Here comes the sun....PLEASE

This is what I want to be doing

I have had enough - that's it I've said it. I am so tired of the cold and the greyness. Yesterday was Spring Equinox yet the winter still seems be holding us in its tight grip. But I know I am not the only one. Everyone is feeling the same and it just reinforces the end of semester exhaustion.

A little bit of sunshine makes such a difference. A couple of weeks ago we had a glorious day (just the one) and I noticed everyone was smiling. They were all walking along with a bounce in their step and it made me realise how much weather can affect how you feel and how you treat others. Everyone was so happy. And words were written.

Don't get me wrong I am perfectly aware that come the summer (if it ever comes that is) we will be moaning that it is too hot. We are British after all and never satisfied.

This current greyness and cold seems to suck the life out of you and your creativity. Trying to write when you are so cold is difficult if not impossible. I end up writing fully clothed in my bed, with a hat on. Great image eh?

The picture above is entitled 'A man reading in the garden' by Daumier and a copy of which I was given for my birthday by a good friend. It is framed and waiting to be hung and it is my inspiration that the sunshine will come back. The trees will burst forth and the words will flow again, people will smile and there will be life giving light.

Even Rumi seemed to feel the same about winter...

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter 
I become a torture to those I’m with.

If you’re not here, nothing grows. 
I lack clarity. My words 
tangle and knot up.

Therefore, it had to be this song, it is an open prayer to the weather gods as far as I am concerned PLEASE LET US HAVE SOME SUNSHINE AND WARMTH:

A tiny book full of tiny poems

A tiny book full of tiny poems...

I know two posts in as many days but sometimes things just have to be spoken about. Books don't have to be huge to have an impact. In the post a little book arrived by Rumi and called Whispers of the Beloved. It is full of quatrains, so a tiny book full of tiny poems. I sat and read some of them last night and I fell in love with this one, it speaks so much truth:

It's good to leave each day behind,

like flowing water, free of sadness.

Yesterday is gone and its tale told.

Today new seeds are growing.

Then there was this little nugget, which seemed suitably applicable as I know how important my friends are, particularly at the moment. 

With friends you grow wings.

Alone

you are a single feather in disgrace.

With them you master the wind,

but alone,

you are blown in all directions.

Enjoy these two little poems and now here's a bit of Kirsty McColl with The Pogues with a Fairytale of New York, just for a bit of Christmas spirit. I love Christmas. 

Balance

A Diana Walles picture

Many people around me, and including me, are stressed and exhausted. We seem to be constantly running in order to stand still. It is not that anyone is shirking their job, there are just not enough hours in the day to do everything. For those of us who are creative practitioners this is a problem. In order to be creative we need a moment to stand still and breathe. In this beautiful picture by Diana Walles, she quotes Rumi: 'Let the water settle; you will see the moon and stars mirrored in your being.' This couldn't be more applicable.

I am a writer and I require balance. I need to find time to write otherwise I feel totally discombobulated. Disconnected from the person I really am. I am sure I am not the only one. Whether you work in academia or the NHS, or many of the other organisations being throttled by the current government, you are constantly fire-fighting leaving little time to stand still let alone notice the world around you.

I am sure this cannot be healthy for anyone, particularly those of us who, as previously mentioned, are creative practitioners. This is because there is the added pressure that as such we need to produce 'outputs' that justify our existence within academia. Where are these ivory towers where it is assumed we will go and be prolific?

I was sent this poem recently with the idea that perhaps it makes a gesture towards some answers as to why we are all so tired and over-wrought:

My life is not this steeply sloping hour (Rainer Maria Rilke)

My life is not this steeply sloping hour,
in which you see me hurrying.
Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree;
I am only one of my many mouths,
and at that, the one that will be still the soonest.

I am the rest between two notes,
which are somehow always in discord
because Death’s note wants to climb over—
but in the dark interval, reconciled,
they stay there trembling.
                    And the song goes on, beautiful.


I think maybe it does. I need to find this life that is not this steeply sloping hour so I can allow the song to go on and be beautiful. So to all my stressed friends, I hope you find that moment to standstill, breathe and remember why you love doing what you do.


For some fun listen to Moxy Fruvous singing My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors. Thank you Judith Ridge, who works for the Western Sydney Young People's Literature Project, for posting this on Facebook.