Unintentional Poet

After our daughter Grace was stillborn, at 25 weeks of pregnancy, a midwife came to visit to check how we were doing.  I told her of our plans, for me to take the “maternity leave” that I was still entitled to, to spend time with our son, then 19 months.  Her reply took me aback – “I know it might not feel that way, but consider that time Grace’s gift to you,” she said.  Truthfully, I wanted to poke her in the eye at the time, finding it impossible to see any good in the loss we had just experienced. Over the years, though, as the jagged edges of grief have softened and healed, I understand more, now, what she meant.   Losing Grace was one of the hardest things I have been through – but, ten years on, I can see that she has left many gifts for us in her wake.   I had a year, enjoying time with Ben, before Samuel came along.   I have a wonderful, second son, our rainbow baby who followed Grace here.   Her loss has enabled me to connect so much more with others in their struggl

I wanted to write something for Bec’s anniversary.   Something moving and thoughtful and profound to commemorate her in a fitting way.   Something epic to reflect the enormity of the gap she has left.   Something comic to represent the humour she always brought to a situation. But my heart won’t let me, this year.   My fingers can’t type all the thoughts in my head.   My heart can’t withstand the tsunami of emotion that breaks if I try to form words and sentences in poetry or prose. I want to write her a letter, a poem, a song, an article about surviving grief, a reflection on being the only one left now, with no sibling to recall our shared history.   But I can’t.   Not now.   Not this year. All I can do is look through photographs and smile and cry and remember what we had and regret what we don’t have now.   All I can do is try to join the dots and connect some of the jigsaw puzzle pieces that fall between the photographs.   The memories of blackberry picking and whispe

My latest 'Thought for the Week' made it into the Lynn News this week - here it is, for anyone who is interested! Finding contentment is something I believe we all struggle with, at times – probably more often than we care to admit! We look at the size of our house, the state of our garden, the ‘perfect-looking’ families, smiling from their Facebook photographs and we feel the discontent stirring within.  What is the answer to this endless conundrum?  How can we find contentment and peace in a world that screams, all the time, that we need the next thing – the best, the biggest, and the brightest? Paul, the writer of the letter to the Philippians, in the Bible, tells us that he managed to “[learn] the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. ” I am amazed by this, whenever I read this verse or ponder his story.  Paul was writing this from prison, of all places, and yet was able to declare thi

I wrote this a little while ago, as an attempt at a short story, for a competition.  It didn't win anything, but I thought I would share it here, for anyone who is interested.  It is based on real life, with my Nan, who was a very capable lady and an avid jam-maker, right up until she had a debilitating stroke, last August.  We are still working our way through her stock of jam and, knowing that, soon, we will reach the last jar, is heart-breaking. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story! The Last Jar of Jam It had always felt as though the jam jars had a life-cycle of their own – a perpetual circle of being: Nan would spend hours in her kitchen, humming as she stirred bubbling saucepans and filled jars by the dozen, lined up like soldiers, with matching red and white berets, on the kitchen side board. My boys (her great-grandsons) would charm and beg more jars from her each time we visited, hastily making the desired exchange: a clanking bag of empty jars, for two

“I accidentally wrote a sonnet,” I told my husband, when he returned from the swimming run last night.   He laughed, understandably.   I hadn’t set out to write anything that evening – he had taken both boys swimming and I was supposed to be sorting washing, hoovering the house, getting things sorted for the working week ahead.   But I sat down, first, to read some sonnets a writer friend had sent through – and there it was – inspiration struck! I haven’t written much about grief for a while.   Partly, I think, because it isn’t so raw now, so emotions don’t pour from the pen so readily.   There is, though, still so much I want to write about it – but I often don’t know where to start, or, scarier still, if I start, where it will end. This is where the sonnet form came into its own.   The rhyme, rhythm and structural limits felt like they gave me the relative safety to explore some of my thoughts, whilst, at the same time, constraining them.   I couldn’t get carried awa

If you follow my blog, you will know that we lost my sister seventeen months ago, when my nephew was just seven months old.  Today, he turns two and is a whirlwind of fun and love.  He has forced us all to keep going through some really tough times, as, too, has his big sister.  My sister would be so proud of them both.  I wanted to write a poem to celebrate him - and her continued presence in his life. Today, You Are Two Today, you are two.    I have watched you grow,    As babies do,  And marvelled,   At your perfect, quizzical face,  At your soft cheeks,  Dimpling,   As you smile   And run away,    Whenever I stoop To ask you For a hug. Every time, I catch you and you giggle. You place your head, On my shoulder, For the briefest of moments; I breathe you in - A privilege, a delight. In an instant, You are off again, Laughing and whirling; You show me cars, Or a train. You beckon me To kiss your teddies And tuck them

I write a 'Thought for the Week,' for our local paper, from time to time - here is the one I wrote for January, for anyone who is already ripping up the New Year's Resolutions! Blessed are the Plodders Have you ever started something with great gusto and enthusiasm, only to find, a few weeks in, that it isn’t quite as fun, rewarding or interesting as you had originally imagined?   You’re not alone!   As midnight strikes and a New Year dawns, people around the world resolve to get fit and lose weight – a whopping 71% of us, in fact, according to a poll, last year. Haven’t we all made those resolutions at some point?   Why, then, when we start with such determination, do we, along with millions like us, fail miserably by the time February rolls around?   Haven’t we all done it – joined the gym and attended every day for a fortnight, before our aching legs buckle beneath us and we long to take refuge on the sofa? Or started a weight-loss group, existing on