Goodbye Childhood

Goodbye Childhood

This is Julie, the sleeping doll I got for Christmas when I was seven.

Actually, that’s not true. The one I got was dressed in pale green, my mother’s favourite colour. I was so disappointed that I cried. My favourite colour was blue. My father hastened back to the shop to try and change her. (It stayed open Christmas morning just for that reason.) Luckily he could. Then I was happy.

I loved Julie dearly, and used to walk her in a little toy pram. She came without underwear! I made her some black panties. They weren’t very glamorous; they were square, seams tacked together in white thread (I didn’t have black). But she wore them forever after, under her pretty clothes. I couldn’t comb her hair; it was glued to her head in a mass, no strands to separate.

Mum said later how sad she was that it was so soon after the war (World War 2) that we still felt the effects of rationing. China dolls weren’t available. Julie had bakelite limbs and head and a rag body stuffed with something that felt like stiffly packed chaff. I didn’t care. No basis of comparison! I thought she was beautiful.

Originally there was lace around her bonnet. Several decades later, she looked shabby, and almost bald (that hair disintegrated over time). She’d lost the booties that matched her bonnet. A crafty friend gave her new hair and booties. I sat her by my bed. She shouldn’t be hidden away, I thought.

Years after, in a recent decluttering, I took a good look at her. High time I washed those clothes again! I took off her bonnet. It was thickly lined with bits of hair that had come away. In the wash, the ribbons on her dress fell to pieces. Her cloth body felt lumpy. Her stumpy bakelite fingers showed some knocks. 

I’d sometimes contemplated selling her to an antique shop. But who’d want this war-time baby in her deterioration? 

I hadn’t cuddled her in a long time. I’d let her get dusty.

So much for sentimentality! Julie and her clobber, even the black panties I lovingly made her when I was little, all went into the bin.

Written for Weekly Scribblings #93 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we're asked to write about something we loved as a child.

Senryu Morning

Senryu Morning

damn bird

wakes me early –

the old bones ache

*********

noisy bird

wakes me – or is it

the bladder?

*********

shrill bird

wakes me – or the cat

scratching?

#########

damp morning –

huge bird poo

on my driveway

*********

out my door –

wet ground grey sky

silence

‘The Days Dwindle Down to a Precious Few’

‘The Days Dwindle Down to a Precious Few’

‘Don’t leave me!’ I said, knowing he must.

“I’ve got no intention of leaving you,’ he replied (knowing he must).

He was torn. After he left, I found journal entries which revealed how he yearned to see his Dad and his brother again. And yet, he also wanted to stay with me.

I was torn too, not wanting him to linger and suffer. I don’t think he did suffer much. He lost feeling in his legs, which had pained him for years. Once they were numb, they no longer hurt. 

In the end, I released him. ‘Do what you must,’ I told him. As he lay dying, I whispered into his ear, ‘Death is the greatest healer.’ 

I got through the first intense years of grief, thanks to my friends, my cats, and my writing. Already it’s nine years ago, and I’ve made myself a life … not so different from the one I had with him, but not identical.

I haven’t wanted to find another love. Except for a brief, miserable time after my first divorce, I had never before lived alone. There were parents, house mates, husbands … now, finally, it was time to be with me.

I’ve learned how I like to be when there’s only me to consider. I was always fairly self-sufficient. I’ve learned to be even more self-reliant. (It includes knowing when to ask for help, and who to ask.)

He pops in to check on me from time to time. Not so much now as he did in the first few years, but if I need him, he’ll show up. The dead are only a thought away.

‘Are you happy?’asked my son some years back, on a visit. ‘You seem happy.’

I thought about it, and said, ‘I’m very content.’

Soon I’ll be 82. It makes you wonder how long you’ve got. I’m not in any great hurry, but – having worked as a psychic medium for decades – I don’t doubt we can reunite. I choose it. (A personal development teacher once told me there’s power in choosing what is so.)

I move forward, at an unhurried pace, towards reunion.

September Song was composed by Kurt Weill with lyrics by Maxwell Anderson.

Andrew died on the 3rd of September, 2012.

This was written for Weekly Scribblings #92: Forward Movement, at Poets and Storytellers United.

Gifts Bestowed

 Gifts Bestowed

Penny phoned, regarding bad energy and things breaking down.

‘Can you help in a house clearing? Today?’

My guides spoke in my mind: 

‘Full regalia.’

I was new to formal magic. (Natural magic, with me all my life, was a different matter.) I owned no regalia as such, but chose a long dress and crystal necklaces.

I suddenly felt I needed a special ring for my right forefinger, but had nothing to fit.

‘It will be given,’ I was told.

At Penny’s, almost the first thing I saw was a silver ring on her windowsill, shaped as a Celtic knot. Aha!

‘Can I borrow this?’ I asked. 

‘Oh, you can have it,’ she said. A client had given her a box of trinkets, she’d picked what she wanted and the rest were lying around for any takers. It fitted my forefinger perfectly. Since then – over 20 years ago – it’s hardly been off.  

We smudged the house, going widdershins around it. (Anti-sunwise, which is clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere.) We went around again, drumming. I pointed my newly-ringed finger in a dramatic ‘Begone!’ gesture, putting intense willpower behind it. Then I filled the whole space with Reiki. Thereafter, she reported, the troublesome incidents stopped.

A few years later, while I was decluttering papers, a cut-out of the printed word, ‘Master’, stuck to my left forefinger. A friend said jokingly,

‘That must be your Master finger!’

(She knew that, as a Reiki Master, while I use both hands, one is my ‘power hand’.)

Then one Sunday I got a big hit to go to the local market and find a scarab ring for that finger.

I 'just knew' the right stall, but after they showed me all their scarab rings and none suited, I began to wonder. Finally they pulled a box from under the counter.

There was my silver scarab ring, underside shaped to the contours of my left forefinger: a perfect fit. It too has seldom left that finger since.

Two strands: past-life Egyptian recollections; this-life Scottish ancestry.

Today, with so much hand sanitising, these flat rings are the only two I still wear.

When I direct energy, they add their power to mine.

For Weekly Scribblings #91 at Poets and Storytellers United, Magaly invited us to write poetry or prose inspired by personal symbols. Not a symbol that holds the same meaning for everyone, but something special to you'.  

The rings are of course shown here larger than life-size,  for the detail.

Responses

Responses 

In the final lesson (lesson 6) of Write Like Issa, David Lanoue invites us to respond 'in kind' to specific haiku by Issa – answering them with our own, either in imitation or contrast. This is an honourable haiku tradition; Issa himself responded so to some of Basho's haiku. Below, Issa's originals are in italics. My responses are drawn also from my own lived experience.

the child hugs 

her cloth monkey . . . 

hailstorm

summer storm –

crouching

with my cat

*********

without you— 

this grove 

is just a grove

(1)

noisy bats gone –

the grove is again 

peaceful

(2)

meditation complete –

sudden kookaburras

laugh in the grove

*********

spring rain— 

in my lover’s sleeve 

coins jingle

spring rain –

my wallet

empty

*********

into morning glories

with one shoulder bare….

holy man

walked past unseeing 

weeds by the road –

morning glories

Sharing with Writers' Pantry #91 at Poets and Storytellers United.

Imaginary Friend

Imaginary Friend

Shadows fall through water.

I say to the you in my mind:

We are at October. For you

it’s heavy with autumn. Here,

Spring is giving us, again,

increasing light. 

But, for now,

the light is filtered. 

It has been raining

on the clouded river

towards the end of the day.

Shadows increasingly fall.

Where are you at present?

Traversing autumn

while I murmur of spring,

do you perchance also

watch light and shadow

rise and fall through a river? 

Are you even alive any more,

traveller? Where do you now

wander, and why?

I watch the River Tweed

and think of the Guadalupe

where once we lingered.

It was almost Beltane

(in April). I had two that year:

one there, one here. Now

as Beltane looms again

in October, I am doubly alone.

I think of you, and I wonder.

Photo by Glenn Claire on Unsplash

This picture is of neither the Tweed nor the Guadalupe, but Rock River in Medicine Bow-Routt National Forests, USA. However, the image suits the poem.

 

Note: There are two Tweed Rivers (that I know about). Mine is in Australia, not Scotland.

Written in response to Weekly Scribblings #90: October at Poets and Storytellers United.