Gardener's Lament

Deer eat agapanthus

Leafy hedges, saplings too

Whate’er is it they shouldn’t eat

They come in and chew.

You’d think the grass would be enough

To satisfy their needs

I wish they’d come into my yard

And free me of my weeds.

What has happened in the bush

To change their diet so

They never came and ate these things

Many moons ago.

It’s usually in times of drought

Our night invaders come

But with yards a year round smorgasbord

They find take-away on the run.

Once tall and leafy plant life

Screening blank brick walls

Are denuded now of waving fronds

And chewed down to their stalks.

My veggie plot’s abandoned

It used to yield a feast

But all it fed as years rolled by

Were nightly hungry beasts.

The possums strip the fruit trees bare

I’ve given up the thought

Of juicy summer nectarines

My efforts come to nought.

The wallabies get in the act

The pademelons too

I used to think that they were cute

But now I just yell ‘Shoo.’

Why don’t the deer cooperate

Chew things we have to trim

Work with us like the gardener

Why can’t they be like him?

Instead, they’re quite selective

As they wander yard to yard

A broad leaf here, a flower there

Making it so hard

To work out exactly what it is

They really cannot stand

Then plant that in profusion

To cut off their demand.

I never thought I would regard

The fallow deer a pest

Go eat your own bush greenery

Come on, give ours a rest.

Meet Me at the Bottom

We don’t necessarily have to hit rock bottom before we get motivated enough to pull ourselves up and out of the muck we often seem to have settled for in life. But that whole area of our lives of unfulfilled dreams or regrets or fear of failure that stops us from opening the door even just a crack on what might be possible out there, has been in the forefront of my thinking as I’ve participated in The Artist’s Way course these past few weeks. I have a habit of not wanting to attempt something unless I can do it properly, hence many tasks are begun and not finished, but one thing highlighted in the course is that we have to be prepared to produce ‘bad’ art of whatever sort in order to start the journey.

Every stroke of the brush, every phrase created, every note recorded, every dance move attempted, every photo captured, is a step in the right direction. Stepping back and observing what we’ve created might produce a positive or negative reaction from both ourselves and others, but at least it’s something to work with. We have a tendency to compare our efforts to the masters in our chosen field, which as beginners can be extremely deflating. There’s no point putting your first completed canvas next to a Van Gogh, for instance, and as I’m no literary genius, there’s no point judging my efforts against the authors I admire either.

What I can do though is start at the bottom, as hard as that may be, and stumble however precariously towards the goal, for I’m finding that by putting one foot in front of the other, however slowly, the process is gathering a momentum of its own, in much the same way as this poem has evolved over the last couple of weeks. What better way of marking the last day of winter than throwing off the dark, cold dreariness and preparing for the new spring of life which is to come.

Meet Me at the Bottom

Helter Skelter

meet me at the bottom

Bruised and battered

curled into a ball.

Get out of the dirty ditch

bedraggled and forlorn

Brush off the stinking mantle

and slink away to mourn.

Helter Skelter

meet me at the bottom

Screaming like a banshee

braced against the fall.

Grazed and bleeding grab a hold

stumble on into the night

Split the dank and settling mist

stay up, the end’s in sight.

Helter Skelter

meet me at the bottom

Tearing down with pure delight

in answer to the call.

Hair flying, eyes wide, 

a grin from ear to ear

Surefooted, balanced now

gone the hollow fear.

Looking right back at 'ya

With no new novel at my disposal to delve into this week, I found it rather fascinating that at a time I’ve been reflecting on reflections (no pun intended) and mirror images, I chose to pick up Trezza Azzopardi’s novel Remember Me which I read a few years ago. I’d glanced along the shelves, and as this was one for which I couldn’t remember the storyline, thought it well worth revisiting.

I wasn’t long into it before significant symbols were cropping up, foremost among them that of mirrors, both remembered from the main character’s childhood as well as decades later in her old age. How the shards of a broken mirror reflect a fractured self, an image in fragments, not the whole, how they can be full of sorrow, how the number of human beings gets multiplied just by looking.

Never trust a mirror: full of lies, just like the papers.

Lillian avoids mirrors, somewhat threatened by what the reflection represents, wondering whether what she sees is really her. Whether the essence of what makes her who she is, is standing on this side of the mirror looking in, or lost inside the mirror world. She senses her other self in the mirror, beckoning her, daring her to come.

As a child, in the dead of night, a week after she catches a glimpse of her ‘stand out in the crowd’ red hair now bleached blond, she plucks up the courage to climb on a chair and seek out her reflection.

It’s too late now to stop myself. Not edging up into the glass. Not going sideways like a thief, stealing in from the corner of the frame. I will face her straight on, wide eyed….to let in the light from the darkness….I have to be sure she wasn’t just hiding, trying to trick me. But I can’t see a single thing. It’s black as a hole. No one looks back at me, there is no one on the inside. I get as close as I can, trying to see through the mirror, to see through it and beyond it, beyond the glass sheet, and the silver, through the wooden back of the frame and the rose wallpaper and the chimney and out through the brick and into the night. Trailing specks of mortar, black ash, dust, flying in the darkness to seek her out, find the girl, show her that I am me.

Quite apart from being a great piece of prose, it begs the question Who am I? Am I comfortable in my skin? I know as I get older I spend less and less time in front of the mirror, only stopping long enough to make sure my hair isn’t sticking out in too many directions before heading for work. As the wrinkles etch deeper I wonder about the dreams the younger version of me had in decades past, and if those dreams are still not fulfilled, why they were left by the wayside. Another poem came to life from all these ruminations.

My spirit shell upon the wall

beckons me to come.

She dares me to come looking,

has power over me

taunts me for the life unlived

time stolen, gone for good.

Is she trapped inside her wooden frame

Or am I trapped out here.

Does she wonder what I wonder

has she done the same as me,

Or has she lived a thousand dreams

that I could never see.

Do I take from her the years of life

Or does she take from me

A little piece of skin and bone

in order to be free

from that nagging, sinking feeling

that by drawing in my breath,

there’ll be more and more

of her to see

and less and less of me.

Do her lifeless eyes see nothing

as we watch each other’s moves.

Do we sneak a look occasionally

does she smile or disapprove.

Are my secrets safe there on the wall

does she want me to be free

Is my image there my lifelong friend

Or my enemy.

Shovelling in the Words

The past week has been fascinating, as if the top of my head has been prised open and someone has been shovelling words and phrases in at a great rate of knots. After several weeks of The Artist’s Way course and sharing with my fellow travellers, and reading Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg in 24 hours, I’ve suddenly gone into this frenzy of writing.

But not what I was expecting.

I’m writing poetry, something I haven’t touched for nigh on forty years and a task I’ve never really wanted to pursue. My scribblings of decades ago have been culled on more than one occasion, for whenever you revisit old poems or short stories you wonder what on earth you were thinking at the time. They are often stilted, morbid or maudlin, self indulgent, images and metaphors piled on thick as custard. What prompted their outpouring is a distant memory, and the emotion dies in the words.

What I’m doing now might end up just the same. In a week’s time, in a month or more, I might look back and sneer at my feeble attempts, but as I commit to this journey and take it seriously I’m discovering something new, and coinciding with the Olympics may be no coincidence at all. No athlete goes out to run his race without training and routine practice, without warming up, stretching. It’s a no brainer really, something I already knew but have been resisting.

The very act of putting pen to paper on almost a daily basis is opening my eyes, my ears, my mind, opening me, opening up possibilities. ‘Helter Skelter meet me at the bottom’ came from nowhere the other day. Or rather, somewhere, spawning a poem yet to be finished. Words and phrases and images are fighting for space in my head right now, I’m wondering where they’re all coming from, and while they’re not leading me in the direction of the novel I thought I was heading towards, they’re leading me somewhere.

There’s no point waiting for the Road to Damascus moment when the heavens will open and the message will be loud and clear. Right now I’m on the dusty road though, practicing, stretching, warming up for the main event.

MIRROR IMAGE

When I look into the mirror

what reflection looks at me.

My right side here

is right, right there

my left where it should be.

But when you stand before me

you see a different me.

My right is on your left hand side

my left is on your right.

I’m back to front

In body

Am I back to front

in mind?

Do you understand my motives

can you see my latent dreams

Can you navigate

the fissures of my mind?

Do you see beyond the body

are you brave enough to try?

Do I dare to let you

see inside

in those moments you ask

Why?

Rising from Horsell Common

The haunting strains of Jeff Wayne’s soundtrack to HG Wells’ War of the Worlds was brought to mind this morning as I witnessed the unfolding revelation of the landscape in the valley below. Bathed in the benevolence of sunshine from my vantage point, what looked like the giant machines propelled by Wells’ Martians began to emerge from the dense fog, ominous, out of place.

Drifting up from below came the mournful sounds of cows objecting to the early morning chill, while two old dead gnarled trees stood as sentinels as they have for decades, witness in their lifetime to countless droughts, floods, and gale force winds as well as times of plenty.

Fog is such a fluid thing. While I watched, it slowly drifted away from the higher slopes, revealing more of the farmland beneath. Sheds started to appear, fences, trees, power pylons, then just as quickly a faint breeze in my face heralded its return and what was beginning to be exposed once more became swallowed by a thick white blanket.

It ebbed and flowed much the same as the water’s edge, commanded by unseen forces, though what was a thing of beauty from my spot above it, no doubt would have been experienced quite differently by those immersed in its bone chilling cold.

Simply driving through fog can be quite daunting, straining your eyes in an attempt to peer beyond the barrier, and even shedding light ahead doesn’t guarantee a better view, simply reflecting the whiteness even more. Unseen dangers have a way of emerging at a moment’s notice, and require diligence and quick thinking in order to deal with them. Similarly, there are times when we feel like we’re in a fog, floundering around without a way forward, waiting for the oppression to lift so we can set out again on a clear path.

The moods evoked in a fog can be very similar to those we experience daily. Fog has a way of concealing. Toddlers amuse us by covering their eyes in the belief that if they can’t see you, you can’t see them, but hiding something doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The skeletons in our closet, though hidden from view, have a way of lurking in the recesses of our psyche, and unfortunately manage to slip a bony finger around the closet door now and again and peek out to remind us they are still there. Shutting the door again is usually the immediate reaction, though not necessarily the wisest move.

For me, mist enshrouded landscapes have an attraction all their own, transforming clear lines and distinct colours into an ethereal beauty, but for many the best part of fog is in its lifting. Those days when it drifts in and obliterates the scenery for hours chill you to the core. All warmth is gone, and a depressing mantle of silence hangs in the air. But the moment the temperature rises and the fog starts to rise, it’s like the burden also is lifted. The sun finally penetrates, the fog disperses, the world which seemed to be on hold awakens and comes to life once more.

Whether we operate in a fog or not, there is much in our lives we choose to conceal, sometimes to the detriment of both ourselves and others. To be able to reveal more of ourselves, to emerge from the things which prevent us from reaching our potential and from being who we are meant to be, to see clearly a way forward, now that would be a real blessing.

Unblocking the Drains

No, I haven’t had to call in the plumber, and despite the fact my internal workings are not exactly what they should be, it’s the journey of the unblocking of my mind on which I’ve had to yet again set out. As the title of my blog attests, the desire is to write, not just any old stuff, but something worthy of being read by those other than myself, and lately the S bend has become clogged. Nothing was making its way past that blockage, no amount of metaphorical Draino was having any effect.

For some reason I find the structure of a writing course or writer’s group rather handy, for it keeps me on my toes, spurs me on to keep producing, but when not in this construct for an extended period of time the self doubt takes over once again, apathy becomes the norm, self flagellation the response for not picking myself up and motoring on. Not literally of course, don’t have any cat o’ nine tails hidden in the wardrobe, but the mind can play all sorts of tricks to trip you up when the dream seems all but unattainable.

So, in this past week I’ve joined a small group doing The Artist’s Way, a 12 part course written by Julia Cameron in discovering and recovering your creative self. We’re a mixed bunch covering several artistic pursuits, music, dance, glass sculpting, singing, painting, crafts and writing. The very fact we’re not all chasing the same specific dream is going to be helpful, for we will all have different experiences from which to draw to bring to our discussions. The process however of releasing our creativity will have its similarities, delving deeper internally to discover what brings us joy, to what helps us tap into our dreams so our authentic selves can be expressed in whatever form, at the same time as identifying those things which prevent us from doing that.

For me it will be something of a spiritual journey, for the basic tools used during the course will I know bring me to those moments and places where I am confronted with the most basic questions. Who am I? What am I doing here? What and who do I want to be? Do I have something worthwhile to say or do in my little corner of the world?

The first basic tool is Morning Pages, 3 pages every day of whatever you can write, whether you’re feeling inspired or believing this whole thing is a waste of time. Stream of consciousness writing, letting the pen do its thing, not stopping to think too hard about what you’re doing. Funny thing is, only four days in, and the bare bones I start on page 1 suddenly turns into something much more meaningful by the end of page 3.

The second tool is the Artist Date, taking yourself off somewhere alone to revive your dry tired soul, or spirit, or whatever it is that needs refilling, in order to once again have some internal resources on which to draw. In one sense this activity is not entirely new, for I love taking time to observe the world around me, people, music, art, natural and manmade landscapes, but as much as I appreciate sweeping vistas it is the small details which fascinate me.

Yesterday found me at Cataract Gorge, vastly different from my previous visit when it was in flood last year. Back then it was all turmoil and power and savage beauty, but now, not a ripple on the water, beautiful reflections, but it was the moss and lichen and creepers on the rocks by the side of the path which intrigued me most. Besides writing, photography would have to be my next favourite creative pursuit, and though I’m no expert I do enjoy capturing images which speak to me, fill me with awe and reaffirm my relationship with the creator of this amazing universe.

So, with not even one week into the course gone, I’ve at least plucked up the energy to face the keyboard again and have another go. Whether or not I share anything from my morning pages remains to be seen, but with several photos from the Gorge pasted into my journal along with today’s entry, I’m trusting these next few months will once more kick start my creative juices.

Patching things up

Being the mother of two boys I spent many long hours patching the knees of my son’s jeans in their younger years. These days the fashion would be to leave them looking dishevelled, but when you’re on a modest income old jeans were kept to provide patches for those currently in use in order for them to last the distance until the boys grew out of them.

Didn’t do a bad job if I say so myself, the jeans didn’t look daggy and I hoped my sons didn’t feel like someone’s poor cousin by having to wear them. Hand stitching two patches on ripped knees is one thing, but what I’ve seen over the past couple of weekends is another thing entirely.

For the fifteenth year the Tasmanian Quilting Guild held their annual getaway here in Poatina where they set up their sewing machines and all manner of paraphernalia for four days of intensive quilt making. To me, real quilters are a rare breed, possessing the patience of saints as they create multitudes of squares of the most intricate designs which then blend into the overall design of the entire quilt.

The village residents are treated to an annual “Show and Tell” as each creator displays their work, telling something of the story of its making, who it is for, and often how many years it has taken to complete the project. The incredible skill elicits oohs and aahs from those gathered, but there is also recognition of the love which has gone into making particular ones where there is a special reason behind who will be the recipient.

Over the past few years, the Handweavers, Spinners and Dyers Guild of Tasmania have joined them on the same weekend, so we get to see the skills of these ladies, and one bloke, who, complete with their spinning wheels and looms and dyeing techniques, start with the raw product and see it through to a completed garment or piece of work, with beautiful results.

 

I am in awe of such skill and dedication to their craft. These people are not simply making quilts or scarves or garments, they are textile artists, and they have a lot of fun in those few days as they spend time together, learn from each other, and celebrate each other’s achievements.

However well I did my patch up jobs all those years ago, all I was really doing was covering up a hole, like putting on a band aid so what’s underneath can be fixed or obscured. The patches these women create are not there to cover over something, apart of course from when they become the finished product and someone actually gets to sleep under them.

To watch them choose materials, cut out hundreds, sometimes thousands of pieces, pin them, sew them, iron them, stack them until there are enough, arrange them, then see the squares sewn together is to witness an amazing process. Each little patch is the start of something new, something bigger. The quality of their work tells you instinctively that it will still be around on someone’s bed for decades to come, and will be valued.

Patching things up implies there’s been a problem, a rift that needs mending. It could be transforming if we went beyond the quick cover up job or temporary solution to whatever challenges we face each day, and took into other aspects of our lives as much love and care as the quilters invest in producing their long lasting creations.