Scarvage, Ash Man and a Bagpiping Angel

So, into Week Three of life with no breasts and all remains well. Much of the bruising and swelling has gone, so Pickle is no longer saying, 'At least you've got little breasts Mama' and the dressings are off. That was more of a Thing than I had anticipated. Although I knew what to expect, actually seeing my scars made me feel much more vulnerable and I didn't dare do my physio exercises for two days until a midwife friend explained the obvious - that the stitching of the muscle is much more robust than the tiny, pretty stitches they do on the skin. So, Pickle and I are doing my silly exercises and, although I have more mobility every day, she still delights in being the best.

I can feel (enough to make me gasp) the moment when a nerve ending pings back into supersensitive life. They seem to come in clusters and may be encouraged by acupuncture. It's a good thing, of course, but if I get a lot at once it's hard to hold a conversation. My body continues to astound my mind. The other day Pickle was industriously cutting things out and sticking them to other things so I could dance and dance and dance for hours. I could feel my limitations, but I had enough scope to express the music and that made for a very happy day afterwards.

I am feeling less inclined to even have back-up foobs. In a few weeks I'll be photographed because it is such a very rare choice not to reconstruct that the photos used by the breast care nurses are of old surgical styles (much straighter lines; I'm glad I got the new flowing kind). At the same appointment I'm supposed to be fitted for falsies in a pocket bra but I can't imagine wearing that now. I imagine I'd be so embarrassed to suddenly have breasts for the day and I can't think of an occassion when I would want to disguise my true shape. Sometimes I feel angry that there is such a strong supposition that I would want to at least pretend to have breasts. Pretend for whom? It feels like part of the narrative of shame around women's bodies. Reconstruction - in all the various wonderful ways it can be achieved - is fine. Wearing foobs is fine. And doing neither is fine. These choices are, in fact, no-one else's business (she blogged). So, I have experimented with exposing a bit of scarvage (scar cleavage). It was kind of an accident because I hadn't realised my v-neck dress would pull down further when I tied my jumper round my waist, but when I noticed I decided to carry on as I was. I wouldn't hide that piece of skin if it had breasts either side and I wouldn't hide the ends of those scars if they were elsewhere. And guess what? No-one swooned, vomited or even particularly noticed. Another Thing relegated to a mere thing. I do, however, have a tattoo planned, but that's a while off and I'm not telling until it's done.

Meanwhile, back at the screenface, two more of Thomas's drawings are up for sale in my Etsy shop.
Ash Man:

 

and Bagpiping Angel:

 

I am enjoying my new metallic artist pens and it won't be long before I can show you the results of my play. I mean work. And I was shortlisted in a poetry competition, which was pleasing and reassuring. I can feel my need to write in a more serious way gathering momentum. Watch this space...

 

Stomping out the fear

My husband, too ill to move, signals for a kiss from his bed.

Our daughter races ahead of me and wins the prize.

Losing never felt so good.


Another small stones month. I'll write one whenever I'm here, but that won't be much. Thomas is leaking energy daily, and with it strength and colour. Pickle is volcanic with energy - many walks a day, ever increasing, and phenomenal rages when thwarted. She feels our fear too, and wisely takes our feet, hers and mine, to stomp it across fields, leave it in little piles under trees, scatter it on the fierce winds which whip round us every night or into the newly thunderous streams. Sometimes she just stops and roars. So do I. Sometimes she just stops and cries. So do I. Sometimes she just wants her mum to carry her. So do I. But I am the mum. That's feeling heavy right now; heavy with responsibility and with privilege and black hole-heavy with love.

Our future is unknown; could hold anything, just like yours. 2012, the Age of Kali Ma, Mayan prophecies, squabbling consultants wielding power they cannot hold, the greatest heart I know struggling to tick-boom like it needs to... whatever. It's cold and wet and windy and muddy and dark outside and we've got some stomping to do.

The Turning

Fernworthy Reservoir reflects our gratitude for the blue. But it has shrunk during the long days, and as it has pulled inward, old bones have surfaced.

An archaeologist's eye traces the lives of a village: hearths and paths of an old way which has been lost. No, not lost; drowned. Important people needed good water to drink. This village was emptied and flooded. Now we wait for a dry year to admire their stone huts-turned-circles. I find a chunk of clear quartz as big as my hand, offer a song in its stead. Has this rock been held before? These views, balm to wind-whipped minds, were once the for-granted frieze from door to door. It is a mixed place. It is a mixed day. But the sun is giving way and the water will rise again, smoothing sharp corners until all is soft and free as dust.

The turning is tangible. Led by the huge horse chestnut which stands alone, fire, stolen each moment from the sun, creeps across the leaves. The world is still green, but closer in...

...the chlorophyll crown is slipping and we are dripping in gold. Kicking up piles of gold. Laughing and kicking as the leaves rain down and the sun shines its fading hardest.

A girl, behind bars in a floral lane, sits alone in a stone courtyard, feeling the sun warm her back and staring forever into a handful of this last light. Soon she will be gone; sold.




























A slow worm of pure gold visits us on its journey into the dark. Losing speed as it loses heat, a flickering tongue explores tiny spaces where it can be still for the long, cold months.

And I, drawing in and seeking the darker spaces, find the quiet voice of poems and paintings, prayers and passion, sounds louder now, and so, this:

Sunflower

My shaggy green coat hangs heavy.
I nod, blind, high over
the scatter of chattering charms
as they try to outshine their own fade.
I am gaunt, untidy,
out of place
in this trove of trinkets.
And then.
























And then, in a burst of rapture
that opens, opens my eye,
the late light
blazes gratitude through me
and I am heliotrope,
head held high.
I stare unblinkingly
into the greatest eye of all.
The bees
desert the browning pretties
and come hungry to me.
I suckle them throught the bright times
and as the eye lowers,
flocks replace swarms.
The light is less and less.
I tire.
My head,
heavy once more,
droops
and I lean
until the earth
takes me back.
I dream of my children
as they open:
standing tall, tallest,
holding the gaze,
shining a beacon of bounty.

Collaboration

'In the Flow' by Lunar and Pickle:

I’m writing and I’m in the flow.

Then, ‘Mama, Mama,’ my girl wants to suckle it out of me.

I stop, suppressing a sigh, and scoop her up.

I give her the good milk.

Another rose is about to bloom outside my window and it is raining again.

Two nights ago my husband was rushed to hospital with big chest pain.

Now he is home and can’t give me another half hour to find the undercurrents.

I am blessed and confused.

I am human and hungry.

I am typing this with one finger while removing scissors and expensive sketching pencils from my girl.

She wants to press the buttons.

I’m going to let her just as soon as I’ve saved… 

yfvfhgllyhyyt,uh6                  es’;kgthttp://www.youtube.com/watch?feat0075re=player_embedded&v=DltqY2XBZJ0055

and here we have creativity from the whole family on one piece of paper. I have contributed a flower, a balloon and two poems in embryonic form; Thomas has given us this marvelous duck and tractor and Pickle has taken a more abstract approach:

The second poem came during the night, although I didn't write it until first morning milk:

Pinned awake

by the searchlight moon

reading my soul

Almost a rockery

Desperation

The gods
drop crumbs
from their table.
I eat them.
I am lost.


Lies

If it was only
other people
who told me lies,
I would barely
mind at all.


Rain

Rain worms through my dreads.
Carefully, I split my skin,
clavicle to pubis,
opening so the water worms
can make compost of my history
and I can start afresh.


Waiting

Waiting
for something worth stating
...
...
...
frustrating.


Magic

As I sculpt words and colour
to call magic into our home,
my husband simply
builds a door for it to enter.


Patience

If you are lucky,
the patience of the healthy
is in a negative correlation
to the health of the patient.

Twice in One Day :o).

Just a quickie, folks. I took Valentine's Day off to hang out with my favourite loves (including tulips and chocolate) and am feeling the consequences.

Today is another fun day. While trawling through my emails I found two acceptances from publishers! Well, one is actually Wordquest, an organisation promoting literature from and/or about Devon. As part of this they're printing lots of free bookmarks and for one month they will carry a poem of mine. This seems a lovely project to have toe in and I'm delighted they chose me.

Another poem of mine - one of my small stones - will be published in 'pay attention: a river of stones'. So a big hooray for all that. And just when I was wondering whether I might be wasting time I could spend earning for my family.

And a stone for today:

If inspiration never came,
Perhaps I could
Arrange some words
Into the shape
Of a poem
And no-one
Would notice.
? 

Five Small Stones

Decided to keep these separate this time. 
Do click the River of Stones widget on the right to join in - it's never too late. 
And please let me know your favourite :o).

My daughter
In my mother's arms
Is captured on a mug.
The mug, 
In my mother's hand,
Captures a tear.

I have an entire
Chocolate biscuit
In my mouth.
It makes me grin.

January dusk
Enfolds the hills
Like sleep.

One crocus
And a thousand promises
Of snowdrops.
It is coming.

I am grateful for today.
It has brought me
To you.
Yes, you.

Small Stones

If you click on the widget on the right, you'll be transported through the virtual ether to a river of stones blog. 
I'm taking part, but I'm not blogging every day, so you'll get my small stones in installments. What follows is the first three.


In the deepest pockets
Of the Earth's skirt
Snow holds on


Subtle movement
Songbird diaspora
Empty peace


Thistle seeds wait
A month.
Two.
Three.
And then
The goldfinches come.




Mostly I have accepted this challenge to inspire me and because it's fun. But there's a possibility of one/some of them being published in an anthology at the end, so I would much appreciate your help choosing which to send of for consideration (I can send up to five).


And, as always, I love to hear your responses to my work.


And it's not to late to join in! This is such a marvellous planet and we humans are so amazing. Let's pay close attention (send your brain to another dimension, etc.) as a prayer of appreciation.

A Christmas Gift For You - 'Only a Poem'

Happy Christmas! Here's one you can open early, just because today I'm in that kind of mood.

When I told you lovely people that my flash fiction 'November' had been successful in a competition, some of you wanted, quite reasonably, to read it. Well, I still have to wait for it to be published in its anthology, so here is a different story to keep us all going. I have tried to choose one which isn't too far into any genre to alienate lots of people.


I deliberated for a while before offering this because, once it's published here, it can't be published anywhere else (for money, I mean). But then I decided to switch off that crazy poverty-mentality and have faith that I have many, many wonderful stories to tell and, anyway, it's Christmas!


I wrote the bones of it ages before I started blogging, and the central character isn't me, but you'll probably see, as you read, how it reflects the 'Blimey, If I do this, someone might take notice!' anxiety/hope adrenaline mix which has been my experience of blogging.

I hope you enjoy it and, if you feel moved to generosity in return, please leave a comment or pass on the link. Thank you.

Only a Poem

Susan understood that to hear the poem spoken by her own voice and to know that people, many people, were listening; that was the coin flipped for triumph or desolation. And yet she stood, fighting nausea and dizziness, muttering the words as a mantra, futilely inhaling, exhaling, waiting for the contestant before her to finish. She became aware that some part of her brain was reflexively praying, a habit she had thought entirely gone forty two years after leaving Our Lady’s Convent School. She was not clear what it was that she was praying for, but she knew she absolutely meant it.

          She realised the precious paper was damp and soft in her hand. In theory she had no need of it; each word, each pause, each inflection had become an indelible part of her during the weeks of intensive revision and rearrangement which followed its inception. Now, though, it seemed of literally vital importance that those written words accompany her onto the stage. She could not do it alone. To be sweating about a childish poem in this shabby, dreary town hall at the age of fifty eight seemed ridiculous, but she could not shake off the feeling that this was a momentous event in her life.

Her mind, desperate to escape the present moment, seduced her back to the night the poem came, by torchlight and against a backdrop of whispered complaints from the rest of her dorm. She had written many poems in her girlhood, but, at the furiously truthful age of fourteen, she had birthed into poetry some essence of her soul which had whispered to her all her life and would always be with her. 

This was the only poem that mattered and so was the only one she would never share, never tell the existence of. Never, because she did not have the courage. Never, because it was too exposing. Never, because they did not deserve to be told what they could see for themselves. And never, because if anyone knew the true texture of her soul and said the mildest, lightest word of criticism, she would know she had betrayed her self and the punishment would be permanent exile from her body – left to drift in purgatory while her body smiled and got on with the business of pretending it didn’t matter; it was only a poem. Heads or tails, there was no retreat from this.

Entering this competition was the last thing she expected herself to do. She had read the advert in the local paper and huffed at the very idea. Then, as she passed the paper’s office, she popped in, curious to see who had entered. Kate, the receptionist, assumed she wanted to enter and it seemed rude to refuse the form, so she took it home and completed it in the absence of a crossword with her coffee, then left it for the recycling. Her husband had helpfully posted the thing on the way to work and so sealed her fate. She twisted her wedding ring and felt a surge of anger that he had put her in this vulnerable position. 

Even now, as the compere gabbled his way to a close, she knew she could just say one of the many other poems she had memorised. None of them carried this sense of risk; some of them were good, and probably no-one would notice they did not fit the title she had given on her form, but some solid pebble of fire deep in her gut knew that she would speak the poem she had come to speak no matter what she decided or what bargains she made with herself. Already there was no return.

Another wave of nausea bent her slightly as she wondered why she had told all her family and friends that it was important they be here tonight. Earlier she had peeped through the curtain and almost fainted in horror and delight at the number of faces she knew, all waiting for her. Her husband and children were here of course, and the ladies from the allotment, but also the staff from several of the local shops, the couple who ran the Ring O’ Bells, Molly’s dog trainer, the postman, and friends she hadn’t seen for months or years. Susan wondered about running, now, to another town far away and starting again, but the knowledge that this was her only chance to share her self with the important people in her life was persistent. That thought, alone, had the power to get her onto the stage.

She imagined hearing her name announced with the title of the poem she had concealed for so long. She pictured herself stepping through the curtains, nodding thanks to the compere, folding the paper and putting it into her pocket, taking the microphone and standing solidly on the stage. The panic inside melted. She felt 14 again.

Only when her poem was halfway through being spoken by that powerful voice did she realise this was not imagination. Without a flicker of hesitation she continued, present and strong. It no longer mattered if they loved her, hated her, were indifferent to her. She was alone, her soul bared and brave.

When she finished there was a long pause and her fears pounced on her. People started clapping, but some were standing. She almost fell – she hadn’t considered they might just leave! Then more people were standing, and clapping, and not leaving. They were standing for her – some grinning, some crying, all standing for her and her poem and clapping forever.

She had no idea how she ever got off the stage or into a chair with the million babbling people and she returned to the stage to collect her prize and a shower of wonderful words and to speak her poem all over again in a barely lucid dream.

The next morning she woke with an unaccustomed champagne hangover and lay motionless, wondering how life would be as this newly revealed woman. When she finally got up and braved the world, she discovered that nothing and everything had changed.

Lunar Hine