Finding Chairs

There comes a point when you don't know whether you're in the new place, or it's just a false dawn, and any pleasure at things will be knocked out of you as the universe belittles your arrogance.  I suppose that's why I haven't written anything for a while.  I haven't been looking back, but enjoying the present and the new challenges it has been offering.  But also I have to admit that having been through the ups, and the downs that have always followed, I am very nervous to admit that I'm enjoying life, just in case the pressures that are inevitably part of adult life increase, bumping me back into a holding pattern of pain and coping.

The Good Friday Thought for Today

I wasn’t sure the the piece that follows this introductory blurb would be appropriate for the blog, it’s a very personal piece I wrote early on when I was trying to grapple with the pain of living without The Absent Father.  If you’re a regular on the blog you’ll know this is a recurrent, if not dominant, theme.  The great news to report is it is getting easier.  Whether this is the passing of time, or the amount of times I’ve regurgitated this pain I don’t know, but it is getting easier.  This was about the first time I found my way into any form of peace and although I lost that peace relatively quickly, it is interesting for me to read now, mark the changes in perception, see more clearly where I’ve come from and who I am now.

High Days and Holidays

There is a moment before every holiday when I rather wished I wasn't going away.  It happens every time and my loving and tolerant family try to be understanding and tender as I get myself more and more worked up over the impossiblity of attempting indulgence.  The multiple layers of guilt that unfold as I set myself more and more impossible tasks to complete before day zero approaches can, if unchecked, limit, if not ruin, any benefits of going on holiday.  Which is silly, after all, why go on holiday if not to enjoy yourself?

Well, yes, that is, of course, if you appreciate who you are and what your value in the world is.  How many people go on holiday because it is expected, or perhaps a badge of membership of a group you think you belong to, hope to belong to or comfortable staying within the bounds of?

Why go on holiday?  It was a question the Absent Father would raise to me, a question I couldn't answer because I've always gone on holidays, and he hadn't.  It was not until long after he had left that, well now, really, that I have thought about it and pose today's question: what is a holiday for?

A Sunday Afternoon in March

My dear and lovely friend Jacqueline, who happens to be a follower of this blog, indeed was my first follower, is helping me edit some of my poems ready for publishing.  I've decided my Golden Year will be celebrated by me getting a book of poetry together.  I'm so grateful for her precise and clearsighted expertise, her ability to correct my somewhat slapdash punctuation and her belief in my writing.

Perspectives, and other views of the Bridge

There comes a point when you have no idea if what you write is good or bad.

I strongly suspect this is awful, but I quite like it anyway.  In my mind it's never been about the First World War.  Or me.

What do you think?

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

How does it feel
To know that you have failed?
When decent men are asked
To form a queue,
Your name will not be called.
Men who know what trust,
Respect, faithfulness and reliability
Really mean.
They stand there quietly chatting
In skins that fit them,
Lives that are not perfect,
May not be easy,
But are lived with dignity and strength.

And so you watch from the side
As this throng of grown ups walk
Through that gate and out of sight.
And you turn away.

Do you know what you have missed?
Or has something shiny caught your eye,
Distracted you again,
And you cannot see
What lies beyond the gate.

Day and Night, Night and Day

I've been a bit stuck recently, with regards to writing.  I'm not sure why this is, but I think I need to try and push on through and see if I can find any way of illuminating this problem.

Is it a problem?  Should having to write be regarded as a healthy thing, or an odd obsession?  My trouble is that rather than just writing for the sake of it, it would appear I now have an audience.  Maybe it's performance anxiety.  I've developed a style, you've developed expectations.  But am I the person of these posts, or was that just a transitory phase in my development and recovery, and the person you have come to read about doesn't exist now.