Unintentional Poet

Today is Grace’s birthday again.     Many of you who read my blog (thank you for doing so!) will know that I write something, each year, to mark the date and celebrate her life.    For the last couple of years, I have written reflections and poems and thoughts, as a cathartic process, to help me to face this date and remember. The angel we hang on our tree, to remember Grace This year, remembering feels different again.    I mentioned, in last year’s post, the counselling I had been through and how much it had helped.    I am, by nature, sceptical of these things, until I see real ‘proof.'  I’m never entirely sure how to measure change and progress in matters of the heart and mind, but I know that, eight years on, the pain is less than it was at seven and six and five, so I keep going, trusting that healing does take time and energy and that it does get easier, in barely measurable increments. This year feels different for a couple of reasons.  One is that it feels a l

It is almost 11 weeks now, since I sat with my brother-in-law, holding my sister’s hand, as she slipped away, after an intense and brave battle with a cancer that wouldn’t let go.   We have reached that point where life returns to normal for everyone else, while we wobble and teeter, trying our hardest to find a new ‘normal’ that feels nothing like normality at all.  Walking through treacle and wading in waste-high mud are the only clichéd analogies that can half-represent how some days feel, how even the ordinary things – the school run, a pile of washing up, a social occasion – can feel like it takes every ounce of strength to face. What does grief really look like?  How should it look?  In the times we live in, a lot is understood about grief.  Psychologists have researched it, books have been written about it, counsellors are trained to help people talk about it and move through it well.  We recognise the truth that no two people experience grief in the same way – but ther

This is my latest 'Thought for the Week,' which is about to appear in the Lynn News. Slightly cheating, as adapted from a much longer post ('Facing Hard Things') from a few months back!  In other news, if you've missed it, I'm writing for the Association of Christian Writers now too, on the 18th of each month. If you've missed those posts and want to read them, they can be found here: http://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/08/what-do-running-and-writing-have.html?m=1 http://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/09/nofilter-by-georgina-tennant.html?m=1 http://morethanwriters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/the-quest-for-words-by-georgie-tennant.html?m=1 Anyway... The 'Thought'. Enjoy and thanks, as always, for reading!...  All of us, at some point in life, will face hard things.  And by hard, I mean life-sapping, crushing, painful-beyond-imagining things.  At these times, we can look around at others, feeling bitter that life’s cruel lottery

Today was probably the hardest day in all our lives. Bec passed away two and a half weeks ago now, after a brave and tumultuous six months, since her cancer re-diagnosis.  We have already begun to grieve and say goodbye, but a funeral always feels like the real end. It has felt a long time coming. It has been a tough six months for us all, as a family, and we want to thank anyone who has done or said any small thing to ease our burden on this difficult journey. Below is a photo I love and a poem I wrote for the funeral. I love this photo. There is so much more I could say, and I probably will, as time goes on, but this is all I can manage for now. The photo was taken on an evening in a week when it was all getting on top of Bec. It was a Sunday night.   While Martin bathed the children, we talked and talked and cried and cried. We talked about heaven and dying, her fears of being forgotten, my promise never to ever let that happen.  I told her I would still be hoping and praying f

I tend to over-plan in the summer holidays. If you are a parent of two small boys (or any make of small child, in fact) you will understand why. Too long in the confines of a small house and garden, and they become wrestling maniacs, jumping on top of each other, performing stunts on the trampoline and generally looking as if we might have to visit A&E at any moment. However, this year, I have tried to leave more time free, more moments to chill, and more opportunities (as the current trend advises) for them to experience boredom and find entertainment for themselves.   I love a great plan and an itinerary for an organised day out – but I’m learning to embrace the unscripted bits too and the moments of brilliance they generate. I enjoy posting on social media, almost as much as I enjoy a good itinerary - particularly because we have family in far flung countries who love to keep track of our children's antics. Facebook, though, is only good for the highlights, the ‘p

The fridge salad drawer is an ingenious invention. It is unlike the door slots, where things are liable to leap out, if overloaded. It's sturdier than the shelves, which, when balanced too precariously, launch cheese-blocks or chutney jars at my unsuspecting toes.  On the contrary, the salad drawer is like the Tardis of the fridge, offering respite to rushed souls.  Running short of time? Open and throw in, at any angle or velocity!  Space an issue?  Just press a little harder - it will all go in somehow! Sometimes, though, this apparently time and space-saving approach becomes problematic.  After particularly hectic periods with work and family life there is no more ramming, throwing or squashing space and a horrible realisation dawns: the drawer must be dealt with!  Holding my breath, I begin to delve, attempting to identify the items that are far past their best.  Embarrassing though it is to admit, I have lunged across the kitchen to the bin with dripping cucumbers, untang

This weekend my son competed in his first Swimming Club Championship Gala.  Last minute advice issued, my stomach churned as he mounted the starting blocks for the Under 9s fifty metres breaststroke. Fifty-eight seconds later, he had stormed to victory in his heat; we later discovered he had taken the trophy for the overall Under 9s event.  Riding high on this victory, he headed for the backstroke.  This time he trailed behind his competitors and, slightly misjudging the finish, found himself disqualified for turning onto his front before he reached the end. Once he had recovered from the disappointment (with the help of a Double Decker), we reflected on the lessons learned that extended far beyond swimming to all of life.  Although disqualification was a huge disappointment, it was a lesson learned.  He could let it beat him and give up – or shrug it off and learn from it.  We regaled our own experiences of disqualification from sporting events to make him see that we have all had tho

What do running and writing have in common?  My two sons love telling jokes.  They have, in fact, become a headline act in our church's yearly talent show.  Andy Murray's favourite number?  Ten is.  His bedtime?  Ten-ish!  Such is the quality of quip featured in their annual performance.   'What do running and writing have in common?' sounds, initially, like a question so absurd that it wouldn't be out of place in their next recital.  Running and writing?  Surely these two verbs are from such far-flung ends of the 'verbial' spectrum (sorry, a neologism was necessary there!) that they can only co-exist in a comedy line-up? Think again!  I have long thought that running contains a limitless supply of metaphors for our spiritual lives.  It was only this morning that I began to discern its countless connections to writing too.  As I set out running this morning, for the first time in a while, after weeks of holidays, parties and indulgences,  I observed a