Uncategorized

Grow

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


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

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 
Uncategorized

Cheeky

See the source image

Christmas smelt of coal when I was very small,
Curled beneath the eiderdown, light flickered on the wall.
A tealight by the bedside, insurance just in case.
On Christmas eve, a certain hope to catch sight of his face.

Christmas smelt of sausage rolls, upon a Christmas Eve.
When it was dark and candles lit, their festive scent I’d breathe
For that was when the night began, and 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 and plot the houses chimneys in each land
But now I think he may have found a warehouse in each town,
And make TV appearances when funds are running down.

His cheeky rounded cheeks and his bristly fluffy beard,
His soft and round red tummy, never changing year on year.
In my childhood, Santa had no socks from Tk Maxx,
He didn’t carry ipads 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 little whiskey on each little 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.!

He’d maybe just decide to see the ones who saw him too.
For magic only happens if you first believe in you.
However, he still does it, whether Amazon or sleigh
And even if you’re always grinchy, park it for the day.

Nothing truly wonderful can ever be explained.
Santa is who Santa is, and lives in all our brains.
Hang your hat on someone good, you might just be surprised,
And one day you’ll wake up to find a bite from your mince pie.

Liz

Uncategorized

Raven

Raven

The day we watched the funeral,
when all the nation grieved.
Sat inside with children home,
Choirs on TV.

A raven watched beside us,
Beside the open door.
Catching little snippets, 
Coming back for more.

Black were all her feathers
Black were her bright eyes.
But though the day was heavy,
The sun shone in the sky.

Other ravens gathered,
Smart in feathered suits.
Regal, loyal, slick with time
Wearing formal boots.

Lined up at the palace,
Making good the tower.
Celebrating Queen’s long reign,
Warm and strong in power.

Nobody was counting,
Looking at the sky.
Watching for the minute when,
Their Monach passed them by.

So, nobody missed her,
One less precious bird.
Hanging on the commentary,
Huw Edwards every word.

Solemnly she stood there,
Forgetting I was there.
Forgetting all the other birds,
High up in the air.

And as the crowd stood sombre,
Her majesty was led.
A million mourning faces.
A raven bowed her head.

She turned then from the TV,
A tear filled, beady eye.
And left me to my musings,
As she soared into the sky.

Liz Walker

Uncategorized

It’s not easy being green

Summers end, new school year, pencils in a row.

Children reinvent themselves, some refuse to go.

Autumn hides the cobwebs just as spring brushes them clean;

Subscription to the promise of a new you yet unseen.

Starting fresh sounds simple, leave the ghosts behind.

Clear the debts from credit cards, from lovers, heart and mind.

Open up the blinds again, paint the rolling view,

Truly understanding what it feels to know your you.

Hold your nerve a little longer, time is still at play

You got through the hardest part, first few steps, first day.

All the courage you require is curled up in your heart,

Every move in this game now awaits your hand to start.

Who could squeeze their life inside a tiny little room?
Make their food with dolls house plates, a bucket and a broom?
Trust in friendships lasting from another place inland
Feel that even far away, their hands are in your hands?

 

Looking past the clutter, seeing what’s beyond.
Pushing through the brambles to the lilies in the pond.
There’s a view beyond the spot we stand on in the rain.
There’s another path beside this bumpy, strange terrain.

Keeping safe your mindset when the noise is getting loud,
Standing still and centered in the roaring gush of crowd.
Slowing down each racing breath, finding space inside,
Moving air to crushing lungs where fear is trying to hide.

Starting life in places new, without an anchor firm,
Centres you from deep directions, ones you’ve yet to learn.

Sometimes taking one more step beyond our comfort zone
Further than we ever dared, far away from home;

Distils every drop of courage, cleaning jewels of fate
Suddenly where once were walls, there’s an open gate.
Suddenly where once was distant; brush it in your hand.
Suddenly no longer dreaming, walk on soft green land.

Take this moment look around, all the steps so far,
Nothing vital left behind, perfect as you are.
Friendships travelled with you, words and thoughts and line,
Breathing slowly when you feel, nowhere close to fine.

Every gloomy hurdle, every battle won,
Finds your light the brighter, closer to the sun.
For every moment conquered, everything you feel

Shapes the life you’re made for, every dream made real.

LW

For my Treasure xxx

Uncategorized

Limbo

There’s a place called land of Limbo
On the outskirts of the town,
A place where friends are seldom made,
In case you let them down.

In case the big black dog returns
Claws sharpened on your door.
And all the bags stored under beds
Are hurled in cars once more.

In case the roots you want to grow
Entangle up your heart;
And all the dreams they cut from you,
Will never get to start.

In Limbo, safely nurturing,
Your life behind the hedge
A world away from breathing deep,
And stepping from the edge.

A world away from what you were,
The girl whose almost gone.
Before the tiniest of smiles,
Was painted daily on.

Cross the tracks to Limbo land
The hardest place to find
Routes are snared and treacherous,
Especially in the mind.

Limbo isn’t on the map,
Or on the subway line
Destination, final stop; keeps
Changing all the time.

In real world , time is still sometimes;
A breath deep, drawing, peace.
Surrounded by the simple pleasures,
Books and flower and leaf.

.

Feet are anchored, roots are long;
Earth’s rich, musty loam,
Precious heady, springtime mornings
Finding our way home.

There comes a moment when we turn

to see our shadow roam,

when all the holding fast is done,

and we can feel we’re home.

One day the door of limbo land
Is left wedged open wide,
And finally the everywhere
Comes tumbling in outside.

In Seeking , travel is a choice;
To step along each track.
And find exciting different routes,
When its time to go back.

No need to drag out dusty cases
Hidden under beds.
You’re here already,  listen , hear
What all your friends have said.

A spell in Limbo is essential
Patch up broken wings,
But wings and meant for flying
And your soul now needs to sing.

And if we see as wise ones do,
Life not in black and white.
The jewel colours swirl freely,

On the silky tails of kites

For all the beasts who gave you strength

showed what was never you,

And made a life outside of Limbo

feel so fresh and new.

Take respite under limbo ‘s spell
A warm , soft, heavy blanket
Then, Hear your instincts loud and clear
Trust what you love and thank it.

And where you land, the route you take,

hold onto all you’ve learned.

Your self respect and courage now,

is well and truly earned.

LW