Heavy

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as my friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it -
books, bricks, grief -
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How long I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled -
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

Mary Oliver
Thirst
Beacon Press, Boston.
1996: 53

This week, it happens in the nest; the fledglings love their poetry best ...

It is not often that I feel compelled to censor the sleep thieves ever growing library. However, after one two many readings of one particular Christmas annual (rather badly written, and full of mistakes), the offending book became tragically 'lost' behind the sofa, allowing curly tailed offendors to be replaced by this:

Culture!!!

Well, almost.

The sleep thieves have been delighted by tales of little girls falling into jam, dancing sausages, and singing kettles. I am delighted in equal measure, and have been taking nostalgic trips back to poems I read as a child - The Land of Counterpane, Jabberwocky and even Kubla Khan!

Inspired by my boys, I have been spending evenings post sleep thief with Mary Oliver, whom I would wholeheartedly recommend.

Tonight, poetry readings will be susbtituted by a glass of the house red ... and Casualty on catch up tv ... well it wouldn't do to get too cultured ...

Love is ...

... two sleepy little arms reaching up from a sweaty - haired sleep, to enjoy the first cuddle of the day

...one little sleep thief donating a favourite train to the other's railway

... a special card, handmade at nursery - a festival of red glitter and cut out hearts

... an exuberent cuddle, expressing unwavering trust

...a cheeky smile and a nose presented for wiping

... a perpetual weetabix / soup / yoghurt stain on my shoulder

... 'ba ba' the dolly clutched under one arm and 'mouse' under the other - to be put down only in the event of food, bath or apocalypse

... bedtime stories by torchlight in the wendy house

Follow the Heron Home

This week I have seen: blue sky, temperatures above zero, daylight at tea time, the tips of this years daffodil display in the garden, my beautiful and wonderful children (aka the sleep thieves) playing OUTSIDE and shoots on the raspberry canes I thought I had lost to the winter frosts.

This week I have glimpsed hope and new life.

Karine Polwart has been the soundtrack in my head, and I have caught myself humming lines from this beautiful and haunting melody on more than one occasion:

The back of the winter has broken, and light lingers long by the door...

... the story of my garden and the story of my wee world, changed dramatically in the last year. But this 'aspiring' wonder woman is ready for the new season. Perhaps one day I'll be an 'actual' wonder woman ...