One last stone for the river

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So, source to estuary – my river of stones has flowed its course.  Each pebble has been smoothed buffed and laid gently in its place. A trail of moments lived.

Penultimate Stone

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I have a room of my own – just as Virginia suggested. I look around my little cell. I love it because it’s mine, it’s me. I love the desk, the cupboard, the drawers, the pictures, paper and pens. This is the zone.

Stones 27,28, and 29 added to the river

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27 My back cramps, my left hip aches and my knees crackle. Fingers ache with arthritis. Once out of bed, I look in the mirror – my late mother appears to be looking back at me. How can this be? How did I get to be fifty-five? Inside I’m still in my thirties. I look at my reflection and smile – it’s not all bad this ageing thing – sure beats the alternative. And as I grow older, I can let my eccentricities and subversive streak rip and people will put up with it. I plan to grow very old, very disgracefully.

28 Saturday pause. I stop and breathe. Catch up with real life. Unwind and recharge. Each day has its own ‘feel’. Saturday feels good – a day of being in the present.

29 Sunday is a split personality sort of day. I like that it’s still the weekend – a lazy day –a looking back and forward day. But it’s always tinged with blue.

Pebble 26

Insomnia – an old acquaintance. Lights on in some neighbouring houses tell me I’m not the only one who isn’t tucked up. I sit in the night-quiet living-room, sipping camomile tea, reading, hearing the ticking clock, waiting for my eyes to fall heavy. Hoping to get a couple of hours before dawn.

24th and 25th Stones

24 My earrings – I have many – today I’m wearing small blue enamel studs. All are small expressions of me – bright, subdued, sparkly, subtle, understated, eccentric…

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25 It’s the Bard’s birthday – Robert Burns, Scotland’s poet . He’d have been ace at writing these small stones. And I’m taken back each year, as I am today – to primary school days – reciting ‘To a Mouse’. What foresight and wisdom in one small poem.

 

In memory

Joy and sorrow – love and loss – recent  moments of happiness –  to a present  time of sadness – all in the same Christmas picture. A happy great-grandpa sits with his new great-grandchild. With hellos and goodbyes – the cycle of life turns. Farewell George, we’ll miss you. (In memory of my dear father-in-law passed away 23^rd January 2012)

Smoothing things out

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Ironing, anchoring, smoothing, satisfying - Sunday meditation ritual – time to think and get rid of the creases.

A link of gold

It’s warm, soft and a perfect fit. Its smooth, golden surface reflects and radiates a golden light. The inside is engraved, etched with significance. My wedding ring’s embracing circumference holds thirty-four years and the possibility of many more.

The Gift of the Present

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Now, in this moment, it’s all ok. All, being everything that really matters, is presently in order. When I take the time to stop and listen, to filter out all the crazy static interference, when I disengage from what is gone and stop second-guessing the future, then I know that all is well - and now is all that matters. The gift of the present.

Twenty Nine Reminders

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Twenty nine of them now. Twenty nine times that I’ve been taken back to that cold, snowy morning. The two-year-old whisked from her bed and taken next door. The car, the ambulance, the pain. The operating theatre - and then, “It’s a boy!” said the midwife.  ”We don’t have boys in my family,” I said. “You do now!” said the doctor. And I marvelled, instantly in love - my perfect wee son. And every 17th of January, I’m taken right back there to marvel once more. Happy Birthday, son.