Writing Sanctuary | Day One

Responses to Beth Kempton’s prompts for SUMMERING

I am sitting in the old workshed. The one we bought from eBay back when our daughter was so small she stayed where you put her, sitting plump and clutching at new things with her chubby fingers. The one our friend came to help us build, bringing his toddling twins along.

Earlier in the summer we worked together to clear it out ― a project that always feels somewhat Groundhog Day. But this time I had a clearer purpose in clearing. And now I have a corner with a desk, and pigeon-holes above, and a surprisingly comfortable chair. It’s cool in here, cooler than in the house in this uncharacteristic heatwave of ours. I have a jar of dried lavender and before I sat here I gave it a little shake and breathed in the scent that always calms me, redolent of ma and B__ M__ and the garden here. A reminder of slowness and growth and being here.

Delicate cobwebs still trace my bare knees and cling to my hand where I had to clear them as I came through to the desk. I always hate to undo the hours of work by busy clever spiders, destroyed in an instant by my blundering presence.

This is a peaceful place.

Green-gold light comes through the window and dapples the desk, twisting and dancing as the trees outside shift in the breeze. I can hear birds singing and the busy sounds of the chickens pecking and scratching outside.

Above the desk there are jars, labelled couscous and Pearl Barley. They hold old grains and memories. My father’s artwork, my mother’s sorting.

Behind me I have tucked the hydrangeas from Cornwall, dried now and still so green-blue. 

Something is clattering on the roof. A squirrel most likely.

And now I am ready to explore the sanctuary for today.

. . .

~ DAILY SPARKS ~

This Fountain

Stained wood

A cluster of fungus loitering pale at the base

Muddy paws lolling startle-pink tongue lapping

A delicate ritual after a hectic run

The speed of delight

Bikers twist and leap

Skaters fix their wheels

Tiny scooters defy gravity

Mismatched pairs pat ping pong

Cricket whites and a missed catch flicking across the parched grass

A football bounces improbably over the fence and another fence

Wanting to join a different game

Make Only Essential Journeys

Is it the same Ben North, the one I’m thinking of?

We worked together at P__. You dated my friend. Drawn it seems to stocky, manly men with a vulnerable, darker side.

You loved SFF I think, but perhaps I’m mis-remembering. You struggled with depression.

You did a job I would have loved to do but didn’t realise until I was too tangled in management to go back. Though like Macbeth that was only words I told myself. It just never occurred to me that I could enter that enclave that was peculiarly masculine in a world dominated by women. There is a confidence in those copywriting men I lack. 

When it seemed you might move to H__, my envy and disquiet prompted me to try for change: to propose a new job role. 

I put my head above the parapet and dared to ask for what I thought I wanted. 

Instead, the shock of redundancy. Retreat.

Then I read of your death. So sudden. So young.

I read that you were also a poet.

And today, this first day of trying again, the spark is one of yours.

And as I finished reading the last words of your poem, the shocking bright red wet of blood on my fingers.

I haven’t had a nosebleed out of the blue like that since I was a teenager.

. . .

My persons from Porlock : S with a question

        A message from my sister

        The dog bounding after squirrels

. . .

Before I begin to respond to the invitation for today, a note around thoughts I’ve been having about how hard it is to find words for things in nature: sensations and sounds and images I struggle to capture

Light on water

Bird song, and the other noises birds make 

The colour of leaves, of dried grass, clouds, the horizon

\ \

Responding to the invitation to explore what bubbles up, capturing summer

:

It’s a dry summer.

this year, the colours are soft golds gentle beiges white-blond baked

The trees are already shedding their leaves, green to brown without the ombre yellow orange red of autumn, conserving their energy, drawing themselves back to their roots

Grasses are how I remember my childhood. The slip of them dry underfoot the crunch the spike of stubble catching on smooth skin. Little red dots later. Scratching.

Nights in dark rooms itching under calamine and cool flannels.

Leaping through the sprinkler before we understood about saving water.

Slipping and sliding down piles of hay in the old barns at the back of the house.

Pressing down into a nest in the meadow-grasses.

The smell of it. The sweet sweet smell of it.

Yesterday, in the park, a feeling of being lifted out away into a different place. The melting pot of London finding themselves playing cricket and football in familiar open arid fields of drought-drained grass. Mopeds clustered for football. Slick cars for cricket. Even in the open democracy of the park there are tribes and distinctions. 

The light is different too. Shadows are greenish yellowish. Grass glares. Our golden dog is lost in the tones. Everything is flat, crouched and crushed to the earth, finding what peace it can from the heat.

. . .

From 9:15 until 11:15 I have been summering. I feel peaceful and glad. I like to write here in the shed, apart from the daily things.

Yesterday, I resolved on a rhythm to try and it has led me here most pleasantly: from dozing until i fell awake, through stretching and swimming. And on my way home from the lido, the unexpected joy of chat and being inspired by gardening. Then home to a simple breakfast of egg and avocado spontaneously enhanced with radish and seeds, a twist of salt and snippings of chives. Oh but before that, new bedding for the chickens and food hung for the birds and finding a twist of wire to repair one of the terracotta feeders and moving the box of rosemary so I remember to water them and realising that there on the pew was a good place to eat my lovely breakfast and bring myself into the right space for writing. And there is food enough for the dog for a couple of days and I will balance it with when best to defrost the freezer and I tidied the freezer and found a bag to put my simple kit for writing in: my Virago tote, to bring me to that frame of mind. And in it slips the iPad and phone and water bottle and napkin and pen and clipboard with fresh paper. And I sit on the pew and I write by hand those thoughts which have been drifting through my mind this morning, and I watch the chickens and enjoy the garden and the sun and the good food and feel glad.

And then I come into the shed, break through delicate silvery strands of cobweb to clear space on the desk, breathe in the lavender i forgot i had left here for just this moment, arrange my hydrangeas and remember dear friends and happy party nights, look up at my couscous and pearl barley and begin filled with love.