#FOWC – TEMPORARY. Permanent or Not?

FOWC with Fandango — Temporary

When I think about it, everything is only temporary really. And it’s a good job, or we would never move on, never change. We have happy moments, sad moments, terror filled moments, peaceful moments – but time marches on as they say. No sooner have we lived one moment than the next is upon us. And in that moment, strange to think, we will have changed – only minutely usually, but we will.

Sometimes we might look back and think “If only that had lasted. If only I was back there, now.” I’ve done that, often. We used to live in a beautiful place, but had to move after living there for eight years. It was the most amazing time of my life. It was meant to have been for ever – but it proved to be only TEMPORARY. It changed me. Just as moving to where we are now changed me. If I think about it, moving to where we are now, which I didn’t want to do at the time, has given me a new perspective. Yes, I have had cancer since we moved here, and ended up blind and wheelchair bound, but prior to that, I discovered birds, and how wonderful and amazing it was to watch the birds. It is strange how I had never done that in the place we lived for eight years, for it was a beautiful place, where I used to love to walk in the hills, and be in nature, away from the towns.

When we moved here, to very flat countryside, I felt grief stricken at first. Until I discovered the birds. It is difficult to describe in words the impact that that had on me. Or to describe the beauty that I have found in the countryside that was familiar to me, but that I used to find boring. There is a wildness and a mystery that used to evade me. And even though I am now blind, I can feel the mist, the wind, the rain, hear the waves on the tidal river as they hit the low stone wall where I often sit. I can still see these things, from how they sound, and how they feel. Yes, I am sad that I cannot see them, but in a way, I am glad that our time in the other place proved only to be TEMPORARY. If we had not moved here, I most likely would never have discovered these new wonders. Sometimes, we would like to hang onto things. To make them permanent. But in fact there is no such thing. And I am glad.

#FOWC – Movement

FOWC with Fandango — Movement

When I was at College, whatever subject we were taking, we had to do a class called Movement. Now, stupid as it might seem, I thought it was all about Dance. Great! I LOVED dancing! However, it seemed to consist more of different groups of students standing around the Hall, in tight black leggings and low cut tops, not moving much at all, but standing there looking serious, gesticulating with their hands every now and then, as if planning some move or other, listening to pretend music, and generally trying to look professional but not doing much.

I do not remember now what the brief was, but I ended up in a group that was slightly more active. I was given the role of dog! I was supposed to, at a certain point, crawl into the middle of the floor, opening my mouth and looking as if I was howling like a dog. We practised for a couple of weeks, then, having put the whole thing to music, we had to perform it in front of the others.

I duly arrived at the Hall that day sporting black trousers, black top, and bright orange lipstick. Now, I NEVER normally wore lipstick unless I was on an evening out or something. But that day, something in me made me want to wear bright orange lipstick! As I arrived, everyone took one look art me and exclaimed,

“Dogs don’t wear lipstick!”

“Why not?” I replied, “This one does.”

I don’t to this day know what the bright orange lipstuck did to me, but when I crawled on all fours into the middle of the floor, the howl that emanated from me was incredible.

I left the Hall that day, having excelked myself, saying,

“Hmmmm. I had better wear bright orange lipstick more often!”


Some things, you can never understand. And in the end all you can do is let go of them.

I have been writing of the finding of my great grandmother’s grave, quite by accident. It has been very significant for me, since she was the only person who welcomed my birth into the world, and who became my godmother. Really, though, she should not have been my godmother, because she was not young, but she wanted to take it on, because she adored me. Sadly, I cannot say that of my biological mother. It has been important to me to find someone who did welcome me into the world. And so, these past few weeks have been major for me.

I can remember her well. Granny Hill, as we called her. She and Grandad Hill lived at the rather evocatively named Rose Cottage in Blyton. I was taken there by both my mother and my grandmother, though after the age of two, we were roaming around England. I still saw her at holiday times however. I can see her now, a very little, dark haired lady. Her hair never went grey. Yet she had had so much sadness in her life, losing two sons, one to a brain tumour and one to the war. I believe that she saw me as special because the son who died from a brain tumour was my mother’s father. I believe that in some way she saw me as a link with her lost son. I doubt very much that she would have approved of the way in which my mother treated me. In fact, I believe she would have been horrified by it. But you see, no one knew. To this day, none of the family knows what treatment my mother meted out to me. It has always been a secret, and one that I knew I must always keep. To this day, my mother, who is now 93 years old, will not admit to what she did.

My mother is sick now, and will be leaving this world soon. It is a hard time for me. I find myself in great confusion. It seems so apt that I should find my great grandmother’s grave at this time, and that the church clock should be stopped at the time of my birth. I should not have been born, you see, in my mother’s eyes. She had attempted to get rid of me from her womb, but had failed. She described this event in graphic terms to me when I was 13 years old. The hatred of babies that had always manifested itself all through my childhood really came into its own at this stage. The strange thing about it was that I was expected to just accept this as normal and not to question or feel anything about it. But that is the story of my life.

Everything in our house was normalised. Outwardly, we were a very “good” family. No one knew what went on behind closed doors, and it would have been disloyal to tell. Disloyalty was the most heinous thing, to my mother, and to the family. Yet, even the things that went on were kind of glossed over, to me. They could be the most awful things in the world, yet they were alright really. Even today, I have difficulty in saying that they were terrible things. Part of me still cannot believe that they were so terrible. But I know the effect of them. And for me, there has been almost unbearable emotional pain. No one would have known. I did ‘A’ levels like everyone else, went to Teacher Training College, got degrees, worked. All of that. Married – but did not have children, because my mother, with her intense hatred of babies, made sure I did not have any. This is the thing that has caused me the most emotional pain of all. And Mothers Day, to me, is hell on earth.

I remember, when I had cancer, and was lying on my bed, very sick and weak, and unable to get up, holding out my arms to my mother, for her to hold me and comfort me, and she looked at my brother and made a face as if to say, “Ugh.” She pursed her lips, and refused to come to me. I vowed, at that time, that if I ever got better, I would never have contact with her again. My brother supported her, and does to this day. He denies me as his sister.

My mother is now suffering. This past week she has told me, over the phone, that she is frightened. Frightened of being alone, with no one to help her at the end. I am a human being, and that pulls at my heartsrings, despite what she has done to me. Most people have told me to cut myself off from her. Yet, there is still something in me that cares. Sometimes I think I must be mad.

I have a faith. It is that faith that has got me through. Without it I would have crumbled many years ago. I believe utterly that when Granny Hill gave me to God, and made promises on my behalf, everything was sealed. I came to embrace a faith later in life, and that faith has saved me from disaster.

It was the sun that led me to Blyton that night. Somehow or other, I was led to go there. And then to find Granny Hill’s grave. And the church clock in the tower to be stopped at the exact time of my birth. There are more things in heaven and earth than we can ever understand. And that is for sure.


No longer
Can she be whole
Her world is stripped
Bare like the trees in winter
A body
That isn’t a body
Non functioning
In a way
That leaves her alone
And that is the nature of it all
That aloneness is the way
That life is
And all things
Are merely a distraction
From the aloneness that we fear
My friend
Until you know your aloneness
You cannot understand
The nature of all things


Last night I saw the sun
And knew that it was calling me
It saw me too
Had been waiting
Knowing that this moment would come
It was destined
Long before time began
Even before the world had been born
This place this time
Before all ages this time was waiting
And one day time shall be no more
All will have passed
Even the sun will have gone
But for this moment
The sun is
And it calls me
To the place that was waiting for me


Am I going crazy?

Last night we went and sat under the rowan tree at my home village of Blyton again. It was a beautiful evening, and once again the sun was prominent in the sky.

As you may remember, we returned to this place just a couple of weeks ago, after having not gone for a while. It happened one time whilst sitting at Wildsworth. I just felt a sudden urge to go to Blyton. You may also remember that the church clock in the tower was stopped at 8. 35. But it used to be stopped at 12 o’clock. We had no idea at all how or why this had happened. The clock is broken. BUT the strange thing was that we had arrived at exactly 8. 35 and parked up under the rowan tree at exactly that time! The urge to go there that evening had been very strong.

Yesterday evening, after we had parked our car, I suddenly was reminded of the church clock again, and I sensed once again something very strong. Something inside me made me phone my mother to ask what time I was born. She remembered it distinctly – 8. 35 in the evening!!! She described it to me, saying that she was out shopping when she felt pains beginning. She got home but at 6 p.m. knew that she needed to get to the Maternity Hospital. She got there and I was in a hurry to get into the world! Typical, I thought! Just like me! And I was born at 8,35 p.m.

Now, what on earth is going on here? First, I had gone back to my home village in 2017, been drawn to the rowan tree, written a poetry book there over a few months, then not gone there again for a while, then returned a couple of weeks ago and the other night the vicar stumbled across my great grandmother’s grave which was right next to the rowan tree that I had been drawn to, when I didn’t even know she was buried in that churchyard. She was also my godmother who made promises to God for me at my baptism. She it was who loved me very greatly. But we only stayed in the village for maybe two tears, because we moved away and my parents roamed all over England, We never had a real home, and I was never settled. Whilst my godmother saw me regularly for the first two years of my life, once we moved away, she only saw me when I went to stay at my grandparents’ farm. But I was very special to her, and whilst my mother did not welcome me into the world, my godmother did, and she it was who gave me to God.

Now, what is going on here? Once again I am left scratching my head and saying, “You really couldn’t make this up!”


On the hill I heard the words “Home at last”
Present and future joined with the past
This was the place I always called home
Throughout the years when forced to roam
Above me the sky so vast

Over me now a spell was cast
So many years have gone so fast
I remembered when I walked alone
On the hill

Many more this way have passed
Their destinations with mine amassed
A horse will pull me when I’m gone
Written then on my gravestone
These cherished words “Home at last”
On the hill


I try to smile for you
And I do
And the smile is real
But behind the curling lips
Is a sadness beyond words
Maybe for moments
I can feel joy
Pure ecstasy
At the falling rain
At the gentle breeze
At the howling gale
The sound of the fountain
The warmth of the sunshine
Those moments are precious
And real
But behind it all there remains
A sadness that I have to own
A grief that I must move through
A blackness that sometimes overwhelms
But, my friend,
Without darkness we cannot know light
Without sadness we cannot know joy
To be whole
We have to know opposites
To grow we have to embrace them
I choose
To move towards wholeness


When I first knew that I was going blind, My reaction was not one of horror or fear, but one of “Bring it on, let’s face this challenge.” I had come through serious cancer, which had rendered me so sick and weak that I could not even lift a spoon to my mouth, for eight months, and I figured that if I could get through that I could get through ANYTHING. And so, I in a way welcomed it as a challenge. I could show what stern stuff I was made of.

Of course, blindness did not come immediately although my sight had dwindled to the extent that I could no longer recognise people as I could not see their faces properly. And colours were fading. But I did have a window of time during which I could adjust myself to some extent. At that stage I wrote a lot of poems about the greyness, the mist, and the approaching dark. But I did not feel thrown by it. I spoke to a friend of mine (whom I have since lost contact with) who is blind, and she told me of how now, even ten years after going blind, she cries every day. So in a way, I thought I was coping quite well, for I was not crying every day. In fact, I did not cry at all.

I learned the technique of living in the present moment, and this was very helpful if ever fear assailed me. The first time that the fear struck me really badly, I said to myself,

“Are you alright NOW?”

The answer was


And so I decided that if I was alright now, the future would take care of itself. I was not so blind then as I am now. I was full of faith and hope that we (me and my husband) would find ways of managing, and of me adapting and remaining independent. Sadly, that has not happened, because my husband wanted to remain in control. I now have to try and break that, because if anything were to happen to my husband I would be in a mess.

But, as things progressed, I did have some bad days of deep darkness and depression, as I thought about my future. I lost the ability to live in the present moment. On top of that, people started treating me differently. Being in a power chair as well, did not help. People saw me as some kind of baby or imbecile. I held them up, too, going through doors. I was called a reprobate, and much worse. I had to develop an extremely hard skin! It wasn’t easy at first. I DID start to cry a lot at that stage. I became deeply depressed, though no one knew. I put on a face when I went out. I learned fast, that I must not show any feelings.

Gradually, this led to my isolating myself more and more. My world got smaller and smaller. Yet inside, all that I wanted was to be independent, , and normal. But I found that being involved in conversations was impossible. I never knew if anyone was speaking to me or not, because however many times I asked them to address me by name, they did not.

Life became very difficult, and I felt that I was not part of the human race any more. I became dark in my soul.

At the same time I was saying “Goodbye” to many things that I loved. Nature. The face of my dog, Hope. In fact, as we only got Hope three years ago, I have never seen her face properly. I grieved over that. But people’s faces too. My husband’s face. I can no longer see it.

And so, there has been much grief. I loved walking in the hills. Walking my dogs. Doing embroidery. Driving my car (wow – that was my FREEDOM!). Now, I have no privacy or private life at all. Someone knows what I am doing all the time.

Many of my poems describe the feelings inside as I went progressively more blind, and progressively totally dependent. Sometimes I have spoken in terms of the greyness or the fog, and at other times I have spoken of the darkness or the blackness. I have had to explore the darkness – to allow it into my life and welcome it, for it IS. I cannot make it go away. It is far better to welcome and embrace it than to resist or repel it.

I still fear for the future. If I were not in a power chair also, it would be much easier. But this is not so. Yet still, I know that I have to accept this situation, and make the best of it that I possibly can.

If my poems are about the darkness, or the fog, or the greyness, they are reflecting my own condition, both physically, and sometimes emotionally too. Sometimes my poems reflect the struggle I am undergoing. But ultimately, I know without a doubt that there is light in the darkness that has had to become my friend. And that light can never be quenched.


The darkness flows into our mortal lives,
Unasked for, unexpected, sure it comes,
For the most part every one of us strives
To dispel that which now before us looms,
But as it beckons we must enter in,
Embracing it, not fighting its advent,
Fighting it will never help us to win
The fruits that grow within what has been sent,
Within the darkness gems are to be found,
And soon we will discover our true self,
To the things that hold us we will not be bound,
In letting go we find a greater wealth,
Only the darkness can deliver us
And make us free without incurring loss


To breathe
To be free
To fly up high
Where the eagles fly
No more to be held down
By the confines of closed minds
That see through a glass darkly eyes
Clouded by the smoke haze that rises
From a fire stoked with misunderstanding


Will you hear
The birds singing
Or sit underneath
The big horse chestnut tree
But I can see your name on
The memorial that honours
Those who did not want to be honoured
But just to live an ordinary life


Bring to light that which is hidden
Nestling deep in the darkness
Sing into being that which should live
Wing your chosen way onwards

Do not fear the deep waters
You were once held in this ocean
Too many times you stood at the edge
New life is yours for the taking


So many so young

Without freedom or choices

Ordinary lads

When the summons came

They left home and family

For bloody war fields

Not knowing their fate

They packed up for the journey

Many to their deaths

And those that came back

Were changed for ever and so

Too should we be changed


I have been on a very strange journey these past few days! I started it in Blyton, my home village, and I have been to France, Italy, Malaya, Africa, and Germany, and not forgetting Cardington in Bedfordshire. Bridlington in Yorkshire, and the RAF base in Yorkshire where my Dad was based in WW 11. I have been to the ad Day beaches, the Battle of Arras, Vimy Ridge, the Somme, and the Battle of the River Vie in France (though it seems that that has been spelled in various ways). I have been with men in mud, deep snow, in the trenches, heard intense gunfire, and much much more.

It has been a very emotional journey, made more so because the people involved are my close family. Their stories, I did not know, until this past week. It all began with the vicar of the parish church in Blyton accidentally stumbling across my great grandmother’s grave (as you may remember, she was also my godmother). We had been wanting to find the grave of my real grandfather. We had seen this grave many years ago, but wanted to sit near it again. However we could not find it. The vicar happened to be around one evening when we were sitting cogitating under the rowan tree where I wrote one of my poetry books, and he went off to try and find it. He was not successful, but did stumble across my great grandmother’s grave, which we had no idea was even in the churchyard.

I felt a huge rush of emotion. This lady truly loved me, and welcomed my birth.

It led me to want to find out more about her son Harry, whose name is also on the grave of my real grandfather, who died from a brain tumour aged only 23 (he was my mother’s real father and she was only 1 year old when he died – she was my grandmother’s first and only child to this lovely man). The grave is like an open book, lying on the ground, and on one page is the name of my real grandfather, and on the other page is the name of his brother, Harry.

I was overwhelmed with emotion and grief, for my great grandmother, losing two sons both at a very young age. I determined to try and find out what had happened to Harry. My discoveries shocked me, and threw me into an even deeper grief both for his parents, and also for my grandmother who lost her elder brother when she was 13. I meditated on the lives of both these women, and their losses, and particularly the intense hardship of my grandmother who was left a widow in her early twenties, with a young child to bring up. There was no help in those days, and in order to survive she had to enter a loveless marriage that was a business arrangement, whereby she provided a male heir for my grandfather, and in return he gave her a home for herself and my mother, still a very little girl.

And so, I delved. And I was led into other things!

I discovered that Harry was called up for the War in 1939, and was part of D Day. He then, with his Battalion, in the Lincolnshire Regiment, gradually advanced through Normandy, fighting in bloody Battles, the objective being to get into Caens. However, almost at the end of the war he was killed at the River Vie, just before the Battalion got to Caens. He was killed on August 16. 1944.

I cannot describe to you the rush of emotion that I felt as I read the history of his Battalion in the war. And to find that he hd made it so far, but then was killed so near to the end of the war.

Harry was 8 years okd when he held my mother as a newborn baby, on his lap. He is beaming. He was, by my mother’s account, a lovely, and kind, gentle, and sensitive man. Just an ordinary lad from the village, with his whole future in front of him. He was engaged to be married when he was called up.

My mother had told me that he was the first to take her into a pub! She recounted how, as avteenager, it seemed sophisticated to go into a pub, and so he had taken her in, and been a complete gentleman, looking after her spectacularly.

To think that such a young lad, an ordinary young lad, from a village, of farming stock, should end up dying in a bloody battle in France, just shook me to my core. I found his grave on the internet, saw a photograph of the cemetery……..and wept. Thousands of graves. All regimented. Thousands of young men, just like him, all dying young, far away from homes and families. And there, in the cemetery, the Cross of Sacrifice.

I will never be the same again. And neither were they.
(More to follow on my other great grandmother and her great loss)


If you read one of my previous posts this morning you will see that Carol Hopkins very very kindly nominated me for Best Blogger award. It gave me a huge lift this morning to find that, but also I want to say that every single person who writes a blog is in my book a best blogger. Writing a blog takes a lot of work, time, patience, and understanding of others. So I want to say CONGRATULATIONS to everyone who writes a blog 😊

Best Blogs – Spring 2019 Edition!

I am humbled and amazed and so happy to have been nominated for this. Thankyou SO much Carol, for this, and for your lovely words about my blog. And thankyou Neha for including me. This really uplifted me this morning. Thankyou SO much, 😊


Hello Everyone,

Thank you to everyone who participated in the Spring Blog Nominations, I appreciate you taking the time to mention your favorite blogs! This is what I love most about this community…  how generous people are to give a shout out to fellow bloggers and artists, and build this strong network that we have. Without much further adieu, below are your favorite blogs followed by a few of my favorites! Do Check out the nominators and their recommended blogs, I believe all of the nominators are some of my personal favorites, also do check out my previous blog recommendations and stay tuned for future ones!

**Please note they are in no specific order, just based in the same order as nominations in my comments. My personal recs are listed at the end. 🙂 They are all equally great in my eyes!

Best Spring Blog Recommendations:

Nominator: Carol Hopkins…

View original post 581 more words


I’m tired
Just too tired
Too tired to think
Too tired to breathe
Too tired to get up
Too tired
Just too tired
Sleep overtakes me
A sleep of horror
Where bad dreams live
I wake
I shudder
I know what is coming to me
I am tired
Too tired
Too tired to engage in distractions from the shit
Just too too tired
I’m tired
Too tired


One day I will see faces
And know the sum of it all
Receive in time the graces
That love for me embraces
Whatever are the places
That on the fresh wind call
One day I will see faces
And know the sum of it all



Row on row
Standing to attention
Regimented in death

Neatly arranged cold
Like the north wind
When they died

Not neatly blown
To pieces blood
In foreign land


Wild place
You minister
To me, washing away
the soil Of vain accusations
My face
Like the surgeon’s knife cutting out
The duseased parts that sting
From the harsh words

The wind
Blies gently now
Soothing the raw places
Opening up the way for tears
I bathe in theur pool, my wounds cleansed
Vulnerable I sit
My soul open
To grief

Saturday Stream of Consciousness writing – Leaves

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS June 22/19

The “Leaves of Spring” is a book that I read many years ago that showed how mad people are really sane because they see things clearly unlike people who are not labelked as mad who see things through mud. I had a friend like that. She was called Joan and I wrote a poem a out her because she was labelled mad and she truly did do some things that we would call mad that were perfectly sane to her. Like throwing televisions out of fourth floor windows and getting taxis from England to the North of Scotland, having a cup of tea and coming back again. All in one day. It wasn’t mad to her but the authorities thought it was mad, so they banged her up in a hospital and gave her medications that put her to sleep and kept her quiet.

Joan was well known for being mad but she was my best friend. Probably because I am slightly mad too. But this writer who was a psychiatrist or something, argued that actually, people like Joan can see so much more clearly than anyone else and that they are not really mad at all. And me? I don’t judge – because I know I am msd anyway but I’d rather be mad than boring. I can’t stand to be boring.

I’ve just ordered a dark green velvet cloak from Amazon so I can blend in with the leaves and the grass because I am a child of nature. I don’t like concrete and steel. I don’t like towns and citis so one day I am going to leave this town and live in the grass amongst the leaves. But for now the green velvet cloak will keep me happy. I like green.



Please let me in, to where your God is,
I want to be with Him too,
I want to be where you are,
But I am where I am,
Outside the door,

You do not even notice me,
Hear me knocking,
Crying, “Let me in,”
Your eyes are full while mine are empty,
Like my heart,
Straining to get to where you are,
To share your joys with you,
To be full once again .

I sit at the closed door in my wheelchair,
Craving your love and warmth,
But your eyes don’t see,
Your ears don’t hear
My knocking.
You go on your way,
I, invisible,
I cannot share your Feast .

I sit and cry,
Empty yet full,
For my eyes see more than yours do,
My ears hear,
“There’s none so blind as them that cannot see,”
And I am satisfied,
For I see the Cross,
And hear the words,
“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,”
And to the blind and lame,
” Today you shall be with me in Paradise.”



Incense swinging
Gay bells ringing
What is this life
If not filled with strife
Holding up the Heavenly Host
What do you really like the most
Go to Confession
Tell your obsession
Toe the line
Then you’ll be fine
Sit at the back, sit at the front
But whatever you do don’t come in drunk
Come in with bare feet
Not looking neat
Fall asleep on the front pew
In everyone’s view
Hiding your face
Not nice to embrace
What brought you here?
Was it your fear?
You took that day
As you watched us pray
That Heavenly Host
And the Holy Ghost
Did it do you much good
On your cross of wood
Did that Heavenly Food
Leave you still screwed
Yes, you left that night
To take up your fight
On the streets paved with gold
Outside the fold
You slept in the gutter
Not a word did you utter
But you’d had your meal
Now how does it feel?
Are you still alive
Did you manage to thrive
Will I see you again
As I write with my pen?


Batten down the hatches
We’re in for a storm
Batten down the hatches
I feel so forlorn
Batten down the hatches
And don’t let no one in
Batten down the hatches
All my life is tin
Batten down the hatches
No one knows I’m here
Batten down the hatches
My life has changed a gear
Batten down the hatches
Prepare for landing day
Batten down the hatches
Ready for the affray
Batten down the hatches
It’s getting rather rough
Batten down the hatches
And show you’re really tough
Batten down the hatches
I’ll see you in a while
Batten down the hatches
I’m doing this in style


Once upon a time in a land called WordPress there were some terrible goings on. There were certain rooms in the land, and one was called SPAM. It was really meant to be a room where norty people were sent who were up to no good. People trying to sell things, that no one wanted, but they messed the place up. They tended to be rather active in doing norty things, and the room got very full. But there was another problem also. Nice people got put in there with the norty people if they got a bit exuberant and made too many comments. But because there were so many norty people in there already, nobody could find them.

Occasionally though, one was rescued, and they told what it was like in there. A bit hot and sweaty, and really not very nice. They were really glad to get out of there and to be able to talk to their friends again. But they were very emotionally marked by their experience of being shut in that room with all the norty people, and they were not as exuberant as before. They were too afraid to interact with their friends in case they were labelled a Bot again. They didn’t like being called a Bot. They liked their own names. Soon, WordPress began to fall apart. Nobody talked to anybody any more. Everyone was very lonely and needed counselling. Some people tried to approach the hierarchy at WordPress, but all they did was shrug their shoulders saying they could not do much about it. Some people were so badly damaged by their experience in the Spam Room that they left WordPress for ever. Even counselling could not help them. So now, WordPress is not the lovely, lively, supportive community that it was. It remains to be seen what will be the outcome, as the Spam Room gets fuller and fuller every day. What will be the answer?

O.K. A problem- LOADS in Spam

Some git has invaded my Spam folder so that his/her comments go over LOADS of pages, thus hiding my friends’ comments. I have to scroll and scroll and scroll snd scroll to get off of just ONE of this git’s comments! I’ll get back to you all in time. It’s quite hard for me to see and navigate it all. Duh!


It was a beautiful evening this evening, and as we arrived at Blyton and sat outside the church under the rowan tree the church tower was lit up by the sunset and was almost red in colour. It stood out against the darkness of the sky and the eye could not help but be drawn to it. It was the most beautiful sight.

Once again I had been drawn back to that place to sit by the graveyard underneath the rowan tree. This time however it was different, for now I knew that I was sitting right next to the grave of my godmother. Thinking about it sends a shiver down my spine, for how could I have been drawn to that place two years ago, and led to write poetry there, and been right next to my godmothers grave without even knowing it.

This evening something suddenly dawned on me and it had been right before my eyes but I hadn’t seen it – I would have been taken into that church at exactly this time of year to be baptised, and this lady whose grave I was sitting next to would have been in that church with me making promises on my behalf. This thought moved me intensely. How did all this happen? How could it have been that two years ago I was drawn to this exact spot without even knowing that my godmother was in that churchyard at all.

The grave that we had really been looking for was that of her son who was my mothers real father. He it was who died at the age of 23 from a brain tumour when my mother was only one year old. My mother did not actually find out that he was her father until she was much older. She had always thought that her mother’s father was actually her father. Then someone told her the truth and she had to tell my grandmother that she had found out the truth about her father.

The grave of my mothers real father is in the form of a book. I saw it many years ago but could not remember exactly where it was. On one side of the book was written the name of my mother’s real father and on the other side was written the name of his brother. Upon doing some research we discovered that his brother had been killed during World War II. He was part of the Lincolnshire regiment and he was killed as they were advancing into Normandy towards the end of the war. My great grandmother had therefore lost two sons. One to a brain tumour and one to war. Both died young. We also discovered that she had had a baby who died during childbirth. I can only imagine the deep sadness and grief that she must have felt at so much loss.

My mother told me that my godmother loved me very deeply, and that I was very special to her. In a way I was hers. And yet we left the village when I was two years old and we travelled all over the country for many years and so my godmother only really saw me for the first two years of my life. I remember however, my grandmother taking me to see her during holiday times when I went to stay with her. She was a quiet unassuming little lady who did not have very good health. Prior to her marriage she had been a school teacher and she loved the children. So unlike my own mother who did not like children at all.

It was so odd tonight to realise right next to me was the wonderful lady who had been at my baptism, who had made promises on my behalf and given me to God. I almost feel that this needs to be marked in some way but as yet I don’t know how to do it. This is a lady who knew much sorrow but had so much love to give. And she gave it to me even though I did not know it until recently.

I now know why I was drawn back to my home village two years ago. There was something there waiting for me or perhaps rather I should say there was someone waiting for me.


I think often of the smiling farmhouse
For now it is no more, rased to the ground
“It’s unsafe, needs knocking down” words much worse
Than words ever heard before, their sad sound
Created a blackness in my heart, death
Was about to come to the happy place
That gave life to this young child’s every breath
That filled her every waking day with grace
As if to defy all words that were said,
The farmhouse refused that black day to die
Many times the huge wrecking bell lashed its walls
It stood solid and firm, held high its head
Destruction was not going to hit its halls
I took my cue from the farmhouse so strong
And my strength from beautiful days now gone


I “saw” you sitting in your chair
Your face was grey, your breathing faint
You whimpered as I stroked your hair
I “saw” you sitting in your chair
Time stopped as I remembered bare
Days when in my own torment
I “saw” you sitting in your chair
Your face was grey your breathing faint

A GRAVE SITUATION – Joy in the graveyard

What constitutes a miracle? In my book it means just simple things like a raindrop or a rainbow. The whole of creation is a miracle. But for me, it is mainly simple things. Simple happenings that maybe no one else would see as a miracle.

Such a thing happened to me last night at Blyton in Lincolnshire. If you have read some of my previous posts you will know that it is the village where I was born. Many years ago! We lived there for maybe two years or a bit less, in a tiny cottage called, rather beautifully, Pear Tree Cottage. But we soon moved away. There followed many years of moving around the country a lot. Maybe every three to six months we would move. So nowhere became my home. But ALWAYS, as I have written before, Blyton and my grandparents’ farm just out of the village, was my place of refuge. A refuge from a violent family life. The farm, and my grandmother in particular meant the earth to me. Without them I would not have survived.

Since I had cancer, I have been exceedingly vulnerable. I really don’t have a family at all. And what I do have is toxic to me very often. Of late, I have been exceedingly anxious and suffering a great deal of deep grief. When you are well, and able, you can look after yourself. You don’t need anybody else. But when you are sick and badly disabled, with a husband who is also not well and in a wheelchair, you do need kindness and support, none of which we have. My family does not support in any way, and I do not have the love of a family. My husband’s family have all died. We have no close friends because we moved to this town after he became wheelchair bound, and then I got cancer. We had not had time to make friends.

And so…….in about 2017 I felt the deep desire to return to my home village. I wanted to re-connect with the beautiful memories and the love that I knew in that place. I wanted to return to the church where I was baptised (christened as many people call it). I needed to do this because whatever had happened to me over the years with my mother, who did not want me and tried to get rid of me, THIS was the place where I was given to God. And that, to me, was important, for my perception of God is of the total opposite of what my mother was. I needed to go back to that place and that time when I was given to something good and loving.

So, in 2017 I did return. I went back to sit, in the car, by the parish church. I was VERY drawn by the beautiful rowan tree that was growing there. It inspired me to write poetry. From that, I created a book of this poetry, called “Under the Rowan Tree.” My husband made up the book for me, and it has a beautiful picture of the church, with the rowan tree in the foreground of it. I sold some of the books in the village shop, and gave the money to the church.

I was not completely happy with just sitting outside the church, re-living memories of the farm and my grandparents. I had to go inside the church where I was baptised. It was an amazing experience doing that. But then, I had to go further, and attend a Service in that church. Being a village, they only have a Service once a fortnight. But I went, and just sat quietly at the back.

After that, I went to the Harvest Festival Service there. I was reminded even more strongly of the farm, my place of refuge as a child. I remembered the Celebration Fields of Gold, where everyone partied as they got in the harvest. And, as the vicar began to walk up the aisle to the congregation (of only about 15 people) singing “We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land,” I quite uncharacteristically suddenly broke into deep tears. Good tears!

I remember the vicar, as we were leaving, putting his hand comfortingly on my shoulder, though he did not know me, and knew nothing of what it was about.

Well, that journey continued, for a time. Quite a LONG time. Then I stopped going to Blyton. I didn’t go to the church again either. I thought about it often, though. UNTIL we returned the other day. I wrote about it in here, the other day too.

In my deep anxiety and pain, I had been needing a place to “be.” A place where I could find comfort. I had no idea where that place could be. I longed to move back to Blyton, and actually live there again, but that has so far proved impossible. I hate where I am, but there is no way of moving.

I knew that my real grandfather’s grave was in the churchyard at Blyton, and although I saw it for the first time some years ago, we could not find it again. He died of a brain tumour at the tender age of 23. If you read my previous account that I posted the other day you will know the story. The silent grave. Well, I wanted it now no longer to be silent. So, yesterday morning, my husband rang the vicar. He remembered us, and was overjoyed to hear from us. My husband asked if he could tell us how to find the grave of my real grandfather. He was exceptionally kind, and told us how to do it, but said he would look at what records he had also. At the same time, my husband asked how we would go about being buried in the cemetery in that village.

Yesterday evening, we decided to go and sit outside the church again, under the rowan tree. The SUN came out! It was a BEAUTIFUL evening. We had the windows down. Everything was lovely. Suddenly, Mark, the vicar, sauntered by. He saw us, and came to us with great joy. He said he was about to go off into the graveyard to try and find my grandfather’s grave. Off he went!

Some time later, he returned, looking like a defeated man. He came along the low wall of the churchyard shaking his head. Then quite suddenly, right next to the rowan tree, he almost stumbled. He looked down, exclaimed, and said, “Frances Hill. Is that one of YOUR Hills?”

Oh my! It was my great grandmother, the mother of my real grandfather, whose grave the vicar had been looking for. She died in 1956. I used to go to her and my great grandfather’s cottage, called Rose Cottage, as a child.

My real grandfather’s grave was not there, however. It is in a distant part of the churchyard. Neither is my great grandfather’s grave, as he married again and is buried somewhere else.

I was intensely moved by the sudden finding of this grave. I had not known that Granny Hill as we called her, was in that churchyard. I felt overcome.

You may be wondering, if you have managed to read this far, what the miracle was. Well, it is this – Granny Hill was my Godmother! I suddenly remembered this on the way home in the car – and the floodgates opened. I could not stop crying. You see, never having had a mother who WAS a mother, I had FOUND a mother. The one who was my GODmother. The very antithesis of my biological mother.

Still, the hugeness of this, had not dawned on me. And it didn’t, until I got home. Now, I had a place to grieve. A place of contact. Someone I could TALK to. Somewhere to meditate. Somewhere to be in contact with LOVE. In short, a MOTHER.

My biological mother is still alive, but does cause us a lot of problems. She is 93 years old.b today, I went back to the churchyard, And TOUCHED the grave of my godmother. I had spent most of last night crying deeply, for, upon arriving home last night, I told my mother about finding the grave. And here is the greatest miracle ever – to me, anyway. My mother told me that Granny Hill, my godmother was SO thrilled to know that my mother was pregnant, and she welcomed me into the world with GREAT JOY. I was overcome. I have lived my life knowing that I was not wanted, that my biological mother tried to abort me, and my grandmother (my mother’s mother, who had the farm) had turned away from me in repulsion when my mother first took me as a newborn baby, to see her. She did in time relent, but there was no one who greeted my birth with joy.

To discover that there was ONE PERSON on the earth who felt joy at my birth was earthshaking to me. I always used to feel that I should be dead because I should not have been born. I carried this through my life with me. It did not stop me making a go of my life. I achieved much during my lifetime. But deep down I carried this knowledge that no one felt joy at my coming to birth.

This is the miracle – that now, I knew that someone wanted me. I was overcome, and shaking. The tears that night were very deep, and by this morning I was shattered. Hence, unable to respond to anyone in here, or post anything of my own. I felt weak and disorientated. In a GOOD way though.

Today, I touched the grave of someone who loved me. Someone who was not repulsed by me. I touched the grave of my GODmother.


What is a journey
If only undertaken in fine clothes
If expectations are that the ground will always be level
If the journey is only done by day and not night
If it is done only in the sun and never the rain
What is a journey if the heart is not open
If it is full of only “received wisdom”
If it has no questions
But only certainty
What is a journey where sight is necessary
Where hearing is necessary
Where ability to walk is necessary
I am on a journey
Into the unknown
Ill equipped
Ill dressed
But open
One day I will reach journey’s end
I hope
A better person than I started
The journey stars here


O.K. So I’ve been on a journey!

It’s hard to explain this, but I have never ever been able to piece my life together properly. I cannot remember or find out where I was when as a child, for we moved every three to six months. We moved all over the country, and I attended many different schools. I therefore had no real roots.

Just lately I have been attempting to find my real roots, and to understand my life. It has proved very difficult. For some people these things don’t matter that much, but for me they do.

It has been a difficult journey, which has intensified over the last couple of days and been very very emotional. I have been rather weepy and quite taken up in it. My mother is 93 years old, and has told me various things this past two days that have shaken me to my core. My emotions have been all over the place, and I have been trying to piece things together. Even my mother cannot remember where I was when, as a child.

The journey will continue, but I have no idea yet if there are more discoveries to be made. I am posting bits of my journey. Some of it will appear in poetry. But I AM hoping to eventually put it all together into one much longer narrative.

I love writing things, and I am really enjoying the journey, emotional though it is. I realise that in writing it and putting it out there, I am making myself very vulnerable. I will also be open to possible misunderstanding and misinterpretation. But I have to take that risk, because I feel that there will be people who relate to what I am saying, and it may then make them feel less lonely.

I long to share this journey with you, as well as my more “normal” stuff.

So, be prepared! Who knows what you might see here! 😀


I have seen that there are many nice comnents on my poems etc. To which I WANT to respond. I will very shortly. I have been a bit in a world of my own lately, and though I am still posting, I haven’t got around to any more than that. I hope to, tomorrow, plus give an update on the Silent Grave, to which I have to add another Silent Grave. I have been a bit grave lately lol 😀


I post this from under the rowan tree in Blyton churchyard. In 2017 I felt drawn here as it is the village where I was born. I just felt drawn to sit under the rowan tree to write my poetry.

I had no idea at that time of what was to transpire. We had a break from going there but recently I felt drawn back again. Just the other day. Last night we were sitting there again under the rowan tree just contemplating and the vicar came by. He went into the churchyard having just spoken cheerily to us. He had got to know who we were in 2017. As he walked he stumbled on a grave. The name on the grave was Frances Hill. He asked, from over the wall if it was one of my relatives as he knew there were Hills in my background. I almost collapsed . It was my great grandmother, who was actually also my godmother. I had had no idea that she was there and that was the exact spot that I had been drawn so strongly to. She loved me very greatly and welcomed my birth when no one else did. Today I touched her grave for the first time. No one had ever told me she was there. She died in 1956 when I was 7. We moved around the country a lot so I kind of lost contact.

You couldn’t make this up could you!

I have prepared a much longer post about it which I hope to post soon. But for now I am taking it all in!


Under.the rowan

I never knew you were there

As I sat writing

Drawn to this graveyard

Inexorably you knew

One day I would come

You who welcomed me

Into a world harsh with hate

Loved me no reserve

Today I found you

Touched your grave with greatest love

Godmother of mine

FOWC. Mist. Esk Hause and a Pack of Scouts

FOWC with Fandango — Mist
There’s something about MIST isn’t there! It can feel quite mysterious and evocative, or it can be a damned nuisance! I could go all ethereal about it or I could swear at it!

I well remember one famous trip up to Esk Hause which is a well known stopping off point on the way up Scafell Pike. I have already written of our epic journey up Scafell Pike, but this one was with a pack of Scouts. My husband used to be a Scout Leader, and we took a pack of Scouts camping in Borrowdale, which is very close to the starting point for going up Scafell Pike. You are only allowed, as Scout Leaders, to take Scouts up to a certain height, and so we never intended to take them to the top of Scafelk Pike.

We had heard about the mountain mists that can suddenly descend and envelop you such that you can hardly see anything in front of you. Well, this was IT! Try keeping a pack of exuberant Scouts under control when you can hardly see any of them!

I must admit, I did feel quite panicky, but we did have another Leader with us who seemed to do nothing but add to the confusion, blowing persistently on his whistle and waving his arms around in the air. No one knew what on earth he was trying to communicate!

That was the first and last time that I encountered mountain mist, whilst going UP a mountain track and I certainly never wanted to encounter it again. We did end up getting to the bottom okay, and the Scouts were more exuberant than ever for their adventure!

Then there was the year that we were camping when the mist never lifted at all. You could not even see the hills and mountains! That was a very strange feeling. Everything looked quite different to how it did normally.

It is often misty around the river where we go most days. It can be quite breathtaking to see the mist rising off the fields. Quite ethereal.

But the mist that gets to us the most is that one that comes up from out of the deodorant can! Sneeze sneeze sneeze, cough cough cough.

Give me Esk Hause and a pack of Scouts any day compared with that one!

Sent from my iPad


One day in time I will leave this place
And fly away to worlds unknown
I see in my mind’s eye much better things
And long for the pain to end once and for all
Some bits of heaven are here on the earth
I have tasted and known its sweetness sometimes
But now it has flown away in the breeze
As the dark night has come and my body cries out
“Be strong” they all say but the pain makes me weak
I long for release from these earthly ties
I can only be me and me is all done
I no longer can tie my very own belt
I am now in a place that I don’t want to be
Dependent on all for all of my needs
Where now is dignity gone down the spout
Where is my freedom I’m never alone
So just let me fly on light wings to the sky
To that new world awaiting me let me go soon