writing, not drowning

The comfort of stories by the fireside - with Jackie Morris

I knew it would take something special to jolt me out of my seeming inability to write anything at all in recent weeks. I'd reached a point at which everything I thought of writing was dismissed almost immediately as trivial. Well, that is one of the stages of bereavement and one simply has to wait for the leaden feelings to lift and get on with life while waiting for them to move away from centre stage.

And, yesterday, there was something special.

It's five and a half years since I included one of Jackie Morris's exquisite paintings in this blogpost; discovering her work at that time was the source of immense pleasure. Since then I've followed and greatly enjoyed Jackie's delightful blog, We Three, Ginger Cats' Tales. There is now, sadly, only one ginger cat remaining - the redoubtable Elmo - but he and his elderly tabby companion, Max, have been joined by two Bengal kittens . . .

Apart from the feline tales, We Three and Jackie's other blog keep admirers of her work (her words are as inspriring as her paintings) up to date with what she is doing and, at the moment, she is very much on the road. As luck would have it, that road led yesterday to one of my favourite shops, the wonderful Number Seven, run by Jan, her daughter Davina and Davina's husband, Christopher, in nearby Dulverton. Jackie was spending the afternoon at Number Seven, giving readings, discussing her work, and signing copies of her books . . .

including the latest, East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

All of which explains why, an hour ahead of the first scheduled reading, two women of a certain age settled themselves by the fire in Jan's kitchen behind the shop, while Jackie read us The Seal Children, her first book*. I felt about five years old again, lost in the wonder of words and magical illustrations.

And we talked about books, painting, writing, children, travel, cats, the beauty of the Pembrokeshire coast, dragons . . .

and Tibetan bowls. I happened to mention cheetahs and told Jackie about the sanctuary I had visited in South Africa, where I spent time with an adult male cheetah and had fallen in love with these remarkable big cats.

'Have you seen my cheetahs and cherries paintings?' asked Jackie. She showed me one. That's it, I thought, I'm starting a cheetah painting fund.

If there had not been two dear dogs waiting patiently at home for their afternoon walk, I could happily have stayed by the fire listening to stories until teatime. 

As I left the shop, carrying a precious parcel of signed books, I saw Jackie's van parked outside Number Seven and just had to smile.

At four o'clock, the dogs and I walked up to the top of our hill and then had half an hour of what we call 'extreme retrieving' - the object being to tire out the seemingly tireless Miss P; even though it was wet and muddy, I didn't mind one jot. It had been such an uplifting day and a privilege to spend time with someone as gifted as Jackie. But not just gifted, warm, funny and approachable too.

By this morning, the emptiness of the past two and a half months had gone; the sun shone and the dogs and I enjoyed a long walk by the river. We went up to the hill again this afternoon and I stood in the top field and did a 360 degree turn, looking across to all the other hills, disappearing behind each other, in every direction and into the distance, just to remind myself of the beauty of this place. The dogs romped and rolled in the sun and were as happy as I was.

So, thank you Jackie and thanks also to Jan, Davina and Christopher for a memorable Saturday and for inspiring me to start writing again.

If you are visiting Exmoor, make a point of going to Dulverton and calling in at Number Seven - tell Jan I sent you - and don't miss Toy Ahoy!,their shop in Minehead.

*You can find a complete list of Jackie Morris's books here. And there's more to see on Facebook.

'And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest'

On Monday, my cousin, his wife and I made the same journey from the South West of England to Wales, to the same village church where family and friends had gathered little more than a fortnight ago to say farewell to my niece. And, just as it had on the day of my niece's funeral, the sun poured down on us but even more brightly. It was the sort of weather that one always wants on the first day of a holiday; we could hardly believe that we were now on our way to say farewell to my niece's mother, my dear sister-in-law, whom my cousin and I had known for almost sixty years, since we were children.

But the ancient church gathered us all in and gave us time and space in which we could both grieve and celebrate a long life, a life well lived and a life full of love. The four of us who spoke in her memory, each had our own particular and precious recollections but, without any prior conferring, we were as one in recounting her great loves: family, friends, home, dogs - and all animals and wildlife, music, laughter, jokes, cooking, parties and entertaining. The doors of her home - and her heart - were always open and, over the years, she had welcomed so many across the threshold of both.

One of the passions we shared was music and it was my sister-in-law who introduced me, when I was still very young, to classical music. Her great musical loves included Italian opera, choral music, and the tenor voice; she shared those loves with me, a gift that has lasted a lifetime. But she made music too: playing the piano was the source of much joy and was her escape from the demands of everyday life. 

This being Wales, the music at her funeral was very fine indeed, uplifting us and soothing us like balm: as a congregation, we sang Psalm XXIII, set to Crimond and that great Welsh anthem, Cwm Rhonnda, (Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer). My sister-in-law had sung with the Monmouth Choral Society, many of whose members, including close friends, formed the choir who sang her to her rest - Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus during the reflection and, at the closing, the Sarum Prayer, God be in my head, set to music by Walford Davies. The simplest of words, centuries old, the profoundest of meanings. It mattered not who was a believer and who was not; the beauty of the music gave us a safe harbour for our shared tears and sadness and, above all, a setting in which to give great thanks for her life and for the love we had for her and she for us.

So, this, for my unforgettable sister-in-law, now resting at peace with the two of her beloved children who went before her.

When the unimaginable happens

I thought I might write something about my niece's funeral, which took place a week ago, about the gentleness of the words uttered in the country church where we said our farewells to her, about the sweetness of the songs sung in her memory, about the tidal wave of love that rose from those who had come to remember her and which, we hoped, would help to carry her children through the saddest day of their lives.

I would have written of these things if the unimaginable had not happened. On Tuesday, her mother - my brother's wife of more than half a century, the wife whose carer he has been for the past two years - died in her sleep. In the past year, my brother has lost two of his children and his wife.

Words do not usually fail me but, for once, I find myself struggling to find words to try to make sense of it all but there are no words; there is no sense to be made.

All I can do in quiet moments, is set down my memories of my vibrant, funny, loving sister-in-law, set them down before time begins to dilute them. 

Raising French rafters

So, where were we? Ah yes, the South of France; La Ciotat to be precise. And before that we were talking about passion, as in passion for something. In that respect France, especially the South of France in early autumn, ticks many boxes for me. There's sun, warmth, turquoise sea, azure skies, good food (as in simple, local, fresh), history (as in French history in general and my own family history), the opportunity to speak French again (always welcome) and so on and so forth. To which I must add, the company of good friends made through joining the choir. We had all the fun of a school trip without any of the squabbling. There was deep, very deep, laughter on many occasions.

And then there was this new passion: singing. I shouldn't be surprised; it's in the genes. My mother sang professionally from the age of four until she married at 19. She danced too but singing was always her first love and she would always become a little misty-eyed when she talked about all the new songs she had to learn by heart each week. It would have been a daunting task for a small girl but she was always accompanied by her pianist father, a kind, gentle man, by all accounts, which must have reassured her. I still have a roll of programmes, dating from 1921, for the summer season of the north London concert party of which they were both members . . .

But it was when we gave our concert in La Ciotat's old church of Notre Dame de l'Assomption that I finally got it. As our voices rose up into the church's high-vaulted ceiling and rolled out along the nave, I got it. Half way through Moon River, as our voices echoed back to us, I thought of my ma and her passion and I could feel that old prickle in the eyes that comes whenever I remember all that she gave up at so many points in her life. It turns out that I wasn't the only one having a lump in the throat moment, triggered simply by singing.

We (that is several of us from Exe Valley Voices, as in five tenors, one bass, two sopranos, one alto and a choir leader) were a late addition to the Somerset choir members who travelled to France and we did a fair amount of fretting that we wouldn't remember the words or the music as we were singing in any number of different languages, including Czech. But, somehow, it all came together.

You can judge whether we got it all right on the night by clicking on this link, which will take you to a rather glossy account of our trip. (We don't come from Bridgwater, by the way, but one of the choirs does, hence the connection.) Not written by anyone connected with any of the choirs, I hasten to add. I think we might suggest that a pinch of sel might come in handy when reading. However, the link will also take you to videos of our concert. The visual and sound quality isn't great but you'll get the idea. And you'll see what I mean about those echoes.

A writing prompt

It was the first day of term this week; at least it was for the delightful group of women who gathered on Wednesday morning for the opening session of my 10-week writing course here in Mid Devon. They had all attended at least one introductory workshop in the summer, so had some idea of what to expect, at least in terms of approach, although they don't know, until each session starts, quite what they will be writing. So, anticipation  is always tinged with a little apprehension. And, given that this is the first extended course that I have led, I too was balancing these twin feelings.

But, as the morning unfolds, pens begin to speed across the page, pages are filled and writing shared, and we begin to sense that growing satisfaction of a passion shared. I am already feeling immensely proud of them for their energy and commitment and, if this first session is anything to go by, we have a term of inspirational writing ahead.

Although I have already mapped out each session plan, I'm conscious that every member of the group will have their own writing aspirations, so there is some flexibility in the structure. And it turns out that what several members would welcome is - a session on blogging. 

Well, how could I presume to guide people through the whys and wherefores of blogging, when my own blog had lain fallow for such extended periods of time? It was a silent prod; each week I send a writing prompt to my students, those in the group and those whom I mentor individually, via Skype. Now, here, in the room where we gather each week, I was receiving a writing prompt for myself.

So that's it. Must try harder. Must return to regular blogging and responding to thoughtful comments and and to blog visiting, because that it what a polite, conscientious blogger does. Must remember why I started writing this blog almost seven years ago and consider what, if anything, had changed in that time. Quite a lot, as it happens, but not, I think, the desire to communicate. It's just that life, including the challenging and potentially scary stuff, has a habit of getting in the way at times . . . which is what I tell myself until I remember that habits are simply learned behaviour and can therefore be changed.

A few years ago, when I was working on one of my last professional contracts, before I threw in the towel to concentrate on other things (ie writing for myself rather than for other people), I was attending an education awards evening at the Science Museum and chatting to a colleague. He had commissioned work from me when he had been a vice-principal of one of London's leading further education colleges and subseqently principal at two others. Somehow the phrase 'a passion for education' or maybe it was 'a passion for learning' came into the conversation and it turned out to be a thorny subject for him. 'I can't bear that phrase,' he said. It was, in fact, the word 'passion' to which he objected. I can't remember why, although I'm sure - given his impressive intellect - that he had a sound reason for this but I do remember feeling rather puzzled and a little sad about it at the time.

I don't think there is anything wrong in having a passion for something, well, certainly not something as worthwhile as learning. Because, if you do have a specific passion, it frequently goes hand in hand with wanting to share that passion and this is how I feel about writing. It's what I do and what I love and although writing this blog is just one of the outlets I have for that passion, it has always had a particular significance for me as it has enabled me to write anything I wish about anything I wish, from the personal to the political, from the seemingly inconsequential to the rather bigger stuff.

Meanwhile, I had one of those demi-milestone birthdays last weekend and, while I don't exactly leap up and down with unalloyed joy as yet another year is added to the tally, I do tend to take stock on my birthday. And, if appropriate, I make a quiet resolution, and sometimes several, for the coming year. As it happens, my birthday also coincides with having undergone that first, surgical step to vanquishing breast cancer (AKA on this blog as the Massive Inconvenience) two years ago.

As far as I know - because I haven't yet had my second annual check-up as the hospital is behind with appointments again - I remain happily cancer-free, fit and well, which pushes concerns, such as a much diminished income in my third age, into the shade. I learned a good deal on my journey to recovery and one of the things I have learned and now understand more fully, having always just nodded in its direction, is the importance of doing what you love and loving what you do. So I had better get on with it, the writing that is, and the blogging and, above all, encouraging others to write.

Come on in, the water is lovely.