from my flat, the day before a college trip to Paris. 

A week later, on my return, that fateful day in 1991, I received a phone call. The police Wanted me to me to check if my car was still where the recovery lorry had towed it to . Of course it was, I said. 

Only it wasn’t there. 

It was apparently under surveillance near an armed robbery in Carlisle. 

I had so many questions!!! 

I would be contacted I was told by the police , with an update soon. 

However, when the update arrived, it was to tell me that the car had been stolen again . From the police. -You couldn’t make it up!

Add to the mix that my late father had neglected to update the insurance premiums in time; and the result was a never to be seen again little blue morris minor. 

Since then, so many cars have come into my life, a free one ( albeit with mushrooms growing inside!) fancy, eight seater family cars, sporty ones, and latterly a lot of automatic cars , far easier to manoeuvre with dodgy joints. 

But in my heart, my moggy was always alive.  Classic car shows had me asking if I could smell the interior of the beautiful old morris with the tartan picnic blanket. If you know the smell, you’ll understand ! Old engine and leather and something unique . I knew one day I would drive one again . But all I had was the model of my original car that my father had made. 

Fast forward thirty four years. To a road in Devon. Next week, my knee surgery will mean no driving or jaunts for a while. So Allan took me for a drive to Bridport . I shall be the first to admit, it was getting boring in the car. The jelly babies and Radio Two weren’t holding my attention. I didn’t know where we were going or why. After an hour and a half driving I was anticipating having to be very polite in a dull museum, before being driven back home again . 

Finally, we pulled into a private drive and everything seemed to turn into a slow motion movie. 

There in the drive was a friendly man waving. And next to his pretty garden was a soft topped blue Morris Minor. 

I had no idea what was going on, just stood there looking dazed while introductions were made and I realised we were there to view the car. Then asking us to hop in, Peter took the wheel and drove us into Bridport, all the while accompanied by the familiar noises and smells of a moggy on the road. It was marvellous. When we stopped at West Bay, despite not having driven a manual in ten years! It was my turn. Tentatively starting out like the 17 year old It felt like I was again , we set off, Peter repeating gear change instructions (a lot!) while I am sure I would have seen (if I wasn’t concentrating so hard )- onlookers smiling at the wonderful little car I was driving!

Peter, graciously giving up the wheel

A heady mix of overwhelm, fear and thrill!

Next time, I’ll prepare my hair a little more! How wonderful to be behind the wheel of a Morris again after so long

After a lovely tour of the owner and his wife’s beautiful garden and wonderful kinetic sculptures; and over a cup of tea, an exciting plan was hatched. As Manuals were sourced and bits of car were twiddled with, it began to sink in that this was actually happening.

This wasn’t any colour of Moggy, it was soft blue, and the Devon seaside version of the car I had lost so long ago. Spotless and so pretty, with a soft top and oozing curb appeal. Allan had found the car I didn’t know how much I had been missing.

Today I found this hanging in the garage. It was on my wall in St Abbs for years. Keeping the dream alive and I’d stop noticing.

And these cards were in my stationary drawer and fell out of a book 

Soon, our new addition will be lined up on a seafront packed with a picnic where she belongs. I am naming her Elsie. Mopsie, my grandmother’s given name. I think she suits it perfectly. I hope Millie doesn’t mind being re-named. I’d like to think they are the same spirit.

I have been just too excited to eat today, the garage has been cleared and prepared. And now she is here. This will be just the motivation to get my knee exercises done! And plan our trundles around the Devon countryside.

Ok just one turn..

Yes!!

The only song we could have played

Even the teen was happy

Elsie seems right at home already

I have no words to say how overwhelmingly grateful and happy this has made me! Thank you dearest Allan and thank you to Peter for choosing us as her new parents! Thank you too to Peter for the new replica model. A cycle complete, and a package which made me cry!

Mopsie would have most certainly approved of the entire marvellous adventure xx

With love, Liz (and Elsie) at The Beach Hut)

xxxxx

Poems, Poems

Boots

lizatthebeachhut 


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











Uncategorized

Nine to five

lizatthebeachhut 


'Some of us are normal
Some of us exist
Some of us have schedules
Some of us have lists '


'Some of us have real jobs 
Some of us have plans
Some of us paint paper
Not the side of vans'

Ah but not all purpose
finds a nine to five
feeding minds with wonder
keeps us most alive

Taught a thousand faces
Held a thousand hands
Squeezed the whole damn rainbow
All I make I am

A lie - in feels unholy
There's just too much to do
Write and paint and teach stuff
All we share with you

It could have been the end of hope, those initial diagnoses. A forcing of my hand to halt a career , one that I had worked and studied hard for; I had a structured life . An excellent job, a mortgage in my name, a new life re-built after escaping a tough marriage but leaving a beautiful home) . . I now was alone with a child, responsibility, a career . Everything to be proud of. Everything to lose.

Then I got diagnosed with both types of arthritis .

Early retirement from teaching wasn’t in the plan. Rather than run an Art department, I was being coerced into feeling useless by a council wanting cheaper, fitter staff.

Positivity only gets you so far..

So there we were, a single mum with a 4 page prescription, and a tribunal against an educational society that looked set to trip us up at every turn.

Pain and immobility seemed to be obvious to people only when I was enduring yet another surgery. And of those there were many. Succumbing to an illness set to get progressively worse, it’s constant fatigue and crippling ways should have been inevitable. How could we expect and create a comfortable life now?

Sink or swim?

What would you have shown the little girl holding your hand ?

We won the tribunal. And I took early retirement. (From teaching in High school ) The Freedom we crave when we work every day should have been sweeter. But there are rules.. supplementary income rules. Earning enough in the few hours I felt ok wasn’t possible, and certain income affects other income.

But we weren’t banned from sharing Art. I taught community enterprise Art classes everywhere. Children, adults, Art in Mental health groups, Art in hospitals, and kept making and creating in between the school runs and choir practice. Profit always went back into rent and materials.

Fighting and beating the system was just the beginning. The funds , little that they were , made up the shortfall for a new mortgage, a new life by the sea , and a continuation of creating through various community teaching, two regular blogs and personal creative development. Even covid didn’t stop us. Our Seasparkle classes and zoom art groups carried on throughout the two years we barely saw anyone.

Lupus and arthritis are tricky beasts to explain . If you have any kind of autoimmune disease you will understand, how you can look relatively ok but you feel like you are walking around in the wrong body (if you can walk- which I am personally not great at any more!) Some sunny days you can almost believe you feel fine . Until the meds wear off and a massive wave of fatigue kicks in. Other days, the pain can be so bad you can’t move, cancelling plans, rendering you dependent.

In 2016 I began writing this blog, talking to people about the positive effects of creativity, documenting classes, telling stories through poignant images and photographs . The feedback was so very welcome, and writing became a way of life , along with more illustrative work, painting and the felt pieces I was known for making .

I found the bits of day I had energy -first thing, resting when my daughter was at school, working again in the evening . I taught children and adults in community groups all over Scotland, I organised Art exhibitions and craft fairs . I became Dalkeith arts coordinator, starting new groups when we moved house. I painted and wrote every day. Even in my hospital bed, during extended stays which were common.

The huge move to Devon took enormous patience . Living in tiny chalets for a year while the house was settled . Every day I wrote poems in the bath (my happy place) – painted every morning , taught remote classes for the class I had left in Scotland .

It is amazing what you can do in the smallest slices of time, even when your patience is waning

Moving into this, our hopefully forever home – has been an endlessly creative journey. Not only is the Art on paper, but here is art on the walls, art on the stairs, and yes, art on the side of a caravan …

And now we are creating spaces to make and teach even more art. The journey from dreaming of ‘Liz at the Beach Hut’ to being here, in this warmer climate, has taken many many twists and turns.

And always, the best and most inspiring part is meeting and working with you. No artist is an island. Without the mirror of your creative joy, and productivity, we wouldn’t be where we are. Whether you work from home, remotely or sit in an Art class, you inspire me every week to carry on teaching, learning and being lifted by new friends .

With the boundless energy and support of my partner and best friend, the trials of life continue here as we add to each new project.

Our limitations make us value the time and energy we do have. Each morning is a gift. and because it isn’t always available, we must value our achievements fully. When a friend jokingly said ‘some of us have a job’ ( Didn’t I?) the other day, my first instinct was sadness. I felt too shocked to joke back. But I realise we aren’t aware of each other’s lives, schedules, if you don’t tell people you don’t ever stop working – how will they know?

Sometimes what we do isn’t obvious. Not many of us are great at self promotion. Sometimes it’s the same with how much pain we are in. For me, I have pain all the time, to some degree; sometimes it is mumbling, other times it is so sharp and angry it stops me in my tracks, stops my breath, makes me shake, makes me cry. I don’t feel as able as the world rushing around me. Because I know to some degree I’m not. But I am still whole. I’ve learnt to like me the way I am . Sticks and all. And if you are in ‘The Beach Hut’ physically or as an online friend- there are no exclusions.

Being inspired, inspiring others, making, creating, writing, painting, building and shaping a space to share, connections with likeminded people, a safe place to forget pain and stress for a while- that is more than a full time job.

It is everything …..

Unfortunately and sadly, a little like parenthood – the pay is pretty rubbish !

Our journey has been a long one. At times we have had nothing and nobody. But we had the ability to see and celebrate the little things . In turn they became a body of Art . Wherever life plonks you; whatever anyone else believes is best for you- do what you love, and keep doing it.

Because only you can

In your own inimitable style. xxx 😘

With all our love Liz and the zoo

Liz at the Beach Hut

Poems, Uncategorized

Oh Santa

lizatthebeachhut

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

lizatthebeachhut 
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
Uncategorized

Grow

lizatthebeachhut

This week I tried to write this several times. And kept finding someone or something to feed instead. Words hovered, flirting with me, just out of reach, but not quite giving themselves up. Occasionally I caught a few in a word note but, before I tormented myself further, I unplugged everything, and plunged my hands into a bag of soil. Allowing the meditative process of discovering our new garden become therapy and distraction.

I had felt a little overwhelmed since finding heaven.

A few weeks ago I admitted to my best friend that I wasn’t feeling how I was supposed to, when finally, all the stars had aligned and everything was meant to be perfect.

Have you watched The Curse? Finding the gold can be just the beginning.

My best friend said she understood.

Because sometimes after we journey for a long time, all the travelling, all the surviving, all the growing and packing and letting go, and waiting and hoping and staying poker still and getting to the shore, getting to the treasure…

is bloody knackering.

Its easy for us to feel the most ‘found’, and the most ‘lost’ simultaneously. Have you ever arrived at an all inclusive midday, and wandered about looking disorientated while the rest of the hotel bask like oiled mackeral on their sunbeds?

New places take a while to get acclimatised to. Many moments of planned perfection are a recipe for an existential brain fog, just when all the feels are supposed to come.

This might sound a little new age, but I knew this house would find us one day . In every home I ever lived I felt I was looking for that elusive ingredient.

I began from an early age, (not of course knowing why , ) gathering visuals of a space I wouldn’t see for forty years.

As teenager I loved scrappy old images from home magazines and kept scrapbooks and journals, pulling apart County Living or Elle Decoration for inspiration and homes to covet.

Looking at them now, some twenty years later, most of them still resonate and it feel like I would choose the same images. Colours, aesthetics, and period styles are still typical of me. And I see that the books I read at the time, my music tastes, the vintage cars I loved, the clothing styles, all evolved but still belong to the same me. The colours and spaces that make our hearts sing, remain very unique to us, so when we do begin to do any life laundry, what matters most is holding on to stuff that makes you feel most at home, not simply riding the wave of the latest trend.

My earliest memories are of making spaces feel safe. As a little girl, the distorted voices of adults through the floorboards, felt a million miles away from the warm sunlight on the carpet den under a desk festooned with old lace and tablecloths. I would plant seeds wherever I lived, both real and in the hope of creating permanence. Walls were crammed with books from boot fairs and jumble sales, vintage jazz posters, and old linen sought to recreate the room I aspired to live in forever. Making a perfect space always felt like the cement that held the rest of life together. If you had been passing you might have been invited to one of my room re-arrangements for a cup of tea, and I think I may have painted every shared flat I ever lived in as a student in Edinburgh!.

Every house you ever live in begins in your mind, even briefly as your forever home. We must feel we are creating a space to eat, relax, sleep and nurture in. Some people get to keep rooted fairly quickly in life, and build a fairly strong foundation for their plot. For many others, no matter how much the interior shines, the castle becomes more prison than palace and a part of them knows that there might be change ahead. Patching over the cracks can only last so long. There is no other option but to uproot.

We start over. Re-sketching the perfect house from scratch. And, like a dog turning round and round in its bed before it gets comfy; we recreate our sanctuaries in home after home as many times as necessary until we find our place. Processing the journey, as healing and grounding are enabled through the brushstrokes on the wall, the folds in the laundry, the pots on the stove.

For us, finally getting to unpack our stored belongings, in arthritis – kinder weather, in peace and quiet, in the house we fell in love with, felt so blessed.

There was nothing in the way after everything being in the way. We were all together in our place. There was nature at the windows , and all the animals could finally roam free.

We had this wonderful blank canvas with potential oozing out of every corner. Our new plans were no longer waiting in the wings, they were right there on the x. We could decide exactly who we were and how we created the dream. It was a chance to breathe after all the worry.

But then the removal men arrived. Not once but twice, unloading all the stored possessions and furniture.

After so many set backs, letting ourselves believe it was all actually here wasn’t easy.

The horizon was always so far away.

Almost a year had gone past since we found the house, and several times it had disappeared out of reach . Now we were actually here, would anything else happen? As damp proofing jobs ended up with nails in pipes and unwanted water leaks, our fears edged closer . Finances leaked away with the flooding floors. I was struggling with the stairs. How could I get the washing out and up the steps? How on earth would this house ever be decorated and sorted out? Where do we even start? Could we afford to decorate? What on earth were all the plants called!

It was a bit overwhelming knowing where to start. We knew that time and a little perspective was everything.

Not only was it a monumental task to sort out and unpack without the physical strength and mobility I once had, it had also been such a long time since we had seen or needed any of our things and most of them felt like they belonged to someone else ! We were used to a small wardrobe, only what was needed day to day in the chalet. Although we had missed all our belongings, the space had opened up for focused living and now life had suddenly become a sprawling mass of objects that needed attention again.

Who was this person who had this stuff?

When you move house everyone wishes you well, which is lovely. One imagines being pictured relaxing and gently decorating whilst smiling and clinking gin glasses . Not so with two houses to merge, a colourful teenager, a menagerie and all you ever owned in a muddle in front of you (and behind you and underneath you).

Not knowing what kind of house we would find meant no order for packing boxes into specific rooms. And the climate is different here (hence the move) so some things feel more suited than others.The largest chunk of stuff will be books, which can’t be unpacked until the damp proofing work is dry and the rooms are redecorated and carpeted .

Of course it was going to take longer than five minutes to normalise how things felt in a new environment. But more than that, there was nesting and growing into the space to do first, brightening it up, cleaning away the cobwebs, airing the rooms, putting colour in its cheeks. Our homes not only help keep us warm and nurtured but serve as a backdrop to feeling creative and welcoming others in.

I came home to my thoughts in the soil.

Looking at how the garden was getting on, I breathed a bit slower. She was in no rush. She reminded me that there is hidden process you can’t control, some are slow and inevitable, some are done by instinct; by feeling the leaves and the soil and knowing what to do. I began clearing out the weeds, from the garden and my brain. I followed her lead.

I woke early and pottered before anyone else woke up, and marvelled at each new flower popping through the shrubs . I gave myself a little thinking time. . I realised there was another layer underneath the interior design thoughts. I felt guilty if I let myself feel happy here. Feeling safe to relax is difficult after trauma or stress. On your own with a small circus, and living in flux takes a long while to step out of and stop the momentum. It can be hard to unwind, hard to believe you deserve kindness or to stop moving for a minute . We find ourselves fighting old enemies when we are raw and tired, allowing imposter syndrome and anxiety in, and staying anything but hyper vigilant in case of imminent danger.

I listened to the sounds outside, ignoring the sounds in my head. The church bells rang. I listened to my body. It was very very tired . I unboxed parts of the past which I decided can stay there for now, and parts which can be celebrated here. I slept a lot . I listened to the old stone walls and the garden and what she was saying , not what I wanted to dive in and change. I listened to what wasn’t there . There was no big black dog behind us, nothing to run from and nothing to run towards. For the first time in thirty years.

Every day began to have a rhythm, beginning with animals waking before the alarm clock. My wonderful pockets of morning times, silent and still before the day woke up, enabling snippets of wall painting, snippets of drawing, letter writing, poem catching in the bath and catching the precious morning light in the garden.

I started to notice secrets unfolding in each overgrown border, grateful I had said no to the question, ‘Shall I just strim everything? ‘

Nature was showing us her established ways, this house has been waiting to be celebrated and nurtured. And we can all do with a bit of that from time to time, especially from ourselves!

When we arrive at our destination, we are so used to to travelling we forget how to slow down, forget to remember why we came on this journey in the first place. Having lived with an element of waiting, anticipating, of escaping, and of momentum; landing at last was bound to feel strange. Adrenalin had fuelled us, and resting was necessary punctuation in order to listen to what we need and have now.

Tending to the smaller and smaller ‘garden’ we were responsible for had become normal .

Suddenly it was expanding in all directions, everything thrown in the air , landing in a muddle with nowhere clear to get things straight. A little weeding, turning our faces to the sun and plenty of watering, and our roots could start to get strong again.

Going through one section of stuff at a time helped. I halved my clothes, not least because I had an entire room for them previously! Today I wore a pair of trousers I first bought to wear three years ago, in the first stage of our journey moving down South. too chilly to wear in Scotland, they have been packed and unpacked so many times, up and down the country but never worn. Now they have a drawer, they can start planning their itinarary.

Just have to get one last bit of wallpapering done first…

Feeling settled has happened slowly over the last few weeks through time, and routines, and rooms slowly unfolding, by each of finding our plot where we can grow best and not interfere with each other’s light. We, like plants get shell shock when we move; lose our bearings, feel misplaced and disorientated. unanchored and untethered to our routines, however meagre or transitory they have been. Like the plants in the garden, if we trust in natures cycles, even the most lifeless can bloom. We all need a littlle tlc

A little patience

And A lot of fertiliser xxx

Uncategorized

Deconstructed

lizatthebeachhut 

Never judge a shelf of books,
Their covers bright or worn.,
Never think you know their words
On pages crisp or torn.

Life is unpredictable, 
Will catch you unawares.
Life will take your breath away, 
Push you down the stairs.

Life will keep you guessing,
Shove you from behind.
Life will show you miracles, 
Then fuggle up your mind.

Life will give you lemons,
Tempt you with it's zing.
Bitter, sickly sherbet, 
Sharp as diamond ring.

Life will have you laughing,
Deep from in your belly.
Post you news in envelopes, 
Turn your legs to jelly.

Friends, they will surround you,
Always will be there,
Blink and life can conjure;
Rooms with empty chairs. 

Bodies they will trick you,
Clothes will shrink and grow.
Who you really can be,
-maybe you’ll never know.

One day, is a mountain.
Hidden in the clouds.
High enough to vanish,
Peering down at now.

Everyone is lonely,
Standing in a crowd.
Everyone needs someone,
Just to say they’re proud.

There’s times when it will feel like,
The worst you’ve ever known.
But there are days of wonder
And miracles you’re shown.  

In crisis you’ll imagine,
This weight will never pass. 
But one day in the mirror, 
Your face smiles in the glass.

A path can change so swiftly, 
Through illness , loss or means.
But you are still inside you,
Each costume change is seen.

To stand in tumbling chaos,
And hold on to your wings,
Shows bravery you're hiding;
Help others do those things. 

You are at once amazing;
Yet hardly here at all.
The universe inside you,
A grain of sand so small.

Your Ark is one of millions,
All bobbing on the sea.
Wave from your deck and reach them,
As close as you and me. 

The journey life will take you, 
Will pass through many lands. 
And what you carry with you, 
Is firmly in your hands. 

For time is an illusion,
 and things don’t make us real.
Be grateful, kind and open
And savour every meal. 

x LW x

Poems, Uncategorized

Path

lizatthebeachhut
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