Frosty Sunday

The days have been clear and cold these last three weeks, the nights have been frosty, the stars sparkle.  This morning we had to leave the house early while it was still dark and in the headlights everything shimmered with tiny crystals – on our way back there were mists over the fields and the frost covered grass and leaf – I wished I had my camera with me, must remember to take a walk tomorrow to take some pics!

Early on Tuesday morning we’re off on a journey of 2000 km each way – we both have knots in our stomachs, we plan on doing it in two days.  We’ve done it before in the winter and summer, but somehow we’re just getting less resistant to the long distance travels.  Quite likely last years move has just worn us out – but we’ll just troop along and get on with it.  Our house sitter and cat companion is arriving tomorrow afternoon, so everything is organised, but my thoughts continue to drift.

Drifting and meandering around time, age and circumstance, around events that form our lives, family and friends.

I really had a hard time turning 50 – it was like a brick wall speeding along railway tracks towards me, obscuring all else from view.  I got through it, I got to the other side of the wall – there is life here, as there is life on the other side of the picket fence that is 60 as well.  Now I accept my age and in fact enjoy it – many issues are no longer important because I feel that I have everything that’s really important.

I remember the lessons I learnt from much younger women, I was about 48 or so and I learnt a great deal from a 19 year old about a job we had to do and I had real problems with – it was cleaning after some people left a real mess.  This lovely young woman said to me, Lusha I can see you have a real problem doing the bathroom, I’ll do that and you can do the kitchen.  We started on the outside, we raked and swept, we made a fire, we put some music on and by the time we started on the inside all the tension evaporated and we cleaned, cleaned and cleaned – I’ll always remember what that young woman taught me – every job is just a job and if someone else can do it, so can I.  That helped me to get off my high horse and get my hands dirty, I’ll always be grateful to her.  The was another young woman, Naomi – you know who you are, when I was stressing about getting old – she said something like she can’t wait to get older and have all that wisdom.  Well Naomi, back then I had very little wisdom, but I’ve been gathering as I believe you are too.  I’ll always remember that – a young person telling me the really important thing that comes with age and that it’s the only way to gain other than with the passing of time and with experiencing life.  Thank you both!

Today I’m publishing 3 little poems that all deal with ageing in one way or another – the first little one I wrote for my sister in law on her 50th birthday, ‘Welcome to the other side of the wall’.  The second is ‘Sometimes’ and it’s about another aspect of ageing, while the third is just a light hearted muse about time and space – hope you all enjoy! Thank you for taking the time to read!

 




Freedom

landscape-007There was a time of darkness,
thick, black heavy air.
Surrounded and enveloped,
encased and locked,
in the cold, dark depths,
every move and thought.

There was a time of locked doors,
heavy bolts slid shut.
Mean minds and angry footsteps,
invading the night.
Eyes watching and listening for words,
uttered through sleep and dream.

There was a time of nightmares,
loneliness and pain.
Standing on life’s road,
a child with tears.
Walking a dark path,
over many, many years.

Freedom came like death and birth,
all rolled into one.
Freedom was a journey,
in fear begun.

Freedom took a path lined with mirrors,
that pained the eye to see.
Freedom opened windows,
and let the desert air in.

Freedom unlocked doors,
in the mind and heart.
But my hand had to push each open,
and take a step outside.

Freedom laid a path through space,
and over time.
But the decision to follow,
had to be all mine.

Freedom showed me wonders,
along it’s winding road.
But freedom never told me,
what the EXIT sign would hold.

© 2009, 2016 Lusha Hood – all rights reserved.




Where we stand

009We stood on the other side of the mountain
and to stay together, we held hands.
The breeze shook the leaves on the trees
and the dew sparkled like diamonds.

The river below ran deep and slow
heading towards distant lands
and the breeze sang sweet melodies
with a voice of gravel and sand.

I looked at my hand, to see the hand
that anchored, my soul to the earth
and I saw there the man whose spirit,
was entwined with mine
from another far distant time.

The sun shone on the side of our mountain
but the valley remained, a steep dark band
my soul mate, he wanted to climb higher
said there was a good life to be had.

I said I would follow over river, sea or land
so he took my hand and we jumped,
off the side of our mountain and soared
on the wind, to find those distant lands.

We followed the river all the way to the sea
where waves crashed on rocks and sands
we crossed the big blue searching for dew
which clung to hills, where the vineyards grew.

We heard strange birds sing in the trees
gnarled and worn with the waiting of years.
The sentries and guardians,
at the gateway we entered
to tether our souls over the coming years.

We built and we laboured,
a warm nest for our bones.
We drank wine and we danced
with the company of our fine cats,
who formed a string quintet.

We looked over yonder, just across the way
Where our mountain stood almost still
it waved to us, an invitation
to the journeys we yet must fulfil.

© 2016 Lusha Hood – all rights reserved.




The Poets Muse and what worries an artist

img_1880It’s time to put some thoughts down – this last year has been so busy and so full of emotion, moving to a new country, trying to learn the language, making new friends, the physical work of moving, moving and moving.  There just was so little time for reflection – fact is that life is good!

For the first time in my life I can say that I’m truly happy, fulfilled, secure and cosy….. along with all that positive stuff has been a nagging feeling in the base of my skull, a question that has been scratching around in my cranium – because I’m happy, have I lost my mojo? Have I lost my ability to write poetry? to paint?

I’ve not discussed it with anyone, I’ve not even voiced this to myself, I’ve just been hoping that when the time is right the Muse would visit again.

A lot of artists fight with depression all their lives, most of us strive for happiness, but are a little bit afraid to take the step towards where we know we can find it because we are just so damned afraid that once we settle into some form of bliss that will be the end of our creativity. I made a clear decision when I followed my heart and soul, knowing that if the mojo will be gone – so be it! Not sure that the world would miss my paintings and poems, not that the world has seen much, there are other forms of expression – I guessed.

Just over the last few weeks, especially after the death of Leonard Cohen, I’ve been thinking about this a lot.  A friend reminded me of a time when I painted and listened to Leonard constantly – I must have worn that CD out, it wasn’t even mine – later the young woman who owned it gave it to me as a parting gift.  Last night I had a dream that I wrote a poem again and I knew the sound of it – the rhythm and a little bit of rhyme. But as often happens in my dreams I looked at the sheet of paper the poem was written on and I could not make out the words, they seemed just out of my reach – very frustrating! As I slowly began to wake – probably from the frustration, I saw the place where I stood and some lines formed in my head….. I knew more was coming, I could feel it cramming behind those two lines, but of course I didn’t know what they were until I’d written the lines down.

I have never been able to ‘contrive’ a poem, it always has to flow from somewhere outside of my head, I can then work it and rework it, I can then add to it – because when I re-read the words I’d written it’s like catching the line of silk again.  I never know what the poem is going to be about – I just write.

So, here we are – the first poem I’ve written in 18 months and the first blog I’ve written in my life! A bit of a blather……




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