Everyone that shines a light on your journey through life plays a part in shaping you. Some of those lights aren’t really positive but we learn from every experience whether good or bad and happy or sad. We’ll all have good times and challenging times. We are never gonna agree with everyone’s opinion or decisions. Some of the worst experiences I have had, have made me more resilient than the good experiences. So if you can, tip yer hat to everyone that has made you, into you.
Embrace the Wonder
Lend me a pen, to allow me to scribe, the words on my mind,
on the hills that I’ve climbed, through the journey.
Grant me good grace to share a compassionate view, with those that divide,
and those that decide, as they conquer.
Deliver the shade to let me encounter both triumph and plight, whether wrong or right, on this saunter.
Afford me fleetness of foot, to tread lightly, where fragility lies and disdain flies high, as I dauner.
Provide me the stage to dream big, and dream wide, inspire in kind, seek pleasure with pride, and embrace wonder.
On my last stride, let me touch the shoulders of those that shone me with light, whether faint or bright, on the hills, I’ve scaled on this journey.
We all have memories of moments that happened during this journey, the friends we gained and lost, the adventures we went on, the meetings for the first time and the meetings for the last time. Sometimes memories are all we have left. But memories will never go out of fashion, lets embrace them, we made them.
An accidental blether (a recipe for a memory)
You know what, memories ain’t going out of fashion. They’re made through a reduction of tears, blood, sweat and often with more than a pinch of passion.
They originate when our worlds, her and him, you and I, come together, where we spark some form of bond with an accidental blether.
We create an intellectual fusion of the good and the bad. The stuff that made us smile, still makes us cry, the happy folded in with the sad.
Its like we forage in the garden in our head and frame moments set in time. Specially selected recollections, but handmade to stick in our mind.
We eventually blanch out loss and we deglaze those element away. Forever keeping close those last thoughts at night, whilst cherishing those first thoughts of each new day.
Remember that first day at school, worried that we’d be the odd one out, only to be paired with a lifetime friend, who we’d fall in with more than we’d fall out.
Marinating in perspiration on that first ever date, the zested nerves of that first job, tripping up and trying not to be too late.
Winching on the subway, and arguing in a queue, all served with a dash of regret of those memories which helped shape the real you.
We seem to infuse all those adult celebrations with our childhood bruises, rainy nights in tents with Georgia (or George) and champagne and canapes on cruises.
We remember the ones who provided the pain and the ones who provided the care, but most of all, those that provided the magical adventures, which we were privileged enough to share.
We slowly remember random days as we confit our memories together, on our journey through life, who knew they would start, with an accidental blether.
Scientists say the odds of us being born are at least 1 in 400 trillion. So why are we hell bent on division and arsing it up for future generations. We take every breath we take for granted, along with every day we awake, every action, every vista, everything we touch, feel, smell and experience. Great work is being done across the world and the UK to plant more trees, to help permit future generations the privilege that we have at our finger tips. The entire woodland ecosystem plays a huge role in locking up carbon, including the living wood, roots, leaves, soils, rotting wood and its vegetation.
You asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, so others can breathe
You asked for a tree, so they can see what you can see
You asked for a tree, so they can walk free, with no need to plea
You asked for a tree, so they can feel what you feel
You asked for a tree, to allow clouds to run free, past the dreams that you dream, share the sights that you’ve seen, at dawn to dusk and in between, you asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, so others can see, beyond the air that you breathe, through the haze that you feel, embrace joy with some glee, you asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, to give others the key, so they can paddle through the sea, and waddle carefree, and live diversely, you asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, so others can be, feel loves pain fleetingly, say whatever will be will be, and unearth their qi, you asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, so the future can spree, smell spring and drink tea, loose their first teeth, hear the crunch of the autumn leaf, you asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, so others can choose to disagree, or take shade under a marquee, just gaze and feel free, or find solace and allow them to grieve, you asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, so other can feel free, to experience their newborns first feed, trip up and skin their knee, and fall from a tree, you asked for a tree
You asked for a tree, so they can spend their bawbees, watch marine life under the sea, believe what they believe, find their sexuality, you asked for a tree.
You asked for a tree, it cant be just about you and me, can it be, is it just about you and me, or eternity, you asked for a tree.
In this life, we’ll all end up losing loved ones, people who meant so much to us and people who pointed us in the right direction. In the scale of the universe, our life is indeed short, yet you have the opportunity to make it a great life and you need to pack in as much as you can to it as you can.
Its those footprints that you leave behind for your loved ones that’ll make the heartache you leave behind, eventually bearable. Just be simply the best person you can be each day, you are on this earth.
A Short Life
It’s a short life, from our birth til our end,
for the family we tend, from the values we blend
It’s the journey we start, not knowing the end,
fashioned by those we befriend, and the signals we send
It’s a short life, yet we grow and we fend,
our hearts break and they mend, as we continue to ascend
Through our fate which we form, then shape and amend
and eventually tend, to become who we are by the end
It’s a short life, on this earth that we spend,
we give all we intend, to those we extend
To those that we touch, the advice that we lend,
teach and comprehend, memories we share and attend
It’s a short life, which we cannot extend,
beyond ashes to tend, and our tears which descend
It’s the footprints we leave, and the joy we extend,
to those we embrace as our friend, to our resting end
It’s a short life, it’s a great life, it’s a short life.
Its appalling that in the last recorded year, there were over 60,000 incidents of domestic abuse raised in Scotland, not just against women and 50 years after I witnessed abuse.
My dear mother suffered from domestic abuse for a number of years through the 60s and 70s. But you can escape it. She did, in an era, where ‘you’ve made your bed, so lie in it’ was often the nearest you got to advice. The impacts on the kids were often overlooked. Those impacts are short, medium and longer term.
There were kind people then, and there are now, reach out, to real loved ones. Make the right choices, for you, this life you have isn’t a rehearsal.
When coming through those difficult teen years, we often have challenges and often make bad choices. I made my fair share. Kestrel Lager was one.
When I was 15, 16, 17, I was a tare away. As were many of my friends. We weren’t really disrespectful to the adults, who passed us, whilst we had a sly swig of something we legally shouldn’t have. But we would certainly have been cheeky, boisterous, messy and potentially uncaring for the environment, as we left our bag of swag behind for others to clear up. *Editor – not condoned*
Not everyone gets it right, no matter how hard we try. But many youngsters go through similar ‘rites of passage’ in fact generation after generation after generation. And often in the same place. But hopefully they mature and become fine adults, and get the privilege to moan about the next generation, in a kind of pot/kettle approach. Back in the day, our getaway was behind garages, bus stops and in woodlands but some have theirs underneath a bridge. Its my right to moan as much as the next 50 something, but I might view it from my glass house.
Underneath the bridge
Underneath the bridge, where the broken glass lies,
where the lassies cry, and the passers by,
with walking sticks, and litter picks,
listen to Stevie Nicks. Edge of seventeen.
Underneath the bridge, us adults scorn,
as a rite of passage is born, whilst the literatures torn,
by the girls and the boys, at the changing of the toys,
same nuisance, same noise. As if its seldom seen.
Underneath the bridge, as the darkness does fall
they cavort and they sprawl, graffiti on the wall
safe in their number, rarely encumbered
as the adults start their slumber. Inspiring another dream.
Underneath the bridge, as others snuggle in bed,
Its generation Z, being easily led,
in different clothes, along the same path that we chose,
but never disclose. Passing the gene.
Underneath the bridge, just as day it does break
as the heads that do ache, consider the next mistake,
When not at work or engaged in your usual daily routine, try to be creative. Try to find a mindful pursuit which engages you and provides balance. Write, draw, run, walk, watch, paint, sing, bake, swim, puzzle or try some gardening. Being creative provides another focus, can nurture us in so many ways and reduces the time available we could potentially waste on rumination. Having a creative mind, can reduce blockers to clarity. Endless possibilities await.
I might draw, I might no
I might draw, I might no.
I might write, about my plight, my right to fight for what I believe is right. But I might no.
I might grow, shoots and roots from mother earth below, from the seeds that I sew. I might no.
I might fish in a local river, an honest endeavour, never say never. I might no.
I might bake, bake a cake, for my old neighbours sake. I might no.
I might walk, and mindfully talk, try to understand whats what. I might no.
I might kiss, a certain Miss, who offers me bliss, who’s gave me all this. I might no.
I might paint, the clouds in the sky, as they wander by, try to beautify. I might no.
I might graze, embrace an outdoor space, enjoy the breath and the taste. I might no.
I might read, normally guaranteed, to nourish and feed, this big heed, I might no.
If I was in my prime, I might climb, to hear the church bells chime. I might no.
I might dance, through happenstance or if I get the chance. I might no.
I might sketch, sketch the moor, and all its allure, shared between rich and the poor. I might no.
I might jump in the freezing sea, well up to my knees, feeling totally free. I might no.
I might create, its never too late, shape my fate, help stop me ruminate. I just might.
A bit like nature through the seasons, through our life, we evolve. We start as innocents, and then develop and prioritise our values, learn from our experiences and others we share chapters with and the environment we inhabit. Many are transitioning through that journey towards retirement, with apprehension. But why? We have been lucky enough to have the privilege of working hard and shaping who we are, in readiness for the next chapter. Others haven’t been so lucky. Embrace those next million steps of being you.
“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ― Lao Tzu
And then winter comes
As the butterflies alight near the crocus in blossom, your life begins its bloom
Innocence wanders along your pathway, the sun shaded, yet illume.
Springs eternal hope, following your dreams, still fresh, still clear
Simplicity promised, aspirations and wishes endure, the path remains sincere.
Your values start to shape, take their aim, as you rise to the fight
Maturity flaunts like the forest; influences inflame as summers alight.
Natures heat warms the skin, as you settle for your vulnerable ensconce
Beliefs and philosophies strain, under the pain of the expected response.
What Autumn reveals is the struggle, our lifetimes beauty, our living beast
Resistance falls at the crossroads, on the pathway which holds it the least.
The leaves of all colours, they fall, they fall in their natural form
You find your flow, to allow you to grow, your understanding becomes strong.
The first frost highlights the challenge, for the effortless next million steps
From your first day in existence, you’ve shaped, the coming joyous effects.
And then Winter comes, yet all is not lost, as you become you, you become you
The bliss awaits, the opening of the gates, to the worlds most wonderful view.
At a time of loss and grief, negativity bias is in all of us, naturally. We are conditioned to focus on the negative elements of a loss. But there is no need to dwell on it, if you can. If you work hard, you can turn the trauma of loss upside down by focusing on all those good memories. There’s no right way, no wrong way but if you push your energy towards positivity and memories of the good times, it’ll help you move more positively along the mental health continuum, helping your time of grief.
I should have known when we didn’t even have enough leftover wallpaper to cover my jotters for school, that we were living near or on the breadline. Imagine being embarrassed by a naked jotter. And when I had to turn a v neck into a crew neck to go to the school disco, alarms bells should have rung but then again I was 13 or 14. Forty/Fifty years later poverty is still rife, and at the end of your street. I offer you Mrs McGlinchey. Look closely there are plenty nearby.
At the end of your street
Look close enough, there’s been a Mrs McGlinchey, in most peoples life, yer doctor, my own, yer lawyer, yer wife.
In fact, since the 60s and 70s she’s in that street there and that street there, 50 yards from support and about a feckin inch from despair.
Literally squashing square sausage wae the back of a fork, to spread it out, to feed 4 instead of 3, and taste like best pork.
Peering an extra tattie, to stretch out last nights tea, trying her best for her wains, as that’s awe she can see.
Adding mare slices of plain bread, cause she can’t afford meat, aye there’s a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of our street.
Look long enough, there’s Mrs McGlinchey, just over there, 50 yards from support and about an inch from despair.
Wrapped around a hand-me-down gas heater, which couldnae melt a cube of ice, can’t afford the leccy, whatever the price.
Just put an extra jumper on, put aff that feckin light, haw maw ma jammies don’t fit, ma troosers are too tight
Wearing your brothers shoes, 2 sizes too big, stick on the jumper he wore to the last Bay City Rollers gig.
Just another day trying to make ends meet, aye there’s a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of my street.
Look hard enough, third generation Mrs McGlinchey is just at the stairs, has it always been unbalanced, unjust and unfair?
Apparently privileged, universally so, but for 60 years, Mrs McGlinchey has been behind the same door.
No one is knocking that door down, to be her saviour, age after age of the same and inhumane behaviour.
Participation poverty, but to participate in whit, there’s enough to go round, if society will admit.
Like every parent Mrs McGlinchey tries to stand on her own two feet, there’s a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of this street.
For half a century and more Mrs McGlinchey is in that street there, 50 yards from support and about an inch from despair.
Now her accent may have changed, might be a bit taller, might be less tartan, but similar squaller.
Cultures may differ, and the skin tone may alter, whatever the bent, we, aye us, continue to falter
Might be kilometres away from help, and millimetres from pain, but she’ll still be a mother, they’ll still be her wains
So despite our inertia, trying to make her obsolete, there’s still a Mrs McGlinchey at the end of your street.
The Mindfulness Gap 