Still Hurting

It's all too sad.

Watching another's sorrow

is - for me - more painful

than bearing one's own sadness.

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary...


Extract from The Rainy Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beyond Tears

Over the past few weeks I have encountered cause to look at the world through eyes filled with tears.
One of the most important people in my life is hurting - deeply, and I can not make it better for him.
Given just cause, the depth of sorrow is an emotion with which I am no stranger. Over two years ago, in the darkness of compounded loss, grief and despair, I wrote a piece which began ...

'We do not see clearly through eyes filled with tears...'

I no longer think this is true; on the contrary, I now believe that deep emotion allows us to tap into a clarity that would otherwise elude us. Allowing ourselves to feel the pain, to embrace the suffering - so painful though that may be - enables us to measure the extent of the injury. Only then, will we be able to fathom sense of what has become of us; only then, will we grow; and only then, can we begin to move forward.
The sorrow will prevail but we will endure.

The Toys

My little son, who looked from tearful eyes,

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,

Having my law the seventh time disobey'd.

I struck him, and dismiss'd

With hard words and unkiss'd,

His mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,

I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet

From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;

For, on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red veined stone,

A piece of glass abraded by the beach

And six or seven shells,

A bottle of bluebells

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art.

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I prayed

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when we lie at last with tranced breath

Not vexing Thee in death

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good.

Then fatherly not less

Than I, whom Thou has moulded from the clay,

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

'I will be sorry for their childishness'.

.................................................................................Coventry Patmore

The Little Black Boy

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun - there God does live,
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday

And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

And when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice,
Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love, and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice'."

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;
And thus I say to little English boy,
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will love me then.

William Blake

BUCCANEERS or PIONEERS?

Adventure on the High Seas

On hearing the sad news of the death of Alan Freeman today, I began to reminisce of the days when I, too, worked for Radio Caroline. The original pirate radio station broadcast to the British Isles during the mid sixties, bringing popular music to the nation's ears and revolutionising the music industry and the classical sounds of the BBC. Amongst many others, such names as come to mind are Radio Caroline DJs Tony Blackburn, Dave Lee Travis, Simon Dee and Ray Terrett. I remember there were also quite a few Americans and Canadians involved. Not many people realised that there were two ships; Radio Caroline North was in the Irish Sea about three miles off the Manx coastline.

My role was to pioneer a Radio Caroline programme named 'Wedding Bells'. The programme's purpose was really to generate (much needed) advertising revenue from mainland retailers and businesses. And it did! Following the introduction in 1967 of the Marine Offences Act, I recall that fateful day in March '68 when both ships were seized and forced off the air. Silence. The two ships that housed her southern and northern stations were towed from their moorings by Dutch tugs for an undisclosed destination.

Radio Caroline is probably the most famous of all the offshore 'pirate' radio stations and her story has become something of a broadcasting legend. It was all a great adventure and I'm glad to have played a little part in it.

Prior to the cruel 'sinking' of the pirate radio station, I took up other employment, got my degree in psychology, married the most amazing man, had our babies and went to live abroad. Returning to England in the early seventies, I was working for an established newspaper when I was approached by Eddy Shah (another great pioneer) with the news of him setting up his own local 'Messenger' newspaper. So with the pioneering spirit within, I relished the chance of being part of it! I left the Messenger Group after a few years to accept a position with a major newspaper, just before Eddy Shah made national news headlines himself, when he took on the union. Eddy and his subsequent 'chosen path' has been well documented and I'm delighted for him in his alternative and ongoing successes.

Ever the pioneer, in the early eighties I launched my own glossy magazine, it was way ahead of it's time, quite avant garde, was featured on TV and won an award. As we approached the millennium I had great plans for the magazine but personal tragedy struck, and the desire to spend all precious time with the people who mattered to me was far greater. This led to advanced studies in psychotherapy and the opening of the clinic. I'm still approached with requests to relaunch the mag - and I might add that it's tempting -but (just like Eddy) I am otherwise preoccupied 'writing the novels' and developing the clinic which now also specialises in loss and bereavement.

Now that's another story!

The Invitation ... I Want to Know

It doesn't interest me
what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to
dream of meeting your heart's longing


It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
For love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
If you have been opened by life's betrayals
Or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain

I want to know if you can sit with pain - mine or your own
Without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it
I want to know if you can be with joy - mine or your own
If you can dance with wildness
And let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
Without cautioning as to be careful, realistic
Or to remember the limitations of being human

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true
I want to know if you can dissapoint another to be true to yourself
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it is not pretty, everyday
And if you can source your life from its presence
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine
And still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silvery moon, 'Yes!'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live
Or how much money you have
I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair
Weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done
To feed the children

It doesn't interest me what you know or why you came here
I want to know if you will stand in the fire with me
And not shrink back

It doesn't interest me where, or what, or with whom, you studied
I want to know what sustains you, you from the inside
When all else falls away
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
And if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments


Oriah Mountain Dreamer

What Do You See?

When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland, it was believed that she left nothing of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through her meagre possessions, they found this poem. It's quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The old lady's sole bequest to posterity has since been distributed far and wide. A nurse-training slide presentation has also been made, based on the old lady's simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now remembered as the author of this 'anonymous' poem...

CRABBY OLD WOMAN

What do you see, nurse, what do you see
What are you thinking when you look at me
A crabby old woman, not very wise
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a load voice, 'I wish you would try!'
Who seems not to notice the things that you do
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill
Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see
Then open your eyes, nurse. You're not looking at me
I'll tell you who I am as I sit here, so still
As I do at your bidding. As I eat at your will...

I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother
Brothers and sisters who love one another

A young girl of sixteen with wings at her feet
Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet

A bride soon at twenty. My heart skips a beat
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep

At twenty-five now, I have young of my own
Who need me to guide a secure happy home

A woman of thirty. My young now grown fast
Bound to eachother with ties that should last

At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone
But my man is beside me to see I don't mourn

At fifty, once more babies play round my feet
Again we know children, my loved one and me

Dark days are upon me. My husband is dead
I look at the future, I shudder with dread

For my young are all rearing young of their own
And I think of the years and the love that I've known

I'm now an old woman and nature is cruel
'Tis jest to make old age look like a fool

The body, it crumbles. Grace and vigour depart
There is now a stone where I once had a heart

But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells
And now and again my battered head swells

I remember the joys. I remember the pain
And I'm loving and living life over again

I think of the years. All too few, gone too fast
And accept the stark truth that nothing can last

So open your eyes, people. Open and see
Not a crabby old woman. Look closer... it's ME!

(Remember this when you next meet an old person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too.)

Let it Rain...

R a i n d r o p s................ on cobwebs
And wellies with peeptoes
Bright yellow brollies
And showers that sprout rainbows
Splashing in puddles
The laughter it brings
These are a few of my favourite things...

So let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!

Shoes

I wept because I had no shoes

Then I met a man who had no feet

[Anon]

Rainy Days and Sundays

Just lazing on a Sunday afternoon

Loss & Bereavement

Loss has been part of my journey but it has also taught me what is precious.
From time to time I will express some thoughts, writings and experiences here.










Some feel that we should not bury the dead nor press down the earth, so firmly, lest they should want to return. They should have a rest home for the dead.

Scattered Fragments

And the rivers reach the ocean where miriad thoughts drift across my mind; Elusive, some may escape and fall onto these pages.

Like scattered fragments...













Why do I fear releasing the tether?