Transition

Tags

compassion, imagery, lies, loss, metaphor, passing, reality, Saturday, telephone, the other side, transition, truth, unassuming

Transition

Soft as soft and unassuming seemed the day you stole away. And I wondered: are transitions merely ghosts, spectres, unreal reality? The hoover softly purring on the carpet like a cat with much to do, pondering sleepily if those things can be left for another day. It was just another Saturday. The day after Friday, and the one before Sunday – or so it seemed at the time. So Saturday morning chores filled the moments and as I vacuumed vacantly, the sun shining through lace-adorned windows, my thoughts popped in and out like uninvited guests mimicking the movement of my arm as if stroking an imaginary pet.

And yet, when the telephone rang, I knew before I answered it what I would hear. I wasn’t surprised, not in the least. I had been preparing for this call for longer than I can remember. I cast my mind back and pictured us on a sandy beach with you just out of reach and felt the pang of loss. That holiday was our first and last: the grandmother, the mother, and the child – three generations together, linked by our own expression of what it meant to be family. The path we had trodden to get to the other side now blocked by the greedy, irascible sea, at first calm, luring us closer, now raging higher, threatened to prevent us from going any further. There was no alternative but to climb the steep incline or be drowned, and so mercifully we were spared. But even as we climbed,
the threat of loss hovered on that occasion, just as it did when the telephone rang.

“I think you should come straight away”, the voice was calm and caring.
“Is she …?” The words fell away. Why was I asking? I already knew the answer.
“No”, the voice said. But I knew this was an acceptable twist of the truth. We both knew – better to travel in hope. Silently, I thanked the voice realising that compassion is not a liar.

So, softly you left on a Saturday.

~ Marie Williams – April 2018

When the Rain Came

Tags

barrels, contained, fear of living, freedom, letting go, mental freedom, metaphor, not recognising freedom when it comes, rain, relationships, self-knowledge, waiting for certain conditons to be put in place before living your life

Credit: Google Images

As usual we were not prepared. But that was our way and this is not to say that our actions lacked forethought in any way, but that we had become so accustomed to the way things were, we knew only what we knew and that had been sufficient in its own way to deal with the vicissitudes of life. Strife was rife, and though the battle ground was real, the laughter that we shared, became a place  where we could safely repair our armour, sharpen our wits as well as our spears to dent the onslaught of fears which like flood waters burst their dam and threatened to strike more often than we would have liked.

We plotted and planned, planned and plotted, dotted the ‘I’s and crossed the ‘T’s, and in our dreams subjected ourselves to living a life of constant ease. When the rain comes we said, things would be different. A life well-spent was our intent and bent on this and very little else, we kept an eye on the gathering storm clouds and would not allow the passage of time to dampen our resolve. We learned to make do with the drought and thought we ought to place our barrels in a place where when the rain came, not a drop would be lost. We bought enough barrels and damn the cost – what price our hopes and dreams?

When the rain came, so entrenched were we, we failed to see the raindrops. We did not hear the pitter-patter of freedom drumming on the window panes. And it pains me now to say that we did not fling the doors open wide and dance unreservedly upon the thirst-ridden earth now slowly, thankfully, surrendering to the watery saviour, releasing all that was bound and giving life anew.

~ Marie Williams – 2017

Windrush Children

Tags

attention, circumstances, cries, hope, hopes and dreams, language, love, memories, My heart searches for you, perfume, recognition, rejection, resilience, winds of change

Source: Google Images

It was never the same once you left. Try as I might, the subtle hint of your perfume could never lift the gloom that shrouded me always in ways that I could not define, so early on in my new life. My cries permeated the sadness – they were cries for you, but you did not come. You had left with the promise that you would one day return to hold my small hand and look lovingly into my eyes, eyes that spoke a thousand words although the language that I spoke then was somehow not recognised by you, because it was not sophisticated enough to catch your attention. And so I looked for you each day in the air that I breathed, the careless touch of a stranger’s hand, a voice that spoke kindly but was not yours, and when the sunshine of a perfect day met the twilight of an uncertain night, I sank into a deep sleep in which my still simplistic memories rested on a pillow of hope.

You were never the same. How could you be? You had forgotten me, just as I had forgotten you in the intervening years. My cries, no longer cries, but the silence of the rejected, resilient, resourceful soul that I had become. I no longer trusted the part of me which hoped, but instead learned to examine carefully every glance, every look, every touch, even softly spoken words, before deciding if it was safe to venture forward – and often times, it became clear that it was folly to feel, much safer to sit, confusing and tricking emotions that I knew not how to appease.

I was never the same. I often wonder how it would have been, had circumstances not conspired to prise us apart when our relationship planted in the garden of love, vied with the winds of change, became secondary, and your pioneering spirit fought and won the battle over your desire to nurture and protect. Separation for me was the ship in which I sailed the ocean of abandonment – for you, it was a new life, anchored to hopes and dreams of prosperity. We cannot live our lives in retrospect and we cannot know what we do not know. But surely, the hopes and dreams of a new life in your mind’s eye can never be as fulfilling as the hopes and dreams of the new life nestled in your arms?

~ Marie Williams – 2017

It Happened

Tags

ashes, confrontation, denial, dreams, fears, growth, imagination, key, memories, nightmare, reality, reclaiming all that was lost

Source: Google Images

It Happened

I never told you did I? I didn’t even tell myself. It took a while you know to come to terms with all that happened and even now, thinking about it and actually daring to share it seems like a betrayal somehow – but I know that I have to speak and the time to do it is now. How could I allow myself to doubt that it happened? How could I think that making the link between then and now was totally unconnected when the very fibre of my being shouted, screamed, the pain was real, and not a figment of my imagination, but a nightmare stealing surreptitiously into my dreams, locking every door, tossing the master key into a river, rolling relentlessly into a sea of despair.

I’m not ashamed you know. I do not blame myself. I don’t expect you to understand. You didn’t understand then, so why would you understand, years later, when the passing of time has minimised it, diminished it, so that the ogre that it was, looming large, fearfully fierce, is reduced to nothing more than ashes in a dusty corner of your memory. Ashes which you refuse to sweep away. To acknowledge them would suggest you played a part so they lay largely undisturbed, the specks becoming spectators at their own show.

So here I stand, and I know it’s inconvenient for you. Why couldn’t I have chosen a better time? Well I’m afraid that with the passing of time, I grew. I choose this time and it belongs to me. I claim and reclaim all that was lost. I’m telling you now that it happened.

That master key tossed so carelessly on to the ocean bed glints gleefully in the sunlight, sparkling on the shore, assures me that my memory serves me well.

~Marie Williams – 2017

Life Sentence

Tags

acceptance, escape, future, healing, letting go, metaphor, past, reflection, self-knowledge, taking back control, therapy

Life Sentence

Source: Google Images

The past was nearly always tense. The future seldom perfect. Life became a sentence imprisoning subject and predicate: which often times were punctuated by dashes, question marks and ellipses …
The full-stops when they came were soft and sudden. They crept up slowly behind, blocking the way, preventing progress of any kind and making the escape route barely visible: an abrupt pin-prick in a confusing world.

Clear and present danger alleviated, those dots and dashes now form the much longed for and welcome SOS signalling pathways, prising open those prison bars, and like innocent inmates – embracing freedom – make a dash for the exit vowing to colonise the state of freedom.

~ Marie Williams – 2017

Missing You

Tags

answers, binding, communication, conversations, courage, failure, hope, missed opportunities, mother, questions, reflection, relationships, sadness, ties

It was never the right time to speak of things that really mattered, and yet we spoke, you and I in a language that we both understood. We had learned that it was never going to be the right time for us early on and so we lived side by side in a world where dialogue was only necessary for the inconsequential issues of the day. At least to you, they were inconsequential but to me they weighed heavily on my heart: because I ached and longed to know you in a way that would bind us together and satisfy those deep desires, release the pain of unspoken feelings, construct ethereal edifices eagerly in which we both could meet and greet ourselves, linking us eternally and tethering us to our truth.

I learned from bitter experience that our truth was a lie. You and I were never meant to seize the day, smile unfettered by the sadness that came our way from time to time, engage in conversation, cleverly constructed, clearing the way for an understanding far removed from the murky maelstrom our lives seemed bent on taking – a direction in which we were both passengers and yet neither of us knew the way.

Now separated by death, not by choice, but because that is the way of life: I linger longingly in the empty space that has been left with all the questions I didn’t ask, all the answers I might have been given, all the different ways you made me feel, but mostly all the missed opportunities that presented themselves but I was never brave enough to grasp, grateful though that I experienced your greatness in all its flawed guises.

Marie Williams – May 2017

Primary Colours

Tags

12 Years A Slave, achievements, Barack Obama, black, colour, Donyale Luna, excellence, film director, first, model, pinnacle, president, race, Steve McQueen, Vogue UK

“Achievement has no color”
― Abraham Lincoln

Sometimes I feel that I will burst if I hear once again first and black in the same sentence. I have nothing against being first or excelling or being supreme in a chosen field or in a competition or even in a queue, but when I hear the words first and black, my spirit sighs and it’s as if I want to die. I know this sounds so exaggerated, and I don’t wish to degrade the achievements of those who have reached the pinnacle through sheer hard work, devotion to a cause, or mastered their craft.

Why is it that in the 21st century, when we have come so far, in terms of addressing racism, colour prejudice and the way we treat others in terms of the colour of their skin, speaking boldly about equality, diversity, inclusion and acceptance of other’s culture, mixing pots, melting pots, you name it – there’s a term which embraces it, yet still the races are not equal, such a pity that our ethnicity has shown that we haven’t grown and how much further we still need to go. It is woeful, that we are hearing about the first black president, the first black film director, the first black model on the cover of Vogue UK. It’s neither wonderful or amazing in my book. Yes of course the achievements are – of that there is no doubt. But ought we still to be referring to skin colour when praise is due? Is it some sort of an extraordinary feat to be both black and an achiever? Are those terms mutually exclusive, so when it coincides – ought we to be doubly impressed?

How can we as a race in present times, allow for such archaic language to seep into our consciousness? When Barack Obama became president of the United States of America, was it necessary for us to be enlightened and educated about the hue of his skin? And Steve McQueen of ’12 Years a Slave’ fame, when he became the happy recipient of an Academy Award for Best Picture, did it enhance the view to know that he was black? Would that have escaped our notice somehow, imagining that all the audience were in some way colour blind on that auspicious night? My heart sinks when I think that Donyale Luna a black model who covered in Vogue UK was the first to do so. But I was heartened when I heard the editor of Vogue UK (Alexandra Shulman) talking on the radio about this and I smiled when the presenter commented on her [Luna] being the first black model to do so, to which the editor responded “could we drop the ‘first black’ please?” A woman after my own heart!

~ Marie Williams 2017

Approval

Tags

acceptance of self, analogy, approval, birth, control, definition, denial, dictionary, family, guilt, mental health, metaphor, seeking approval, self-love, shame, siblings

Why do we seek approval?  Should we pay for it, and how much should we pay?  Is it cost effective, and if it is not why do we urgently seek it out, and if it is, why is it that it seems that there is not enough of it to go around?  Approval, how about we strike it from the dictionary completely and see if it is missed, and then contemplate the lives that have been affected by this word, a word which in itself begs for the very thing it may deny others.

As soon as we are born, although we do not know it, are not aware of it, we become the subject of approval: to be thought well of, commend, authorise, so the definition says, and that stays with us, weaving its way through our lives, lives depending on it, lives failing by it, lives denied by it, lives controlled by it, lives foiled by it, lives sadly wiped out by it.

We require approval from our parents from a very early age, and at that stage it makes us feel. Feelings and approval: cousins, sisters, brothers, it cannot be denied, these two are related and like siblings, first cousins, step children, they do not always get along.  They tussle, they squabble, they fight, they vie for parental affection, believing that they are the first among equals.  But sadly this is not so, because as we know, no parent loves one sibling more than the other.  Or so they lead us to believe.  But we know, approval tells us so!

Later on, when we are older, bolder, approval hangs around like a boulder: huge, solid, unmovable, it dictates the way we should go.  Approved of, we feel nurtured, loved and accepted.  Disapproval on the other hand, based on faulty premises, leaves us feeling like orphans, un-loved, un-accepted, lacking, unseen, in some cases, guilty and ashamed.

We need approval.  It appears to be essential for a life well lived.  But in order to live a life with no regrets, the only approval worth investing in, is the approval we give ourselves.  Let’s keep that word in the dictionary and approve its existence but with the proviso that it includes not only approval from others, but above all approval from ourselves for ourselves in order to live our best life.

~Marie Williams 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guidance

Tags

communication, compassion, emotion, fears, flowers, harmony, healing, heart, journey, metaphor, nature, poetry, prose poetry, self-knowledge, therapy

Image: Google Images

Guidance

When I’m floundering fixedly on facing fears; fully aware of my shortcomings, I find you pointing proudly in the direction that I should go. Don’t you know that if I go, I go with the knowledge that I am not enough out there on my own? My needs are not necessarily manifold, but many are they and they won’t go away without first feeding that part of me which hungers for your staunch support; stepping in line with me.

So when you point, please don’t point with those elegant finely forbidding fingers. Instead, firmly hold my hand, grasp it lovingly and lead me along the path where the bluebells grow, dancing in freshly fallen snow, in the chill wind of April’s noon-day sun.

~mew

Soul Lessons

Tags

forgiveness, freedom, healing, letting go, life lessons, pardon, peace, prose poetry, rules, school of life, self-knowledge, trials

“When hate has legislated, love is an act of rebellion”
Source: Origin South African, author unknown

This school is different to other schools that I have ever known. The curriculum is somewhat hazy and is nowhere written down. I’m expected to turn up each day with a smile upon my face, my shoes polished and my laces not undone. My uniform is whatever I choose to wear that day and I cannot say that it is one that others green of eye will be wearing the very next day. So come what may, some unseen force has planned that I should stay in school until all the lessons that I need to learn are well and truly learned.

There are no classrooms in this school and the rules are made up as I go along, they come down heavily upon me even though I feel I’ve done no wrong. No text books grace the library walls however hard I look, and if I enquire about things of which I’m unsure, the advice I’m given arbitrarily is go and look it up! Through many trials I have come. So many doors shut in my face. I am sometimes told by the principal to go at my own pace. And off she walks heels clicking on the floor, with a smirk upon her face, as if to say, my goodness me, will that child never learn.

Today’s lesson is the hardest I have ever had to learn, and still I know that even though to memory I have committed it, tomorrow when I’m asked what are the basic principles of the act of letting go, my already creased brow will furrow and I will stumble as if I didn’t know. But when alone, with no pressure from those who know, I will say quietly to myself:

Forgiveness does not mean that the other person has not really done anything wrong.
Forgiveness does not mean that you have to forget.
What forgiveness means is that you choose to pardon the wrong.
Forgiveness means that your soul is free no longer chained and restrained.
Forgiveness means that you are stronger for the lesson has been learned.

The school bell tolls and I no longer ask for whom.

~ MEW 2016