I hate the news.

I hate the news.

I hate the news so much that sometimes I mindlessly scroll through it while my chest tightens. I roll my eyes and tut and my breathing becomes shallower and the sun sets behind me and the breaths I hear from the chests of my children grow slower, deeper.

And it’s dark, pitch black, my screen an illuminated rectangle in the gloom around me, shadows of furniture rising up in silent protest.

What’s wrong with living in the present.

What’s wrong with asking the neighbour if they were the ones who chopped all that offensive ivy in your back garden while you were away for a week.

Like that is the biggest news of the week, and not the bombs dropping on all the countries around the globe, their children starving to death, their big devastated eyes beseeching from behind the screen.

And you like and share and rant away.

Charity groups accept payments and then screech into your email inbox several times a day, several different names, screaming until your ears pop that these children need you and that their tents are filled with snow and water and they’re all sick sick sick and have no homes and are starving to death so please help.

Heartless, you are, if you want to switch off and focus on your life for a bit.

Cold.

Cruel.

Selfish.

What do you do? Wither in pain for all the pain and suffering in the world?

Somebody said you have to take care of yourself and turn off the bad news because you won’t be able to live in the present, dead birds and dead children and soulless eyes and manic leaders. How can you live though, while they don’t?

And the thought always pushes its way through red raging chaos;

The thought that what if we say too much bad news is not good to avoid helping, to selfishly continue to live our peaceful lives in blissful gluttony.

What is the truth, really.

The Giant Fell into the Raging Sea

Here is my contribution to the March 2022 Writing Prompt from Michelle at Putting my Feet in the Dirt.

The giant fell into the raging sea. Oh, the roaring sea. The storm went on for hours, slashing the sails, smashing against the sides, scratching holes in the wood and splintering the deck. The sailors vomited over the sides. In relief? In terror? In dread of their own deaths?

Nobody thought for a moment about the giant until it was too late. They were all slumped in various places when the storm waned. The clouds, thick and heavy and furiously black, quickly dissipated. The sky they left behind was alarmingly blue. Too cheerful, it seemed, for the carnage it left behind.

A loud sobbing sound rose from the depths of the ship. Louder than the slowly fading roar of waves. The sound grew wilder, more grief stricken.

One by one, the sailors raised their weary heads. Sunken eyes, drenched hair, damp clothes.

‘Who’s that?’ one of them muttered.

‘We’re all on deck’ another groaned.

‘Apparently not.’

The wail rose higher in pitch, until the sailors’ ears began to ring.

The captain went to see what was wrong.

When he came back up through the hatch, his face was a deathly shade of green.

‘What is it?’ he was asked, as he pushed past his men to look over the side of the ship. Pushing past them again to run across the deck and look over the other side. His breathing grew heavier as his men crowded him, looking over the edge, craning their necks.

The water was blue and glorious again. The sunshine lapped at the waves, glittering into the distance. The deck was almost entirely dry.

The wailing below was a siren. Screeching into the piercing blue around them. Raising hairs, shivering timbers. The sailors pressed closer together as the captain let out a groan of despair. His eyes were wide as saucers, his knuckles alabaster white as they gripped the handrail.

‘It’s over, lads,’ he whispered, ‘we’re finished.’

The first mate was now striding towards the hatch that led to the underbelly of the ship. The prison cell. Where they had chained the giant using the strongest iron on land. He began to descend, and the other men were quick to surround the hatch, peering warily as the first mate disappeared into the blackness below.

The captain stayed on deck, staring with unseeing eyes into the distance.

There it was. The tell-tale surge of ocean. A giant wave, hiding the monstrous giant beneath its surface. Hurtling towards the ship at breakneck speed.

The first mate emerged from the hatch soaking wet.

‘Giant hole!’ he spluttered, ‘Giant hole! All the creatures are drowning! Giant’s gone! Giant hole!’

Spring (and March)

Hello so, things are beginning to bloom. Small buds on trees. The neighbour’s daffodils. White blossom on blossom branches. Sun lingering in the garden, asking for lemonade. Coats shrugged off, then quickly pulled back on when the biting wind peers in.

I want to ramp up my writing this month.

Next month.

I want to do a March writing prompt challenge – it’s a weekly one, thank goodness, and there are four prompts. It’s run by the lovely Michelle over at Putting My Feet in the Dirt.

The next challenge is actually a twist. It’s a poetry challenge on Instagram, run by a one Savannah Brown. She calls it Escapril and it has been going on for a few years. I may do poetry, but I am much better at prose and enjoy it more, so it might be that I stick to prose. But it’s essentially a list of prompts for every day in April, and it looks like a fun challenge!

Last thing to say, it’s March, folks.

March March March!

Oh glorious March.

I was born in March.

My husband was born in March.

The first blossoms appear in March. The sun feels warmer in March, for the first time in months.

Happiness seems around the corner in March.

It’s my favourite month of the year, for many reasons.

So here is a small ode to March.

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March

March is a pretty month.

A fair month.

A blooming month.

March starts out grey but ends up golden, a full spectrum from bare branches to boughs dusted in pink and white. 

March is the gateway to longer days.
Brighter evenings.
Warmer rays.

March breathes and her breath is sweet.
She roars and her wind is fresh.
She beams and her sun is a ray of promise.

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Watercolour

I used to paint a lot when I was a child. We did not take art lessons at school, there were no art supplies at home. My mother used to give us the equivalent to £1 a week in Emirates currency, and I saved enough to buy myself a set of acrylic paints.

Then, every morning, I would take myself on to the balcony of the flat my father rented for twenty one years, and set myself up on the dark green tiles. It was sunrise, so the coolness of the desert night wafted in on the breeze. When the sun rose, the heat would set in, and I would be forced indoors. But in that pinkish orange glow that heralds a new day, I would sit and paint.

Oh, I fancied myself a real artist. I imagined such masterpieces would flow from my brush.

In truth, it was just exploration. An affinity I had for art which I poked and prodded until my fingers began to feel accustomed to the brush, and shapes began to take form. The passion soon waned. Or else other things took precedence. Like exams, keeping up with peers, outings… an eventual move across the globe to another country…

Anyway. Recently I bought my son a set of kids’ watercolours. A very simple set. You dip your brush into some water, then dip it into a disk of colour, set amongst 20 other disks. Cost me £5. We sit everyday at around 3pm and do some painting. Baby has a nap, and we have ‘quiet time’.

Anyway. I love art. So I enjoy myself thoroughly.

This is what I came up with today! It’s amateurish, but I am proud of my amateur work, and I enjoyed painting it.

Good Luck

She was the lucky girl, the good girl, the happiness and sunshine girl. Her bright curls and her light smile and her sparkle voice – a bubbling brook, a tinkling stream, the voice of a promise of something better. Something exciting, the whisper in the wind as you stare over a bridge at the city lights in the dark. That wind. The telling of something fantastic coming your way. That was her.

Good luck charm, her father called her. Apple of my eye. Little poppet. Pet her head. When she got too old for that it was in a knowing glance.

Sunshine smiles, her mother said. Her mother sang her name in a million variations.

Gorgeous girl. Laughing girl. Girl with all the ideas.

Happy girl, smart girl, girl with all the talents.

Girl who opened her mouth and was listened to. Who asked and was given. Who glanced and was warmed to. Girl with all the gifts.

And they said ‘Everybody likes you’, and they said, ‘everybody thinks you’re great.’

So it became that it was to everybody she looked for her self worth. Not within herself.

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Dancing by the Light of the Moon

I always say I am not a poetry person, but I don’t think that is true. I recently picked up a blue book from the library called ‘Dancing by the Light of the Moon‘, by Gyles Brandreth. The tagline at the top reads ‘How poetry can transform your memory and change your life’.

Anyway one of the biggest things mentioned in the book is that poetry is memorable speech, and very important for children. Children by nature take delight in playing with language. Studies have also shown that speaking poetry to babies and children improve their language acquisition. Children who learn poetry apparently sleep better, concentrate better and do better professionally later in life.

I don’t know too much about how true these bold statements are, however, I do know that my entire childhood was full of poetry. I devoured it. I loved it.

I memorised so many poems from classic novels. Classic writers like Susan Coolidge and L.M Montgomery liked to pepper their stories with poetry. I took great delight in these little rhymes as did my siblings. We turned them into songs and games, and I even took the pen and sat to write my own little limericks, ones that my sister still ‘sings’ to this day. Not even to tease me anymore, it’s just part of her rhythm. I once found a book filled with little limericks about all my mother’s siblings and school friends, written by her at age 11. They inspired me so much that I began to write limericks about my school teachers, subjects and classmates.

Sometimes poetry can be daunting, and not all poetry is for everyone. Some people may like simple, funny poetry. There was this one long poem by A.P. Herbert that I used to recite all the time, and it started off like:

‘Dear Madam, you have seen this play.

I never saw it till today.

You know the details of the plot,

but let me tell you, I do not.‘

It’s hilarious and wonderfully memorable. Click here to read the rest if you’re interested.

Other people like longer sonnets, or contemplative pieces like those by William Wordsworth and Lord Byron. Or short, snappy brilliant lines by Emily Dickinson.

At school, when I got a bit older, we had to study a lot of Shakespeare. I detested Shakespeare. I found his subject matter drab and dreary, and I didn’t care a penny for any of his ridiculous characters. I didn’t find them funny, or amusing or even tragic. Just plain stupid, I would say. They were a chip on my shoulder and a pain in the bottom. My teacher loved Shakespeare however, and the animation on her face as she discussed his work was enthralling. She didn’t not make me love his work any more, but her classes were always entertaining.

And it lent a thought to my curious mind.

Contrary to what some may think, poetry is for everybody. There is a poem for every single person out there, just as there is a book for everyone. The poem that is for me, may not be for you. But I do believe poetry is in all our hearts.

What is your favourite poem? Which do you know by heart, and often recite to yourself?

Dancing Faeries by  August Malmström

Now that you’re grown.

You have to be in a kind of mood for writing, and for working out, and for doing anything remotely productive and worthwhile.

That’s what I used to think.

Now I know you have to show up, even when you don’t feel like it.

Show up every single time your child cries in the night, and they will have a healthy attachment with you.

Show up every session at the gym, or move your body every day, even when you don’t feel like it, and your cardiovascular health will excel.

Show up everyday and write, if you want to be a writer.

Show up for yourself, and you will reap the benefits. Nobody else.

One of my favourite quotes is this:

Write a million words, the absolute best you can write – then throw it all away and bravely turn your back on what you have written. At that point, you’re ready to begin.

David Eddings

I have had to show up these past three years. I have had to show up for my kids, at the expense of myself. I have had to show up regardless of how I felt, how ill I was, whether I had brushed my teeth or not.

And because I have had to do that, I have had to take a good long look at any hours I had free, and fill them with things which made me a better person.

A stronger person.

A person I wanted to be.

I don’t know what this means except maybe that I am growing up.

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6am thoughts

I look at a mountain and I ask, ‘Am I a people pleaser?’

Only the mountain is not in real life but in my memory. I would never look at a mountain in real life and have such a thought. Can you even control your thoughts? I saw some real life mountains this week and my heart was sucked out of my chest. I could breathe fine, but something strange clouded my mind.

Reading Jane Eyre reminds me of warm sweet tea and hot buttery toast. It reminds me of a square pattern pink carpet, faded by the blistering heat of the desert. It reminds me of hot days, curtains billowing in dusty wind, burning air on my cheeks as a rattly van full of sweaty children speeds along shiny wide roads. Breaking necks, lives hanging on edge.

I saw some mountains this week, and waterfalls cascading down them. Not as impressive as Niagara Falls – small trickles falling over rocks and mossy branches into lakes. Fresh air, cold noses, babies with red cheeks.

I took my babies to the Lake District – well actually my husband took us. He booked everything when I was away with the kids staying with my mother, and when I saw him again he said he’d missed us and he wanted to take us somewhere. My son loved his first ever holiday. He kept telling me he was having so much fun. He slept so well, as did his baby sister. Better than they do at home.

Am I a people pleaser? I ask the mountain in my memory.

What a beautiful mountain it was. Snow-capped, green and brown, sitting in the biting storms for centuries. People coming and going. Fashions changing – what does it care for fashion? – ages and wars and the slow, sweeping turn of the millennial tide.

And it sits there, holding the earth together.

I asked my aunt if I could come visit her and her ‘text tone’ scared me so I called her sister – my mother – and said I was nervous about her answer and my mother rolled her eyes at me.

Well, I didn’t see her do it but I know she did.

‘Why are you nervous?’

‘She sounds so cross, I don’t know what will please her, I asked her if she could do Friday as Saturday would be too hard for me and she strongly hinted that although she was free both days, she’d rather I come on Saturday.’

‘Ok then stay with her Friday night!’

‘I can’t ask her that!!!’

‘Why not!? She is your aunt!’

‘I know but…’

‘If L (my daughter) called you about staying with E (my sister), what would you say?’

‘I’d say you’re crazy, E loves you to pieces, of course she would want you to stay with her!’

‘Your aunt has such a soft spot for you’

‘But she sounded so angry!’

‘Yes CALL her then, nobody sounds how they mean to via text’

‘Ok ok ok’

‘Silly girl’

Sometimes you just need to call people.

Brain Rules

This year I promised last year’s me that I would read 30 books (5 books more than my 25 book challenge last year!). I completed 26 books last year so I thought I would up my challenge a little bit. Just a small margin, haha!

One condition with these books, though, is that they have to be less fictional. My TBR (to-be-read) pile increasingly contains non fiction books about parenting, child brain development and other things I found an interest in but never pursued (such as the strange story of Typhoid Mary!), and I thought this year I really ought to buckle down and really the read things I have saved for later.

So it’s the end of January and I have completed one book so far. It’s called ‘Brain Rules for Baby’ by John Medina.

It was a wonderful book, full of scientific research about the best practices to follow in order to raise happy, healthy and most importantly, emotionally regulated children.

John Medina (who is a father of two) never writes in a way that makes you feel bad for not doing something. His tone is cheery, upbeat and optimistic. There is always something you can do, as long as you do it! Big or small.

One of the biggest things I took away from this book was the need for children to play, and to have a social circle. I won’t go into anymore detail as I am currently with my children (they are having breakfast and I am typing this out quickly while they make a colossal mess everywhere!) – but I loved reading this book. I learnt a great deal, and I am going to be using it as a reference point over the years to come. It made me feel energised and full of ideas for play and connectivity as my children grow.