Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

We can sing of mountains, paint the sweep of river valleys, write poetry of beach sand. Song, picture, words; they may arrive slowly, but never so slowly as the mountains itself has been pressed up from the earth's mantle, as water has grooved rock, as the waves have ground stones. Geography teaches celestial patience. I haven't quite mastered it yet. I google 'geographical explosions' just to see if I can get ground to shift faster. There's Yellowstone Calderas and the progression of events at Krakatoa: powerful stuff: terminally powerful. When the earth isn't going your way, look to space. Here I find what I need. Stars that throw light and silver into my night.

Rain flicks over the windowpanes, like the cloud shook the drops off. I am busy tidying things, shaking out the old: there are flicks of ousted cloth and paper across the office floor, spilling over into the bedroom. Active mode oversteps in the woods, when I slide down the steep bank faster than expected, arriving in a ball of mud and hawthorn. All the splinters come out easily. Wade through wet bluebells, run along the trunk of a fallen tree. Call to the river as it tumbles over rocks: 'I can do this!' Rain falls, ticklish, on the river surface. All of the water has a light sound: it seems glorious to fall, to tumble. 

  After days of sun, last night brings rain: brings the scent of damp earth, the tap and splash of satisfying drops against glass and dusty windowsills. Cool floor tiles under foot, sun warmth lingering. Washes of rain deepen colours even in the dark: wet surfaces reflect: soft midnight blue. Wind sings in the wire: sings, this is your world, your beautiful world. This morning blows between sun and showers. Eyes open reluctantly. Everything feels reluctant. Tired weight drags. This evening, as the car rolls down through a series of traffic lights, just another car in another row of cars, and we have drunk the last of the espresso from the lid of the old pink flask, I look up. I think I see a lost balloon, at first, a round of helium filled foil: or it could be a bin bag, billowing, swept above the slow traffic bustle.

Yesterday:  Me and Dog and an orange tip butterfly meander the lanes. Dog's colours, called liver and white, make a blend and contrast pattern against blossoming hedges. Butterfly's colours, bright white, irradiated orange, dark brown body: like a concentrated version of Dog. Butterfly has traveled here from last summer, from being a globulous egg under a leaf somewhere, from being a caterpillar, from the magic soup of the chrysalis: this species, I recall, overwinters in pupae form. A whole winter, suspended, between states of being. Today: Orange tip butterfly hovers in my mind. I am sat in the garden, sun at my back, hair shadows flicking. The breeze is warmish, is fresh. Thoughts flux, not unusual. The way I think: a fixed thing is a finished thing: I do not want to be finished. But then I think: a whole life spent in a chrysalis state is not a whole life. 

Little Granddaughter stands on the bars of the gate. Thirteen bullish and uncertain bovines skuffle in front of us. 'Hello cows,' she says, and blows from her nose as they do. One licks her shoe and is reprimanded. It looks at the floor: poor socially awkward bullock. Today this child's confidence in life has caused a collision with the garden table. She remembers to run around it after this, but she runs, undaunted. We sprint round the currant bushes until dizziness knocks her over. Up she gets, panting, covered in grass. 'Again!' Until Grandad picks her up to show her the bullocks in the field opposite. Then it's 'Oh wow. See cows? Come on Grandad. Nam-ma! Where's a doggle? Oh, come on: see cows.' Not all of the words in her barrage are legible: it doesn't matter, because it's enough to get us to the field gate. All the time I have been frowning over spreadsheets and scribbling marketing notes and biting my fing

We wake up when our dog shouts at us. Half past nine. Sun is shining. Mr makes toast in a frying pan: the grill pan is busy spitting sausage fat. Coffee is iconic dark. There's a line of medicinal wine stain on my lower lip. It smiles at me through mirror dust. It doesn't matter to anyone if I clean the kitchen or not, so I do it. A pot sits on the Rayburn top, sweating vegetables. The washing machine rumbles. Windows stretch open, let the sky spill in. No one looks at a clock until their belly prompts it. If it feels like time to walk on the beach, it has nothing to do with clocks. Some useful stuff is put in the car: like coats and house keys. Flip flops are kicked off. Feet in sand don't mind if the sun drops or the waves wash cold. 'What a nice life we're having,' Mr says. Bared feet feel the warmth of the car pedals. We could drive anywhere. 

What I wrote last night: only couldn't keep my eyes open long enough to post here! Woke up much fresher, with minimal wine staining... Wearing this tiredness as blinkers. Which is amusing, since the invention was to keep the focus of the coach horse on the road ahead. The immediate future is the thing I shy at. Except the fat glass of wine that gets skinnier each time I glance at it. Mysterious. I have an opposable thumb. Therefore I can lift the wine glass, therefore I can unbuckle the blinkers. I am more certain of the first, presently. After sleep, the second may be unnecessary. Either way, I am not a coach horse, however tired I may feel. (However: much more likely to wake up with wine stain on face than any horse I ever met.)

Full blossom on the cherry tree by the sports hall door. I notice it today. The sun is bold. I open the door and sit in shade. Students walking in: white suits bouncing blinding night. While I am sitting, I am thinking what sort of times are these? I am thinking of a dragonfly grub, sensing change, sliding feet, ascending a stem, feeling like bird food. After class the sky is light: pale blue, soft golden orange. I notice it today. The sun sinks slow over the beach while I walk and think and hear the waves telling me wise calm words. Rock pools so warm, like a Mediterranean beach. Where my trousers have caught the surf, a cold damp settles. Coffee in a flask, the car heater works.

Affirming sun splashes on every bared surface. Down by the river, Mr and me are climbing trees. The river runs lower than we've ever seen, the water clear enough to show where the rocks are pointed, where the mud slides to depths. Mesmerised, one foot slides astride a trunk, lands one leg in a bramble tangle. No harm done: if anything, more laughter appears. Okay, maybe today is not the day for shimmying out on the branch that overhangs those incisive boulders. But still, foot scuffs in the moss of the thick trunked fallen tree: they are proof of this: I was here: I laughed.

April's A-Z Challenge is put to bed :-)  Sleep is the drift between one day and another. Dreams come from this: tumbles of thought and hope and things that happened that we saw, or heard about, or felt. Night spreads like wet ink, slippery as squid, heavy eyelids sink, sink. Deep, down: drowned in sleep: subsumed. Held in suspension: sleep is a chrysalis. As we wake, shade becomes colour. Yes, I remember now. And if I were never here, the lightness would mean so much less. I remember, I regain: swim upwards, laughing.

A-Z part Y 'What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.' Richard Bach. An Emperor Dragonfly, tattooed on my shoulder, in flight, is always wings stretched, always having climbed from egg to grub to chrysalis to this leap of faith. Grub form lingers in half-light, calls the shadows home. Much is learnt in these formative shades. Grub feels comfortable in this mud, in this formational half-light: feels safe being half-formed, being unlaunched. This is the comfort zone of discomfort. If I hurt, if I am failed, I need not fear waiting for pain or failure to find me. Foolish grub! Life is not only harsh truths: not all truth need be harsh. Sunlight is no lie. Grub at the base of the reed, looking up, hesitant: drawn. What is it that I want then? To live in this half-light, as most people do, but to leave a body of work that is the beautiful, truthful guide to living in economic vagary, though people migh

X is the unknown, the independent variable: also the mark of treasure, of affection, of the illiterate. Here is a formula to consider: My life + X = perfect Dog and me, we wander the woods, hear only the wind, the river, a whir of duck wing. Thirsty eyes drink up the green, and cheer. There's a bough over deep water that I've seen, and dare to climb. Here, even my slight shiver of fright is refreshing. Giggle and get down, gently, as the bank is not sturdy. Walk then, over anemones, primrose, wild garlic, baby stalks of bramble and rose, down where the fallen tree has gathered a shale beach, and off come my boots and the water is not so cold and the rocks mud-slippy. If I had thought of it, I would have drawn an X in this shored up silt, where the sun was shining through the edge of the new leafed trees.

A-Z challenge part W: This is a mash up of my writing, or perhaps I should think of these words as simmered into something tasty and nourishing? I have been strolling the fields with Dog. The weather swirls from hot to cold; an assortment of fattened clouds are dumped across the sky, humidity fluctuates from one step to the next, like the dial has broken. It reminds me of when I’m tired and trying to cook. The weather is trying to remember how to knock up a thunderstorm, but keeps putting the cumulonimbus down somewhere in the troposphere, and promptly losing it . Then it forgets the dew point of water. And how much turbulence to add? Tiredness is a great friend to forgetfulness. I’m tired now, and there’s a tired pile of dishes soaking in the kitchen sink. Only the thought of coffee is strong enough to pull me back up the slope of this slippery field, in through the heavy clank of old farmhouse doors, into the kitchen. On the crumb speckled worktop, over the surf-stic

The A-Z reaches V!  Holiday- a day set aside by law or statute as exempt from regular business activities to commemorate a date or festival. A Holy Day: a part of a nation's history. Vacation- a scheduled period of time during which regular business ceases. Vacate: relinquish, empty, withdraw. Please mull over that in your own time: which you would prefer, whether it matters...  Right now, my perfect time would be spent with an espresso machine, a library, a laptop, a blank sketchpad, a sunny beach. What I have is a stovetop espresso pot, a small bookcase, the internet, a laptop (slightly cranky) some clear sketchbook pages and a damp garden. This is not a complaint, for it's not too far removed from the ideal. This damp garden has primroses, chairs clustered around the bonfire ash, a rogue chicken and eight budding currant bushes. My answer to the question is: forget semantics, let your lexicons fall: if the sun shines, close your eyes, bask. 

At our first Black belt grading: Zoe and Boy literally strike a pose... Once upon a time I was never going to start training in Tae Kwon-Do. I tried it, because I am always curious about things and it seemed polite to pay some attention to the profession of the man I was dating. All I ever seemed to hear was 'Are you going to do Tae Kwon-Do then?' (In an annoying singsong fashion: not how it was said, that's how I heard it…) Being a strong, independent, working mother I did what I did, not what my boyfriend did: but I liked him enough to try a lesson. Both things worked out rather well. I never liked gradings, though, they made me horribly nervous and full of distracted mistakes, until I reached red belt, when, in spite of nerves and still with odd errors, there was a confidence growing. It was the confidence of having made it through all the previous gradings, the confidence of knowing my training was ample. Also, before we grade, we have the ritual of the

A-Z Challenge: a different kind of story collection featured here! There is so much more to Tae Kwon Do than punching and kicking. Each pattern (a sequence of attacks and defences against one or more imaginary opponents) has a meaning attached to it, which students are required to learn. These pattern meanings are intended to inspire students, showing the five tenets; courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control and indomitable spirit; in action. In practice, students tend to memorise a bunch of words, not always correctly. It is very amusing to be told by an earnest six year old that Yi the First was an expert on Neon Confusion but if he knew the real story of Yi I he would be getting a much fuller Tae Kwon Do experience. Pattern meanings are a marvellous, under-used resource for teaching Tae Kwon Do, for teaching about life and death, about another very different culture, about philosophy and true bravery. Which is why I wrote, illustrated and published a book a

A-Z story installment S The last bit of this story, although the alphabet isn't quite done Life can be confusing... She carries the little bundle up the stairs to bed. Echo curls under the quilt. Claire makes a wall of rolled up blanket behind her, to stop a fall, anchors it inside the sheet. She strolls back to damp the fire. Her ribs ache. The floorboards are smooth and cool underfoot. She pauses at the window. Stars ping out in a thickening sky. There they are, millions; millions of stars, casting down light in diamond lines, all through space, millions and millions of stars. She sits at the window seat, her hand pressed against the glass. She cries without effort. Shadows get deeper, they overspill, make a rising tide all through the small house. There is enough illumination left to find a match. Claire lights a candle, treads back upstairs, her silhouette lurching by her side, slips into bed. ‘Obscure,’ she whispers, ‘a speck, nothing more. Unique to t

A-Z story, installment R.  Claire's mind drifts. She finds herself in a garden: herself as a barefoot child, running, easy as a lazy wind, through swathing grass. Lilting air presses her face, whispers, indecipherable and ticklish. Light tilts, she jousts back. Broad leaves on a smooth barked tree: in the sun, the leaf glows, shows its skeleton. She holds her hands to this bright sun, then cool mist, then shivering wind, then fresh rain: years of seasons pass, they tangle up like riverweed: they knot and twist until she remembers all of it, receives it like a solar plexus kick. From the edge of the bridge, how the air pushes back at her, how her fearful limbs flail; the icy metallic smack of the surface, how sudden it is; the water that closes over her head and how her mouth opens, closes, silent and pointless. A swell of tears wakes her up. The fire glows. Shadows play, against the light. ‘Like stars fell,’ she says. It kind of makes sense now. Perfect Echo is los

A-Z Part Q In the alcove at the side of the fireplace, a brass box holds kindling sticks and firelighters. There is coal in the scuttle and logs in a basket. The grate has some ash, craters of it, like a moonscape. Claire ponders raking it out, but then again, it is a light layer, it won’t choke out the draw of air. She has done enough work to be happy with her day. She opens the brass lid of the box to pull out a square of firelighter, a handful of sticks to make a fast blaze. Echo, meanwhile, has wandered over and poked the curious ash. ‘Careful,’ Claire warns, gathering the child to her lap. ‘You can watch this, okay, but then I put the fireguard up and you don’t touch. Ouch, hot!’ Echo, intrigued, makes no comment. She studies the white cube of paraffin as it catches the proffered flame. She studies the flames that spiral around the skinny kindling. ‘Woff,’ she whispers. ‘Fire is lively, like the dogs,’ Claire tells her. ‘Kind of sounds like woff, doesn’t it?

The A-Z story: installment P It's what cushions are really for! Echo explains she has finished by tipping her plate upside down. Claire scoops up leftover clumps of sandwich, stacks the plates, crunches her last wedge of apple while she whisks into the kitchen. Echo climbs up onto the un-cushioned sofa, hollers triumphantly. Claire can’t help but laugh. She returns to the living room and re-poses the cushions; makes a wall to hide behind. Echo slides herself, legs first, to investigate. The wall tumbles. They cheer, and rebuild; cheer, and rebuild. The cheers magnify, the rebuilds wobble, flimsier each time. Laughter swallows them up. Claire lies on the floor, chest heaving, eyes overflowing: strange noises squeeze from her bagpipe lungs. The more hopeless she is, the funnier it becomes. Echo’s giggles reach an explosive frequency. She does a sort of hiccup and sighs. ‘I think,’ Claire says, recovering her breath, looking at the lowing sunlight on the wall; ‘we s