Tears of joy

I don't yet understand fully why it is that when we write for ourselves that those writings can reach other people. Neither do I understand why writings written through need for our own healing are so often given away to others. What I mean is, why do we need to release those writings and to have them read? I have begun to realise that I write for liberation. Although from what I seek release I am not yet sure. I think I feel 'heard' and understood in ways that I don't feel without writing. It is hard to find opportunities in life in which to express ourselves accurately with our own music. When I first allowed people to read my work I felt terror, but also a resignation, I had been fully seen, properly understood and I had not been interrupted or denied. With the printing of this little book this feeling has intensified, the readership is much wider. I am telling more people about it. I want them to read it and I also don't want them to read it. It is as though a real freedom is found in expressing myself fully and without restraint, inviting people to reject or accept me as I really am on the inside. The freedom for me was realising that I was, in fact, still loved, in spite of what I hold inside myself. I was not prepared for any of these thoughts or feelings that I am discussing here to surface after the publishing of our little book. I only knew that I very much wanted and at the same time very much did not want to do it. Some part of me certainly anticipated feeling difficult emotions, but what they would be was an unknown thing. But the time had come to no longer flee from these unkown feelings. It should come as no surprise that I feel very emotionally raw and slightly bemused by them, but our emotions and thoughts are our most constant human companions. I would be bereft and hollow without them, changeable as they are. Mostly I feel a depth of gratitude equivalent only to other times of key significance accompanied by that strange welling of tears. It is true that we cry tears of joy, and I am about to shed some.

Free

The first of our books has been put together and self-published. It feels good, a real thrill, a buzz. I have let loads of people read my poems and meditations gathered over the course of six very painful and also very rewarding years. I had made so many assumptions about how people would react. I tried to predict their reactions so that I can keep myself safe and protected. None of my reactions were right. Mostly they were so moved that they cried.
Today while I was doing some mundane task, so mundane that I cannot recollect it, I realised with alarming clarity that I was 'free',

Observations of Botanical Gardens

Large terracotta pots stand to attention. Topiary tree soldiers. An army of taller conifers stand tall behind at a distance. Veteran soldiers of a higher rank. The wide, deep terrace is crazed. Paved in random 'crazy' patterns. Solid teak chairs and tables sit empty, puddles of recent rain collected on arms and slatted table tops. The slope of the seats are strangely dry, stained russet and promising autumn.
A man's voice, the approach of flip flops. Idle comments, where to sit, what's good for his back, where's best to shelter in case of rain. The teapot has leaked
"take it back"
"it's alright"
"take it back, its not alright"
"no, no, it's fine"
The flip flop sound, he takes it back, she doesn't protest. Echoes of apology in the kitchens.
"Oh, sorry"
"no problem"
"These pots..."
"Oh, don't worry, its fine!"
The English way.
The flip flop noise gets louder with his return.

Loud clanking sounds of whirring demolition engines. A yellow arm of a digger lifting pieces of roof away from a nearby school. A bucket-shaped claw, swinging and returning, repeating the motion. Engines strain with relentless progress.

We all sit in our private worlds at separate tables, clinking cups, tapping forks, discussing cake under an Arts and Crafts veranda in a restored turn-of-the-century Edwardian villa. Wisteria is still in leaf, purple raemes long gone, it is tickling the sky with its tendrils. The celebrated family who built this place, they would have chatted about cake too. Would have bemoaned and celebrated progress in turns, just as we do.
Two women's voices.
"Shall we sit here?"
"Its up to you"
"Shall we? inside? outside?"
"I'm not sure"
"Inside, you decide, I really don't mind"
"Yes, inside, thats fine"
The English way.

The man in flip flops makes a call.
"Could you please ask Martin to call me please? Yes, well, if you wouldn't mind, its just that we are thinking of making a cash offer on the property. Would you mind at all if we had a look at it? Its just that it might be good to find out a little more, get a feel for the property. Yes, well, ok then, if you wouldn't mind, yeah, ok"

They would have sat here too, making polite offers, working out their sums, stretching their budgets, investing their cash, apologising for nothing at all, trying not to offend. A huge black bird with wings extended into witches fingers flies overhead. A tiny spider crawls across the dappled grey and sand paving. The contours like mountains. A wayward ant searches for direction and it seems that nothing really changes in moments like these. There are crumbs on the table from a previous feast. A lurid rippled green glass jar, an extinguished tea-light reaching the end of its useful life.

We hear a shocking crack as the demolition vehicle bites chunks of timber from an attic space. Through to a walled garden. Gravel crunches underfoot. An overwhelming floral scent, drying lavender, blooming stocks, catnip and the promising smell of rain-soaked earth, birds chatter. The demolition continues, but within these walls there are only gentle sounds. Wheelbarrows on pathways, nip, nip, nip of borders being snipped, neatening the edges of the flower beds. Low male voices discussing practical matters. A distant drone of a motorbike. So late in August and the bees and flowers persist. Indigo blue sweetpea flowers creep up a wigwam made from sticks and twine. Plush, purple daisies needlessly smooth and luxurious like velvet. Discs of pink punctured with purple and a button of yellow nod slowly and sagely, heads the size of petite hands. Glossy red chard, beetroot, and curly lettuces their colour a mix of balsamic vinegar and hops, sit in queues waiting for recipes. They are promising us late Summer salad for the last days of August and Italian casseroles for warming the first chill of Autumn. The towering wall of beech trees at he far side of the garden shimmers with laquered sheen the colour of morello cherries. The trees quiver in the breeze.
Some lazy red and apricot roses and some tardy thistles puncture the soft feathered greens. A lone surviving tower of runner beans is still dotted with scarlet orange flowers. A Christmas tree for Summer. The clover in the lawn is a cushion underfoot. Artichokes shoot boldly from the borders of the grass pathway. A sharp contrast to the quilt underneath. The sky is inky and bubbling and I am ready for my lunch. Time to go home.

Observations of Tea-time

A squirrel, a grey one, obviously, is seated like a monarch on the end of a branch. He is moving with the stance of a surf boarder on the feathery waves of the Yew Tree. He conducts a perpetual search for red berries, risking life and limb for each and every one. Sometimes I feel depressed for him that this is what he is reduced to. In another life he could have been The World's Only Circus-performing Squirrel. But all ambition has been lost so that he can focus on his berry picking for the moment. The cat, on the other hand, harbours no apparent thwarted ambition whatsoever. She is content in her dotage to watch birds from inside through the glass door. She is happy to chase spiders, to defend her patch from marauding blue tits by hissing at them. Mostly she sunbathes in those rare moments. At the moment she is being hypnotised by a wasp, who appears to be controlling her mind.
Car doors are clunking. People are returning for their 'tea', their 'supper', or their 'evening' meal'. Microwaves will soon be pinging. The smells of frying onions and spices will soon be singing in the corridors.

Observations in a Park

Observations in a Park
The flower beds are vivid cartoon colours. Orange and fuschia, purple with red. Colours only nature has the courage to combine. When a stranger smiles, sometimes it is touched with joy in repsonse to your own, sometimes it makes you question. A strange barking sound is coming from the next bench along like a distress signal. Someone in a wheelchair with a need to make noises, communicating something without words. A man walks past with the words 'I usually start Sunday morning on the bench' printed on his red T-shirt. There are knocking, hollow sounds from a construction site, where they are re-building the cricket ground. There is the distant strumming of the City roads. The shrieks of children, high-pitched on the wind, swirling with the prematurely falling leaves. The geese honk and chat and squawk. Birds shift in the bushes. The pedals on the orange plastic pedal boats squeak. A leaf skitters across the tarmac grey in front of a spinning bike wheel. My hair shifts in the breeze, tickles my ears, gets in my eyes.
Platform heels clip clop past, bleached, blonde hair, a tatooed upper arm, one child on a hip, another in the other hand, another trailing at her heels. The child's teeth are protruding, eyebrows high in surprise. A sapling tree, newly planted in remembrance of a dead girl is opposite me. She was a daughter and a sister and she was 14. She had a Sikh name, and it would seem that everybody called her 'Bubbles'. There is a poem and a drawing of a harp etched into the metal plaque. The poem simply thanks her for being who she was.
Most of the black iron and wooden slatted benches are empty and so they sit strategically placed around the War Memorial enjoying the view all by themselves. It is still early in the Summer holidays. It is the first week. Clouds are threatening British Summertime rain. The litter bins in all their black enammelled gold-plated glory are not yet crammed with Cornetto wrappers, wet wipes and nappies. They sit expectantly, waiting for it all to start. Some more pedal boats, these ones pale blue, float pointlessly, young couples in overambitious life jackets pushing them around in circles in a few inches of stagnant water. The Midlands is so far from the sea.

A metal walking stick of the variety issued from the NHS stumbles rythmically past the conifers and the one remaining empty circular flower bed. The leaves rustle and some pretty curvaceous birds fly off on some unknown business. Crisp packets scrunch and the park cleaning vehicle chugs around it's circuit. The strange barking sound begins again, more and more frenetic, it seeems to mirror the honking of the geese. In the distance a lazy game of football is in progress and the smell of over-sweet adolescent deodorant mixes with the soft greenness like another colour on a pallette. A small boy of about three or four imagines himself a football hero. He scurries enthusiastically with the ball. Little blue and white striped tee-shirt a nice foil to his father's immaculate blue and white attire. This father is a man of quiet pride and obvious dignity. He is ironed out to perfection. Little yellow pointed flowers waggle their heads in smiling approval. They are like waving flags at a parade. They cheer him on as he charges on with inexhaustible energy. He calls 'Dada, Dada, Dada!' rolling his eyes in exasperation and disgust at his father's inability to score. A hornet lands on my electric blue pen and dances with it as I write. A young woman ambles along with her thoughts wrapped carefully beneath a black scarf. She wears an incongruous turquoise sweatshirt with the number 55 on the back. She looks like a basketball player wearing Hijab.
The air is cooling and the light is changing. Toddlers in helmets and elbow protectors are learning to ride three-wheeled bikes coloured lilac and yellow cheerleaders tassels hanging from the handlebars.
A Sikh family are devouring ice lollies. The children have their hair neatly coiled, or un-cut and plaited. Their father is neatly turbanned and charged with carrying the bread for the geese. We live in peace in this place at this moment and I am glad of it. This is England. It is 2010 and we are right here in the very middle of the country, in Birmingham. One of our beating hearts, almost the furthest distance from the sea that you can find on such a small island. A place where, even so, the sea gulls still sing hopefully for a fish supper. I can't explain my love for this place. But it is my home now. This is a place for exiles in search of homecomings. I delight in its complexity. But I am tired now of the over use of the word 'Diversity'. We've moved beyond that here. It is more like tapestry. It is very beautiful at its best. I percieve it as a 21st century version of those ancient tapestries. The Medieval murals which told stories without words about how things were. The parks of England tell stories, some sordid, some promising. Cannon Hill Park tells a very particular story. It is a magnificent tapestry. It is coloured and textured. It is multi-dimensional. It is a window for the imagination. This is a park whose boundaries seem to largely suspend prejudice. Whatever prejudices we hold, they are rarely, in my experience expressed here. Instead of voicing our thoughts and opinions, we allow ourselves the luxury of hoping that just for the length of a cup of tea, we can accept our differences. It would be easy to slip into cliche. Describing this park lends itself to the trap of listing nationalities and describing different skin colours, hair styles, types of dress, indicators of belonging and believing. It begs for descriptions of the Polish waitress, the French speaking family in African dress, the Japanese man with the Jack Russell terrier. He has a broad Brummie accent. Is he Japanese at all? I have to fight a descent into a description of the wide range of age groups. The sheer scale of difference embraced and held here. But this is a fruitless task. It would be easier to describe what isn't here. The nationalities, religions and various elusive categories of people. But even this would be guesswork. The French-speaking family in African dress were, in fact, Canadian. What really matters here is that we are 'at play'.
I have met people recently who are either moving to Australia or New Zealand, or who knew someone who has, or is.
"what is lovely about it" they say, without exception "is that it is just like England used to be, say 40 or 50 years ago"
'How awful', I think.
"I see" I say instead.
"Before...you know...er...before..."
I look confused. They can't usually bear to say the word 'immigration'.
"Before, crime rates, violence, that sort of thing".
Was there ever such a time?
A flock of grey pigeons are swooping sleekly overhead, synchronised. They are all the same. Grey native birds. They are swimming in the sky in circles like a warning of the impending rain and the thickening clouds of the English Summer.
There are plenty of 'Dads' in operation today. I think perhaps the 'Mums' are at work. Its good to see.
"It didn't happen in my day", Mum used to say."Your Father never once pushed any of your prams. It was simply unthinkable, I envy your generation" she said "Dads who push prams..." she used to shake her head with delight that such an unforseen development could take place in the human race.
When I hear about how wonderful Australia and New Zealand are because they are 'unspoilt, just as Britain was 40 or 50 years ago', I wonder about the selective memory that nostalgia comprises. What purpose does it serve? it unravels the latest tapestries which we have woven with such intricate care. People pine for the simplicity of 'wooden tops' and other home-made Victorian toys, like those we had in the 'olden days'. But our nation's children love the colourful new ones. Fabulous trikes and scooters and tasselled bicycles in every colour under our bleak grey skies. It didn't happen in my day!