Moonflower

Moonflower

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2015

There once was a man so holy of heart,
though oft times he wondered when his life would start;
he roamed through his town with his shadow forlorn,
beset by a sense that the world he must mourn.
For, though holy his heart, a piece was misplaced,
which could not be found with imprudent haste –
like flowers that blossom with each merry spring,
the timing of Grace is a delicate thing.

And as this man rambled through well-trodden streets
he yearned for a beauty for his eyes to greet,
but where could he find such delight to the eye
when all his surrounds were a joy so denied?
How this man yearned for the blush of a flower
to inspire a smile through his lonely hours!
And so with a sigh and a drop of his head,
he wandered away to meet what lay ahead.

His feet led the way, knowing not where they went,
but being a vagrant bettered silent laments;
he would wander afar to seek what had been lost,
through valleys and tors, and sunshine and frost.
Perhaps, so he thought, if he ventured these lands,
someday he’d return with a flower in hand,
for with hope in his step and with faith in his soul
he would find the stray piece to make his heart whole.

Ever onwards he went, though the flowers he saw
were pretty and special, and yet nothing more –
he saw flowers of peach, of pink and of blue,
but knew that in spirit for others they grew.
Though he was perplexed by the flowers in sight,
for they wilted not beneath the blazing sunlight;
they were as gentle and as fair as could be
and suffered none in the heat – which was not so for he.

How he longed for the shade as he journeyed the dale!
Alas, no trees he found to offer avail.
The sky above had not even a cloud
to ease the travail he felt on the ground.
Only woe he had found as he travelled abroad,
and so, with despair, he cried out to the Lord:
“Why must my heart bear such sorrow as this!
Why is your Grace not enough for my bliss!”

So passed the day ’til the sun’s fall was due,
for the dusk welcomed he with a heavenly hue.
Relief was his own when the heat fell away,
and so he awaited the nightly display;
soon he would see the diamond dance of the stars
and moonstruck he’d be by the light of afar.
His wonder so grew for the dark mystery –
a vision of glory so melancholy!

But then as he trod ever marvelling still,
providence sang over wind-smitten hills;
it taught him of patience – his heart would soon sing! –
for he was so blessed, and a lover of spring.
The truth of these words he could not deny,
but his heart still wept for a flower to find.
But then his eyes met, on the horizon faint,
the shape of a tree that compelled to acquaint.

The tree greeted him with a smile and said,
“Hail, weary traveller, may my roots make your bed!
Dear child of God, I bid you rest beside me,
for you are my keeper and in return I keep thee.”
The man offered his thanks, expressed humble and true,
but the tree spoke again, for foretelling he knew:
“I have heard word that a flower you seek:
Turn and behold! The Lord’s flowers are meek.”

The man turned and beheld but he could not admire,
for this flower was frigid and stirred no desire;
she hid her bloom from the light of the sun
and retired her beauty to instead only shun.
But though this was so, he was caught by intrigue,
for what flower can hide with such quiet mystique?
How would she be if she opened her heart?
Would she be fearful, or broken, or dark?

The tree chuckled and said, with much good intent,
“You know in your heart this here flower I meant!”
The man did respond, “But how is this so?
For she is no heavenly image I know.”
And the tree so replied, “And so that should be,
since her beauty is only for your eyes to see!
She has been waiting for her sacred spring,
for the timing of Grace is a delicate thing!”

He sat down in thought, pondering over his plight
as he was amongst the ever darkening light.
So came to be the sky faded to black
and the stars sparked to life for him to gaze at;
they waltzed around the moon’s silver throne,
but how could it be the moon seemed so alone?
And yet, even so, it was the sphere of peace,
and night brought him many a sentiment sweet.

But then he noticed amidst the gentle moonshine
that now arose Grace, for the timing was nigh:
the flower, with care, did open her bloom
beneath the pale light of the moon.
Her petals were bold in a delicate white –
an angel that shone in God’s holy light!
Her beauty was more than he could ever tell:
she was the moonlight’s own precious belle.

But what did he see when she opened her heart?
She held a fragment – his heart’s missing part.
She was of heaven, this he now knew,
for within her the Holy Ghost surely grew;
she was his gift for his heart so divine –
the piece he had always been yearning to find.
With blessings abound the Lord showed him the One,
and his heart was anew – a new life had begun!

Nevermore would this man pine through the hours,
for he had found her – his little moonflower.

moonflower


It has been a while since I have done anything on this blog, and an even longer while since I have written/shared a poem. I believe I’ve said before that I never write poetry unless deeply compelled to, and ‘Moonflower’ came to be in quite a… Well, I was cleaning the house when out of nowhere the idea popped up in my mind. I knew I had to let this one out. I don’t think I’ve ever written such a long poem, either – it just kept on going and going! Still, it tells a story, so it’s okay.

As for the odd (and not desperately wonderful) sketch I did to accompany the poem… I’m not quite sure what happened with that, to be perfectly honest. It wasn’t supposed to be what it ended up as. I planned to draw a tree with a man kneeling by it, admiring a blooming flower in the moonlight, but, when I sat down at my desk with pencil in hand, the above happened. For whatever reason, I drew a woman’s hand with the flower coming out of it… And the rest is history. Make of it what you will.

We have all heard of the glorious sunflower, yes? It is sunshine in a flower, blooming and flourishing in the sunlight.

But did you know there is a moonflower? What a gentle thing this flower is! It does not bloom during the day, but rather once the sun has set. It blooms throughout the night.

Lovelovelovelovelove

I want a garden full of moonflowers, so I may see its white beauty, and feel as if the moon’s essence dwells before me in a delicate flower once the night falls. And maybe these moonflowers can be grown amongst some sunflowers, for when one opens the other rests, and the sun is a joy to behold! The sun and the moon, different as they may be, are very much one. Though, for me, my heart lives on the moon.

An aside: I wrote a little song about the sun and the moon once – a ‘love’ story, if you will, between the two. 

‘So the two share the sky, though at differing times,

yet they long to know something more.

Can the sun hide away?

Can the moon see the day?

Would their yearning soon make them fall?’

***

I feel very much like the man in the poem at the moment. A wanderer. Lonely. Mourning what is not there to be mourned. Maybe I too should wander away in pursuit of my flower… *sigh* 

*

May you find your flower, be it one of the sun or the moon,

and be at peace, my friends.

Blessings keep you,

~JKM

What’s Behind a Scarf?

I said my next post would be about Ilimoskus. Quite evidently, this post is not about Ilimoskus. I am getting to it, though – honest! It’s just this matter took precedence for me on a personal level, and getting this post out the way means that I am now free to run through Ilimoskus Valley (there is such a place, by the way – the elementals told me so 😉 ). So. My next post will be about Ilimoskus (promise!), and I shall tell you something I should have mentioned like two months ago. I’m being my classic blue whale self again. But! Down to business. 

This post is the product of something I have been thinking more about over the past few weeks or so. They are thoughts I would like to voice for one reason or another. Perhaps, it is merely a way for me to clarify and/or organise these very thoughts in my mind.

But this is also a rather personal post. I am going to be sharing things I have never really shared with people before. Gosh, aren’t you lucky folk 😉

The last thing I want to do is offend anyone who happens to read this, so please know that I am purely expressing my thoughts and opinions as fairly as I may, and, truly, I always refrain from judgement on the matter. You will find out why if you read on.

***

Now, where to start? This is surprisingly challenging to express. I shall start with this question: How many of you out there know a woman who wears a headscarf? To be honest, I am expecting most of you to say “None”, or at the very least, “A few”. I myself personally know two women who wear headscarves. They were old friends of mine. One was called Andrea; the other, Nadia. But why did they wear headscarves? And, if you do not know a woman who wears a headscarf, and thus cannot ask her, why do you think women wear headscarves? I believe it is fair to say that most people would link headscarves to religious connotations, no? Indeed, the women I have spoken to/seen who cover their hair, be it with a hijab or scarf or headband, do so for religious reasons. My old friend Nadia was a Muslim, and although she never wore a hijab to school, she did in her home life, and her sisters were also wearers of it. My old friend Andrea was a Plymouth Brethren who I never saw not wearing a headscarf. For those of you who don’t know, the Plymouth Brethren are a sect of Christians, and the women wear headscarves. There happened to be several families of Plymouth Brethren in the city I used to live in, and indeed, in my old house a family of Plymouth Brethren moved in opposite me, and I saw them going to and fro always in their headscarves. And, actually, when I moved farther west in the country, I had only been here for a few months when I travelled to a place called Snowdrop Valley, and on the hideously steep and muddy walk there I saw some Plymouth Brethren (would you believe it!) also making the journey. The women were wearing their headscarves and long skirts (not ideal when walking amongst nature at the best of times, I can assure you, but I imagine it is even less ideal in the mud) accompanied with walking boots. Good on them, though, I say! I feel I have digressed somewhat…

But, it is safe to say the vast majority of women don’t wear headscarves. And so, inevitably, those who do wear headscarves tend to stand out amongst others, purely because of a piece of fabric upon their heads. How do you feel about that? Does it matter? It matters if people judge them for it, most certainly. Or make assumptions.

One thing my mother always said to me when I was growing up was, “Never assume.” 

I find it quite sad, in a way, how everyone makes the assumption that a woman wearing a full head covering must be a Muslim, no matter other external factors. Does it matter if she is wearing a headscarf, really? And, more importantly, does it matter if she’s a Muslim? But, of course, due to society’s warped perceptions of Islam, we wrongly judge or condemn the religion and culture. Perhaps, instead of judging from a distance, we should ask a Muslim woman why she covers and let her explain her reasoning. In this world, we seem to believe that we can know all the answers without ever asking a question. Okay, maybe a woman wears a headscarf for religious reasons. But maybe – just maybe – a woman wears a headscarf because she’s had hair loss due to illness. Or maybe – just maybe – a woman wears a headscarf because she wants to, because she likes it. Do any of those reasons matter? Do any of those reasons affect us in our day to day lives? Are any of those reasons more significant than the other? I’ll let you answer those.

But Muslims aren’t the only religious women to wear headscarves, you know. Clearly, some denominations of Christianity do, as I mentioned the Plymouth Brethren, and indeed, it was very commonplace for Christian women to cover their heads in some form in times gone by. Why did that change, I wonder? It stopped completely in the 1960s, I believe. I would love to know what happened there. There is a passage in the Bible, 1 Corinthians 11:2-16, that speaks of head coverings. I would like to know why Christians these days seem to conveniently skip over that part. And Jewish women wear headscarves too, don’t you know, called tichels. But headscarves are not a common sight in the western world, are they? No.

But why on earth have I been pondering endlessly about headscarves, and their significance (or indeed, lack of significance) recently? Because, my friends, I wear headscarvesBut why do I wear them? Well. That is the question, isn’t it.

hss

I have gradually been wearing them more and more frequently over time, hence why the subject has been more on my mind, I suppose. But I think, more than anything, the reason it has been on my mind is because I get so frustrated. About what? Not about wearing the headscarves themselves, not at all, but rather about other people. And then I get even more frustrated because I’m allowing myself to get frustrated with/by other people. Viscous circle. It’s the passing comments, you see, and the looks. I can’t stand it sometimes, and I’m not even a wearing a hijab. It makes me wonder what happened to people following the saying, “Live and let live”. Of course, it is quite possible I am merely being overly sensitive or paranoid about it, but it cannot just be uncanny coincidence. I got looks from people when I lived in my old city, and I get looks here in this town – looks that say, ‘What have you got on your head? Why are you wearing that?’ And the thing is, maybe this isn’t really a problem, but I hate standing out more than anything. I truly do. I don’t want to be noticed when I’m out and about, I just want to get on with my business being ignored, but I know that when I wear a headscarf – something I willingly choose to do – that I am going to be noticed more with it on. It’s hard for me, it really is. But why should I deny myself something I believe is important – and indeed important to me – just because of other people’s looks?

I have had comments on it, too, as I said:

“Have you joined a cult or something?”

“You look like a gypsy.” 

“You look like a 50s housewife.”

“You look very… summery… today.” *eyes my outfit and headscarf scrupulously*

“What are you wearing that for?” – said in that tone. I’m sure you know the one.

Usually I just laugh it off, or completely ignore them, but it does hurt when it’s from family and friends, you know? Does it matter why? Must you comment? I wear headscarves for deeply, deeply personal reasons (and yes, entwined with my faith), and so I feel like it is a direct attack on myself as a person when someone makes a comment, or looks at me with eyes of scrutiny. It serves me right for being so sensitive, I guess. But it makes me believe that wearing a headscarf takes some form of bravery. Women who step out their houses wearing full head coverings – or indeed any covering with confidence – are far braver than I. I guess it is just a matter of me learning how to let go of the reservations I have, to let go of what other people may think. Because, really, why should I care what other people think or say? I shouldn’t. Not at all. But I am going through a tough time emotionally, and such sentiments of courage are hard to not only grasp but also apply. I can only pray for guidance on the matter, for enlightenment on the right route to pursue.

I started wearing headscarves after my traumatic accident in August 2013. I’m still not sure what it was about the accident that led me to it, but, as foolish as this may sound, when I had a scarf wrapped around my head, it felt like a hug, and it brought me such solace it occasionally brought me to tears. And, to this day, there is little else that brings me more inner peace. It’s strange, really, for it is just some fabric on my head. Still. I suppose it is what it symbolises. To me.

It is my hope this year to grow more confident in wearing headscarves, not dwelling on what others may think or say in response to it. I am pleased that confidence is slowly coming upon me 🙂 Headscarves bring me comfort, and comfort is something every heart needs. And, most certainly, it is something my heart has been in dire need of for too many years. Why should I deny my heart this?

Let’s share some confidence now, shall we?

hs1

My name is Jennifer K. Marsh.

I wear headscarves.

So what if I look like I’m in a cult?

So what if I look like a gypsy?

So what if I look like a 50s housewife?

So what if I maybe dress a little different to other women?

This is me. This is who I am.

Deal with it 😉

***

If you see a woman out and about wearing a headscarf, leave her be. Treat her like a fellow human being, not as if she is a display at a museum at which you may gawp. Do not assume you know the reasons behind her wearing a headscarf, for even if the reasons seem plainly overt, you will never know the true emotional complexities she has behind it. Do not judge her for it. Do not scrutinise her for perhaps standing out in a crowd purely for some fabric upon her head. Chances are, she is not judging you. She is simply trying to live her life as only she knows how. And, if you must ask about it, do so in an interested and compassionate manner. I say all this as a woman who wears headscarves, as a woman in the western world who knows, to some degree, how challenging it can be to stay true to yourself when others so frequently knock you back.

Why does a woman wear a headscarf? What’s really behind that scarf? Who can say? I don’t think it matters.

Does it matter?

***

Peace and blessings to you.

I hope your New Year has thus far treated you to joy,

and I hope it continues to do so.

~ JKM

One Year on…

I feel as though over the past few months I have quite neglected blogging, although, this evidently is not the case, given I have indeed been posting throughout that time – not really any less than usual, either. I have just felt dreadfully detached from it over that time. It has been more of a chore for me to come on here and post since May. Perhaps this is because I have been bogged down by workload, or perhaps it is because I have needed time to myself. Who can say?

A couple of months back I said that I was going to start being more creative with my blog, which is still the intention, but this post is an aside – one I need to type.

For the past two months or so, I have been feeling unwell: drained, lousy, run-down. Perhaps this is another factor as to why I have felt so distant from blogging. I had progressively been getting worse over time, until finally, a few days ago, it all came to a head and now I am quite patently a rather unwell individual. I was so bad over the weekend that I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, but on Monday I saw a doctor, and fear not, fellow WordPress friends, I am now on the up. Turns out I’ve had a long-running infection in my ears for all that time, and it finally flared up into quite a severe one which made me wholly unwell, as opposed to just having uncomfortable ears. So, now I have to take absolutely massive antibiotics which look more like horse capsules, they’re that big, and I have wrapped a scarf around my ears for days on end because, somehow, that helps to relieve the pain. I don’t know.

But let’s get to the point of this post.

***

Today is something of an anniversary for me, a significant cycle of time that has passed by – or a daiamel, as the Ilimoskus would call it. It has been a year to the very day…

On 5th August 2013, 19:15, I had my accident, which ultimately broke my heart more than it ‘broke’ my physical body. And that’s saying something, really, given the state of my face after the incident. It took me about two months to totally, 100% recover – physically, that is. Emotionally, I still think I am still in the process of having deep wounds stitched up.

But oh, does it not make you ponder? Why should I have been so lucky to have not a hint of abnormality upon my face? How did I get away with that?

Is it dangerous to ask such questions after you’ve experienced such a trauma? Perhaps. But then, I still have a life to question when I so easily could not have, and that is a blessing.

What are you left with after such a trauma?

What physical scarring do you have? What emotional scarring do you have? What do I have?

Physically, I got away with it, as I said. I have a slight indentation on the bridge of my nose where it was cracked, but no one would ever notice this unless they were a nose doctor or if they stared at my face/nose close enough to finally see it, but I would most certainly scream at and push away anyone who ever attempted such a thing. My jaw took most of the beating, though, and to this day I still have problems with it. I am likely to for the rest of my life. It is frustrating, but then, is it not a small price to pay for being alive? You cannot see this issue with my jaw, though; if a stranger looked at me, they would never know I ever underwent such hell.

Or does it tell through the eyes?

Emotionally, it is a different story. Emotionally, I bleed – as much as that five hour waterfall I had coming from me that evening 😉 Accidents leave you more emotionally damaged, it is true. Although my physical person may not have any scars, my heart sure does. Since the accident, I do not like letting people near my face, and I most certainly do not allow anyone to touch it. Not because it hurts, you understand, but because it is more of a conditioned reaction. It is almost as though I do not trust people, that they will hurt me if they touch my face, which makes no sense, given the accident had nothing to do with people, but there we go.

But why did it hurt me so? It hurt me so because I lost my dearest friend. My gentle girl. I loved her so very, very much.

I haven’t spoken properly about this accident since it happened, and I don’t know if I will ever sit there and tell someone all the details. I don’t know if I will ever want to. I have had far too many unfortunate circumstances occur in my life that make my heart cry blood whenever I stop to think about them, and so speaking such things aloud rips my heart out completely. People always say that talking about it makes things better, but I disagree. For me, not talking about it is how I heal. And that is how I’ve always lived my life, since childhood.

There is only one thing I will have to tell out loud, someday, or else I will never move on. But it is a waiting game, and I have always known that. That time will show itself when it is ready; though, the thought terrifies me, all the same.

But, you see, I don’t need to tell people my problems because there is one who already knows them without having uttered a word.

Physically, this accident hurt so much. Emotionally, this accident hurt so much.

But what about spiritually?

Why, oh why, did this have to happen? I have often wondered. Why indeed. But who am I to question that? We all walk our path – we all go where we are meant to – and for whatever reason, this needed to happen to me. God knows why. I’m not quite so sure. I haven’t worked it out yet. I haven’t quite worked out why half the things have happened to me in my life, but they hold their purpose, even though I do not understand.

“Like the river is bound to its flow, life travels where it is meant to go.” – So says our wise friend, Gnotsu, in Times of Old.

There is undoubtedly a comfort in letting yourself drift with the river, but just because you drift, that doesn’t mean you are lifeless – in fact, it is quite the opposite; if you accept your fate to drift with life, you have time to enjoy and appreciate all the beauty and simplicity it offers, and even see the light in the shadows, but, if you spend your time fighting against the current, where does your attention lie? Certainly not on the world around you. It lies on the current, and nothing more.

And so I drift, accepting that this accident happened and that I lost my sweetest girl because of it. But accepting still hurts.

But maybe it was my fault, somewhere along the line. If you pray to see the way, yet sew your eyes shut, God will have no choice but to rip your eyes open. And that will hurt. A lot. There will be much blood and many tears. If you pray for a clearer mind, yet keep walking through the fog, God will have no choice but to hurl you from it, and you will land most painfully and undignified. But He only does it because He cares, because He loves you more than you will ever comprehend.

This accident caused many more wounds on my already wounded heart, but, over time, these gaping wounds have been stitched up, slowly healing. And who holds the needle, who bears the thread? Why, it is He, of course. I may not talk, but it is in silence that I talk to Him, and He is the grand power, the ultimate healer.

In this life I’ve lived, why have I suffered so? So that I can give, while learning how to G R O W.

*

“You did not ask for this life, this life asked for you.” – So says a character in the upcoming Book 2.

There is a path waiting for each of us to tread, and our souls are summoned to it. It is our path alone, for there is no one who can walk it better.

**

I will always see the words

that you sewed

on my heart

These are some words from a poem I once wrote.

What are these words?

Faith. Hope. Love. 

***

Thank you for reading this. May peace always dwell within you.


Orate Door is a poem I wrote specifically about my accident. It is probably the most personally emotional poem I have ever shared on this blog – that and Darling Moon, which I wrote a few months after Ornate Door. Both poems are there, should you like to read them.

I have had a highly creative post planned for weeks and weeks now, but I have not found it within myself to even attempt to create it. Even so, know that it is planned, and that one day you shall see it. Besides that, blog inspiration has left me, so I don’t know when you will next see interesting posts from me.

Darling Moon

The image is not my own. It was originally taken from Google Images.

Darling Moon

© Jennifer K. Marsh 2013

You know I’m here waiting
for the perfect time
to let the world fall
into blinding moonshine.
You know I’m here holding
the moon by a thread,
dangling on every word
that was never said.

O, my darling:
shall I let go?
Shall I plunge into the depths
of all we do not know?
I’m hanging from your tongue
that burns me like the sun,
so maybe you should tell me:
what is it that you see
when you look up so hopelessly?

You know I’m here leaping
from star to distant star,
peering down from the heights
and pondering where you are.
You know I’m here heeding,
upon the darkest clouds,
every desperate thought
you never say aloud.

O, my darling:
shall I speak for you?
Shall I whisper all the thoughts
you thought I never knew?
I’m hanging from your tongue
that burns me like the sun,
so maybe you should tell me:
what is it that you feel
when underneath the night you kneel?

You know I’m here drifting
along the gentle breeze,
singing all the lullabies
I learnt from the seas.
You know I’m here shining
before your tired eyes,
bound in wondrous silver
to make mystery arise.

O, my darling:
shall I stay unknown?
Shall I be the hidden force
that carries you back home?
I’m hanging from your tongue
that burns me like the sun,
so maybe you should tell me:
what is it that you need
when silent tears fall as you plead?

But, my darling,
I don’t know where you are:
how am I to find you
when you are so far?
How am I to love you
when you do not say
the simple words I need to hear
to take the pain away?

So, my darling,
I will stay within the moon.
I’ll be there in the light
that brightly beams every night
to always be by you.
I know you love the moon,
so maybe you can tell me soon.

You know that you should tell me,
I know that you can,
and I know that all you want
is for me to understand.
O, my darling,
won’t you tell me:
what is it that you see
when you gaze at the moon?
I hope that you will tell me soon.


‘The smallest drop in the ocean can start a wave of emotion’

Endless thanks to the words in Eternity, and to those behind them. I was listening to this song one cold November night, sat at my desk and staring out the window to view the night sky, and it reminded me of my wholehearted adoration for the moon. How that wholehearted adoration had slipped my mind in the first place, I’m not quite sure, but such is the way sometimes. Writing ‘Darling Moon’ helped ease the hopelessness that was reigning over me at the time.

I am so in love with you,

my dear,

my Darling Moon

^^

Looking Through Glass

It was like looking through glass; he was there to see and to stand beside, yet they could never truly enter each other’s lives. …  Their hands touched on the glass, but contact could never be. – Ilimoskus: Times of Old, chapter 9

What are you supposed to do when you cannot connect with someone? So you can see them, but can you hear them? Can they hear you? Is the glass breakable? Or instead, is it your heart that shatters?

Seeing isn’t everything. That deeper connection is desperately needed, otherwise it feels as though a piece of you is missing. And no one wants to walk around not feeling whole, do they?

Helium Balloon

I am pleased to say that the chaos of recent has subdued significantly, which thankfully happened far sooner than I was anticipating. I have more time to myself. That can only be a good thing, right?

Firstly: I did a creative writing workshop in a primary school the other day, and I took some photos of the children’s work. Have a look! I had a great time, and the children were an absolute pleasure to work with. I really enjoyed reading their work and looking at their pictures – it was so heart-warming. A child’s imagination is truly a most wonderful thing. And, the best bit is, I got to keep a copy of it all. It was such a great feeling to see them enjoying the workshop, and enjoying the glory of imagination.

Secondly: I am going to confess something to you all. I am really struggling at the moment – in fact, I have been for months. So, I apologise if the occasional grim or depressing post pops up. Although I go about my daily business the same as always, I do so with a heavy heart. It is as though my hope is a helium balloon and I clasp its string in my hand, but the string is slowly slipping through my fingers… and I can’t seem to reclaim my firm grasp. One day, will I release the balloon completely, and helplessly watch as my hope floats ever farther from me until it bursts high above? I am very, very rarely a negative person, but unfortunately, negativity occasionally creeps up on me, and I cannot outrun it. It does not help that my few dear friends are miles away from me; it would be nice to sit beside one… Hey, Mint: shall I pretend you’re with me when I gaze out to sea, and think of you when I hear the singing whistles? Hey, Stew: shall I release my strength when I sigh, to be carried to you upon the wind? Hey, Camel: shall I laugh when I stand by the cliffs, and remember the howls of the wolves? But I wish them well, always, for they are following their hearts, their dreams. And that is a special thing.

This struggle of mine extends to writing. I have never been so close to giving up. It feels like everything has been against me for months, and I have not had the ability to fight it all off. It’s hard to fight it all when you stand alone. I am missing so much. You are free. I am hating so much. I am waiting. I am hurting so much. I have far too much to say. 

Sing me the song of the distant mountains…

I realise that parts of this post might not make much (if any) sense to people, but it’s just stuff I need to get out. Is a blog the best place to do that? Probably not. But I don’t have anyone to talk to (apart from God, of course, but at the moment it would seem His words are falling on deaf ears. Not to say that my faith is waning, because it most certainly isn’t.) But anyway, I know every writer struggles from time to time, and encouraging words from someone certainly wouldn’t go amiss right now.

I have been very musical recently. I usually play any random, improvised tune, and I sing whatever falls from my tongue. The music dictates me – I do not consciously think about what I am saying. And then, when I understand what this music has decided to be about, I write lyrics accordingly. But recently, the same theme keeps emerging. The voice in the ‘song’ has either lost something or someone, or is waiting for something or someone… The most recent song I’ve done (which was yesterday) is called ‘Here in the Meadow’. What is it about? Waiting…

Why am I obsessed with waiting at the moment? Everything I have been writing recently – poems, random paragraphs, lyrics – is about waiting. I don’t understand. Am I waiting for something, without even realising it? Is someone trying to tell me something, since I seem to be deaf right now? I don’t know.

May you all have a wonderful weekend with peace and contentment filling your hearts. I hope no one else is struggling. But, if you are, may the light guide you out of the darkness. You’ll be all right. Take care.