This is the official thread for anyone participating in my seasonal writing sanctuary Spring Lightwho wants to share their class-inspired work here on Substack and connect with others taking the course.
There are several ways to share your work from class:
Simply post your response to any of the class exercises as a comment in this Thread. (Alternatively, for more engagement and reach, restack this Thread with your work as a comment, so it shows up in your Notes).
If you have written a full essay, share it as a Post on your Substack (and email it to you your readers). If you do this you could publish it and then share a link in the comments of this Thread so we can find it and read it.
if you want me to see it, although of course me seeing it is not the point :-)
You can share each day, or you could share a round up at the end, or you could wait until the end of class, take your favourite piece and carefully craft it into an essay to share on your Substack at a later date. Anything is fine!
Please note I cannot guarantee to read and share everything but I share a few pieces, thoughts and reflections as we go along.
NOTE: There is no need to mention the Invitation number or title (as that won’t mean anything to anyone outside of class) and I kindly request that you don’t publicly share details of the invitations themselves, just your response to them. Thank you!
If you would like to join the class but haven’t yet registered you can join me and writers from around the world in our private class here (It started on April 22 and runs until April 28, 2024):
Spring Light has now finished. For year-round inspiration consider upgrading to paid to join my membership SoulCircle with Live Writing Circles, year-round inspiration, chat, Q&A and more.
I felt guided by a force greater than I. An unseen wind lifted me and before I knew it, I landed beside her. She seemed lost in thought, wistful. I flew to a lower branch, chirped then waited. A lone tear hovered on her cheek, then fell. Slowly she turned her gaze upon me. We watched each other, barely breathing. I dipped my head in greeting and sang her a love song. She smiled a watery smile and whispered almost to herself “I’m not alone”.
I know I can write. But it’s only in the last year that I’ve let myself play with words and see where they take me. That I’ve quietly tried the word ‘writer’ out for size and started to say it out loud...
Due to not having full vision I was not able to write much.
Now I can see much better and felt it was time to complete the Spring Writer gathering.
This is what came up for me during the visualisation, which I felt intensely in my Solar Plexus.
The Magic of Storytelling:
The magic of words, spinning tales of times long forgotten. Ancient wisdom buried under false pretence, brushed off as fairy tales, superstitions, and nonsense.
I feel it deep inside myself, hidden in the depths of my heart, my soul.
I feel it in my bones when I have discovered my truth, my authentic self, I just know.
And I let go of all that does not ring true anymore and I embarked on a journey with no destination nor a set course. I let go of the path dedicated by others and followed my heart. Dancing and singing to my own tune. And see the magic and miracle of life. Embracing life, all of it. I found the magic of life, words, and storytelling.
There is infinite beauty in a tapestry of wild grasses. The golds and silvers shimmering in a sea breeze. The blondes and brunettes jostling joyfully, in good spirits seeking the air that is there as ally to their simple natural imperative. Seeds must be spread and there is wondrous boisterousness in the spreading. Arranged in no particular order; the ones that look like a suspended firework bursting; the ones that seem scatterbrained, unsure where they’re going or where they’ve just been; the ones that arch their stem gracefully, weeping willow of the downland, their heavy arrowheads pursuing freedom; the ones that dance like confetti on the breeze, as if catching and sticking to tall shafts of dappled sunlight; the noble ones, with tiny sheafs of wheat, eminently polite, perpetually bowing to the other esteemed sheafs. As they sway and twirl, swing and gyrate, they seem to chatter amongst themselves, blissfully ignorant of their short but gorgeous existence. The wild grass does not seek approval or permission for the wild life it leads; it is wildly unmoved by the noise and haste around it, and therein lies its beauty. Whether on roadside or sweeping hillside, it’s presence is enough, existing is enough. There is infinite beauty in contemplating (and perhaps one day believing) that our simple, shimmering existence is enough.
Invitation 1.5 EMBRACING THE TRUTH OF IMPERMANENCE
The Hands of Time
My scar is in the shape of the last words I said to my father ’Sleep well, I love you’. I didn’t know they would be my last words to him, I didn’t know they would be the last he heard from a loved one.
The hands of time sooth the pain of words unspoken and of deeds unfinished, they signpost to patches of sunlight on the cold, stone floor. And they point to new pathways - ones which are lined with cherry blossom, blown on a gentle Spring wind, to carpet this new day.
As I write this, the tears still flow. But much has healed and much has changed. I am stronger, having shared my vulnerabilities. I love my work again, having left a career of 25 years. Finding space to be kinder to me has enabled space to be kinder to others. I am becoming and undoing in all the right places. I have re-connected with the earth, with my art and myself. My scar is in the shape of words unspoken.
I get to have this day, and I am lucky because not everyone will get this privilege. One day it will all end and we will most likely not know when that will be.
What must it feel like to know that getting to have these days is short term? A diagnosis that is beyond treatment, a terrible accident, the body breaking suddenly.
I wonder if we will be lonely, after we lose a loved one. I wonder what we will do now. Can they still hear us, see us, help us as we get to have more days on our own journeys?
Can we feel them near us, surrounding us with love, guiding us? Will they send sounds or clues to how we should be living our lives?
For me, when I see a random pigeon I think of my dad. He used to make us laugh by trying to chase the pigeons out of his garden. They always came back.
That got me thinking, what if he got to have this day again? What would I do if that happened?
You see, I never got to say goodbye in person. The last time I saw him he was happy, very much his usual self. I couldn't stand to see him laid out in a coffin, a cold former figure of himself. I didn't want that lasting image in my head.
I miss him, I sit where we sprinkled his ashes, I still feel the urge to text him even though it's been nearly four years.
If we got to have this day again together, I would absorb his wisdom, his library of knowledge, his love for me and his grandson. I would share a joke, talk about the football, comment on the neighbours, hold his warm hand, drink in his every feature.
He leaves an unfixable hole in my heart.
So because I get to have this day again, I will continue to try and make him proud. Be the person he brought me up to be. Losing him was a shock that I will never fully recover from.
Someone once told me that you never get over losing a loved one, you just learn to live alongside it. They were right.
Here I am living, learning, remembering and making the most of everyday.
And then I think. And I conclude that he does get to have this day again and again through me. He is physically gone, but his soul will live in me forever.
Thank you @BethKempton for the inspiration and for allowing me to dig deep
I am new to substack and am in the process of learning how all of this works. I thought I had posted this earlier but I can't find it now so I am trying again.
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
I am new to substack and am in the process of learning how all of this works. I thought I had posted this earlier but I can't find it now so I am trying again.
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and for quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
Hello everyone. First time on Substack so do not know what to expect. Thought I would try it and see what happens. There is no title for this piece at the moment.
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
I see that I walked into a dark forest not knowing what awaited me. I had not map, no light, no instructions. I didn’t even know that I was going there. No contract or intention setting or deal. I walked in as if it was just another day in my life.
In 2018, the day after my fiftieth birthday I walked with bare feet on what I thought to be rocks but turned out to be open baby oyster shells and cut both my feet. I had stitches and could only walk a silly walk on my right heel and the toes of my left foot. We laughed.
“Welcome to the fifties”, my life said. I didn’t listen. I busied on. Creating a career. Being a mother. Loving my husband. Caring. Listening. Absorbing.
In 2019, my father died in my arms, two weeks after he received a terminal diagnosis. Right after his last breath, the radio played La Vie en Rose with Louis Armstrong.
But life was not pink. It stopped. I could see the beautiful summer through my windows. I could eat, drink and laugh. But I wasn’t feeling it. I was somewhere inside myself. Hidden in a far dark corner where I could be alone and silent.
“Take your time”, life said. But time didn’t exist anymore. It had stopped. Or I had lost track. It didn’t matter. As long as I could be alone in that silent, dark place.
Until one day, I found myself tangled up in my busy life again, my father by my side, walking with time again. Ticking in rhythm of duties and care for others forgetting how to listen to my own heartbeat.
In 2020, in the midst of the covid crisis, I was doing my uttermost to stay positive, engaged and hopeful for everybody around me when I had to schedule the death at a Wednesday at noon for my animal soulmate through 16 years, a beautiful chocolate labrador named Cannelle. I was furious when they carried her dead body out of my house.
“Love”, life said. I sneered back at life. “Ha! Love you say! That is a strange way of showing it.” I missed her so much.
In 2021, I woke up after a deliberating dream, felt strong and powerful. We went for a hike through a forest and along a river. My son dared me to climb an old not very tall cherry tree and I fell. I fell on my head and broke my back. I was lucky that there would be no severe consequences but only three months of slow healing.
“Listen”, life said. And I did. I had the time. There was nothing else to do in the hospital bed in my living room. And I listened to my body, to the blackbird singing spring welcome from the birch tree, I listened to the words of my heroines and the rhythm of my own body. I listened to the love of my husband and my son and family and friends. Getting this time to get to know myself. Taking care of me. Drawing, writing, reading and listening. I was almost happy and so grateful to just be alive.
Then menopause kicked in !!!
Falling from the cherry tree, I had fallen in menopause. After the fall I never saw my period again. A foreign power had sieged my body. It was not mine any longer. It was under attack. Brain fog, hot flushes, aching joints, night sweats, irregular heartbeat. I had it all.
Just recovering after the fall, taking up my activities and more or less normal life again, I was constantly reminded that I was a mortal middle-aged woman and life became a constant battle and longing for moments of physical cease-fire.
“Wake up!”, life said. Shake, dance, scream, jump. Be alive!” I felt a rage against everybody and everything. “Why me?”
In the late summer of 2022, my mother received a terminal diagnosis, and I went to care for her. I caught a covid in the airport and had to keep a distance with her the last days of her life. Was that a symbol of our relationship?
And there I was. Orphan. Shaken to my roots. 55 years old. Thinking of the conversations I would have loved to have with my mother. Of the words I would have loved her to say to me. It all went so fast
“Embrace”, life said. This is yours. Also. This. One. All of it. Accept it. Be in it. Live it.
And so I do. With scars on my feet and a crack in my back. With a soul longing for deepness and laughter and my heart filled with love to give forever, but I understand now. I do. My body told me so.
The hollow cylinder, made of a dark, swirly-patterned and grainy wood, stands on the far edge of the writing desk.
Its lacquered, glossy rim is thick, catching late-day light from the window above and out of frame.
Hollowed but not empty.
Standing upright in the centre of the cylinder is a dry marker pen, its white plastic body just taller than the cylinder. A royal blue top declares the marker’s colour. A fragment of a printed label is visible on the white barrel - obscured partly by the cylinder wall itself and by the other occupants of the cylinder’s dark interior.
Six slim pens are resting here, casually lounging at varied and almost, but not quite vertical angles.
Mid-grey slender stalks with a shiny metal pocket clip each, topped with small, clear plastic bubble in the centre of which peeps a smaller circle of colour, possibly the colour of the ink within, if I have been didligent in replacing their tops earlier in the day.
In between work shifts, they lounge in their wooden space like so many after-work men propping up the bar of an early evening pub, talking over a pint and over each other.
Blue for ‘body content’; black for ‘research needed’ and red for ‘not thought this bit through yet’.
The pens are waiting.
Maybe, in a moment, I shall pick one out of the little group.
And begin again.
The low level metal shaded desk light holds its opaque black cone directed downwards, fixed to the lamp stand by a black metal bracket through which is threaded a black electrical cord. The lampstand itself is a simple wooden column, about an inch square, fixed vertically to its matt black metal rectangluar base.
Unheeded and uneeded yet in the still daylight, the lamp is waiting.
The hollow cylinder, made of a dark, swirly-patterned and grainy wood, stands on the far edge of the writing desk.
Its lacquered, glossy rim is thick, catching late day light from the window above and out of frame.
Hollowed but not empty.
Standing upright in the centre of the cylinder is a dry marker pen, its white plastic body just taller than the cylinder. A royal blue top declares the marker’s colour. A fragment of a printed label is visible on the white barrel - obscured partly by the cylinder wall itself and by the other occupants of the cylinder’s dark interior.
Six slim pens are resting here, casually lounging at varied and almost, but not quite vertical angles.
Mid-grey slender stalks with a shiny metal pocket clip each, topped with small, clear plastic bubble in the centre of which peeps a smaller circle of colour, possibly the colour of the ink within, if I have been didligent in replacing their tops earlier in the day.
In between work shifts, they lounge in their wooden space like so many after-work men propping up the bar of an early evening pub, talking over a pint and over each other.
Blue for ‘body content’; black for ‘research needed’ and red for ‘not thought this bit through yet’.
The pens are waiting.
Maybe, in a moment, I shall pick one out of the little group.
And begin again.
The low level metal shaded desk light holds its opaque black cone directed downwards, fixed to the lamp stand by a black metal bracket through which is threaded a black electrical cord. The lampstand itself is a simple wooden column, about an inch square, fixed vertically to its matt black metal rectangluar base.
Unheeded and uneeded yet in the still daylight, the lamp is waiting.
It's a beautiful morning here after a very past week, so I went back to the start of Spring LIght. All feels like it's perfect timing for me now that we're at the end of the month.
"A cool light breeze wraps its arms around my back, as the warm sun gently greets my face and body, and I smile, knowing I am fully in the transition to spring."
So far behind but reminding myself this is not a race...
3. Moving
Through the frame of my fingers I saw the face in the mirror, and it saw me. We held each others gaze for a moment and then we both smiled. It was as if, for the first time, I saw the real me, viewed from a different perspective. I'm simply a face in the mirror, framed by fingers, shaped like a heart. 🫶
Grief comes to us all in the end. That sliding down the wall grief of a loved one lost, the news triggering an unexplained need to be physically grounded. The autopilot grief, where life must carry on in the immediate before you can allow yourself space to process the information in great gulps. The grief that comes to you in the silence of the night, tears leaking down your face, pooling at the crease where your earlobes meet your neck, wet and cold, as the house sleeps.
For so long, grief felt like the exclusive right of the dead. In truth, we grieve from the moment we’re born. Wailing grief for that maternal comfort that doesn’t come quickly enough. Life long grief for those toys dropped and lost forever. For nursery, for infant school - grieving for each chapter that closes, fearful of the next. A subconscious grief for toys and clothes outgrown - that heat of embarrassment at the words ‘surely you’re too old for that’. [continued over on my substack https://open.substack.com/pub/catmwrites/p/embracing-grief?r=24v8hk&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true]
I am behind now as couldn't do the exercises on the weekend. But here is my invitation H:
Lessons from the sea...
Another lesson I have learned on my daily walks by the sea, which surprised me, is that my mood doesn’t change depending on what the sea is like. Be that deep azure blue, and twinkly in the sun’s reflection, calmly moving back and forth in a steady rhythm, or crashing waves, roaring tumult, and deep green, under a moodily overcast sky, crashing onto the shore. I thoroughly expected to get this boost from the sea before I started my routine strolls. Perhaps I expected the same effect I get when before a yoga class, I can feel tired and ratty. But more often than not, as soon as I get on the mat and forget the day thus far, all those feelings melt away. They may be replaced with calm, but equally, they can send me thinking more deeply within myself. I guess the real lesson for me is that I see the sea as an entity with its own personality, so much so that it’s the sea’s patterns or moods that I observe in much the same way that I would a colleague’s that I also saw on a daily basis. @bethkempton
The cat’s ashes sit on the windowsill. They are in an attractive container, a carved wooden cat. One would think it was just a decoration, not a vessel for a former life.
I loved that bloody cat. When I sat up late at night reading and drinking my glass of wine, he would appear, leaping up on the sofa and settling in my lap. Butting his forehead against my book, or my glass, he would insist that it was time to pet him. I would sit there stroking the solid weight of him – he was over fond of his food. How soft his fur was to the touch and how warm his body. They say cats don’t come to you out of love but only as a heat source. That is okay. I may have only been his hot water bottle, but to me, he was a companion.
We’d chat about my day, and he would give a clipped meow on occasion, though usually his comments were more purr-like. The steady vibration of his inner rumblings soothed me, no matter what I was telling him. Usually, I was complaining about someone who had hurt my feelings or who had been unfair to me. He never disputed my view of the situation, just listened.
People pay a lot of money to therapists so that someone may listen. I had a cat. He did cost me money in the end – vet bills, you know. But he was worth every penny and oh, how much money I would give to have him back with me now.
Lessons from a Chinese Money Plant (Pilea peperomioides)
I have always thought of money as something unnatural, something to be feared or hoarded. Whenever I have money I spend it quickly. I love having things, beautiful things, and I have often felt guilt about that. That material objects do in some way enhance my life.
This is the first Chinese Money Plant I have ever owned. I felt it was important to have it in the middle of my writing table. This decision was alongside the other decision I have made over the last few months, that I like writing on a dining table. Writing is about nourishment, it is not about work and offices. I want to write where I eat my meals, because both writing and food provide me sustenance.
It was in my last airbnb that the owner had placed a Chinese Money Plant on the dining table. There was something about this plant that I loved having alongside me as I wrote. Because somewhere deep inside I have always feared that writing will make me poor. That to pursue a writing life will also mean to shackling myself to want, and missing out.
When I look at these leaves shaped like small coins, its forest green leaves, growing in dank earth, and how it keeps growing new coins everyday, I give myself permission to believe that money and abundance is not an evil. It is not something in and of itself that is bad. And that with each word I write, and each coin grows, I am taking one step closer to being richer in all ways.
Thank you so much for this Beth. I’ve just completed the last exercise. And after resisting for quite some time I finally feel I’ve fallen in love with writing! I haven’t shared yet because I’ve been mostly offline, tucked up in a cosy hideaway deep in the heart of Wales, on my very own solo retreat. I was following my intuition, discovered this magical place and after I booked it discovered that Spring Light was running the very same dates :))
Hello all! I wanted to share my reworked sentence from Day 1. I'm a little behind, but will committed to finish Spring Light! Editing has always been my weakest point, and I loved the final exercise of enhancing a sentence.
--> For the one minute we spent together in the glassed wind tunnel, my body and the wind were delighted to play.
“You are a writer and the world needs your medicine.”
I’ve been having a hard time believing these words until today. I mean, truly believing. Daring to believe is scary. From what height can I risk a fall? That is something for me to find out and I’m going to find out. It is scary, yes, but scarier not to. I have to take the risk.
When I dig so deep I that I can’t deceive even myself — I know I have something beautiful and valuable to offer. And so the floodgates have opened up and here I am, sobbing and pouring my heart onto this page.
I also know that believing these words today doesn’t exempt me from having to work to believe them tomorrow. So I will need to remind myself again and again why I’m here and what I need to do. I’ll have to coax myself out from my hiding place not just today, but every day.
Keeping myself at the same safe place where there is no height to fall from is the saddest existence and merely existing is no way to live. Daring to climb to a great height is both the riskiest AND the healthiest thing I can do for myself.
Thank you, Beth, for your words. They have earned a place of prominence in my heart. Thank you for sharing your wisdom in such a beautiful, gentle and authentic way. Your encouragement means more to me than you can know.
Strangely dim today, I won´t let you bring me down. Usually you burst through that window casting shadows in places and beaming your warm liquid gold over others. But it´s only natural that there will be days when you don´t shine quite as brightly as you usually do, and it is no more a reflection of dimming beauty than the nightfall that obscures you. Sometimes I wonder if night and darkness were sent to us to remind us every morning how Blessed we are to have you. You are still right there, stunning the world with your glistening brilliance, day after day. You hold the kind of light that never truly fades, a luminous radiance of loveliness that is unrivalled.
Thank you for another lovely writing experience Beth, and yesterday’s Q&A was both informative and moving, ferrying us over the river of words that I tap into even more with each class I take with you 🦋
Invitation H
Lesson From A Robin
I felt guided by a force greater than I. An unseen wind lifted me and before I knew it, I landed beside her. She seemed lost in thought, wistful. I flew to a lower branch, chirped then waited. A lone tear hovered on her cheek, then fell. Slowly she turned her gaze upon me. We watched each other, barely breathing. I dipped my head in greeting and sang her a love song. She smiled a watery smile and whispered almost to herself “I’m not alone”.
Posted on my substack account https://alisondowling2023.substack.com/publish/post/145411953
Alison xxx
Finally got up the courage to share one of my pieces from the course! Here's the link on my substack:https://open.substack.com/pub/kristinathorne/p/lessons-from-a-fiddlehead-in-spring?r=9rj2t&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Like spring is unfurling very late this year I now share late but with much enthusiasm a bit to this wonderful class by @bethkempton:
Spring called to me like
the gentler wind,
the warmer light,
the cranes wandering
over the bluest sky.
Similar as a haiku:
Spring called to me like
cranes covering the bluest sky -
gentler wind and light.
I'm very much interested to know which version resonates more with you and why - thank you all!
Invitation F
Memories of Light
Last remnants of the day gather.
Slivers of pink, gold, red.
They rest like weary children on the summit.
Then sink slowly, heavy lidded.
Reluctant to surrender, they hover.
Slumber beckons, golden wisps dissolve into night.
Resting in shadow until dawn.
Alison ❤️
https://alisondowling2023.substack.com/publish/post/144439194
Knowing - perhaps the toughest one for me.
I know I can write. But it’s only in the last year that I’ve let myself play with words and see where they take me. That I’ve quietly tried the word ‘writer’ out for size and started to say it out loud...
The full essay can be found on my substack - https://substack.com/home/post/p-144366845?r=24v8hk&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
@bethkempton - Thank you so much for such an inspiring writing sanctuary x
KNOWING
Due to not having full vision I was not able to write much.
Now I can see much better and felt it was time to complete the Spring Writer gathering.
This is what came up for me during the visualisation, which I felt intensely in my Solar Plexus.
The Magic of Storytelling:
The magic of words, spinning tales of times long forgotten. Ancient wisdom buried under false pretence, brushed off as fairy tales, superstitions, and nonsense.
I feel it deep inside myself, hidden in the depths of my heart, my soul.
I feel it in my bones when I have discovered my truth, my authentic self, I just know.
And I let go of all that does not ring true anymore and I embarked on a journey with no destination nor a set course. I let go of the path dedicated by others and followed my heart. Dancing and singing to my own tune. And see the magic and miracle of life. Embracing life, all of it. I found the magic of life, words, and storytelling.
Much love
Anja xx
Hello, everyone! I have finally started my Substack, encouraged by my morning walk. This first piece was in a big way inspired by Spring Light, but not a response to the course material strictly. Enjoy! :) https://open.substack.com/pub/ivettgancs/p/the-gift-of-slowing-down-for-a-little?r=27fs69&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Lessons from wild grasses on a cliff top.
There is infinite beauty in a tapestry of wild grasses. The golds and silvers shimmering in a sea breeze. The blondes and brunettes jostling joyfully, in good spirits seeking the air that is there as ally to their simple natural imperative. Seeds must be spread and there is wondrous boisterousness in the spreading. Arranged in no particular order; the ones that look like a suspended firework bursting; the ones that seem scatterbrained, unsure where they’re going or where they’ve just been; the ones that arch their stem gracefully, weeping willow of the downland, their heavy arrowheads pursuing freedom; the ones that dance like confetti on the breeze, as if catching and sticking to tall shafts of dappled sunlight; the noble ones, with tiny sheafs of wheat, eminently polite, perpetually bowing to the other esteemed sheafs. As they sway and twirl, swing and gyrate, they seem to chatter amongst themselves, blissfully ignorant of their short but gorgeous existence. The wild grass does not seek approval or permission for the wild life it leads; it is wildly unmoved by the noise and haste around it, and therein lies its beauty. Whether on roadside or sweeping hillside, it’s presence is enough, existing is enough. There is infinite beauty in contemplating (and perhaps one day believing) that our simple, shimmering existence is enough.
Invitation 1.5 EMBRACING THE TRUTH OF IMPERMANENCE
The Hands of Time
My scar is in the shape of the last words I said to my father ’Sleep well, I love you’. I didn’t know they would be my last words to him, I didn’t know they would be the last he heard from a loved one.
The hands of time sooth the pain of words unspoken and of deeds unfinished, they signpost to patches of sunlight on the cold, stone floor. And they point to new pathways - ones which are lined with cherry blossom, blown on a gentle Spring wind, to carpet this new day.
As I write this, the tears still flow. But much has healed and much has changed. I am stronger, having shared my vulnerabilities. I love my work again, having left a career of 25 years. Finding space to be kinder to me has enabled space to be kinder to others. I am becoming and undoing in all the right places. I have re-connected with the earth, with my art and myself. My scar is in the shape of words unspoken.
Haiku for a damp Spring morning:
The quivering web
Raindrops holding on tightly
Awaiting sunshine
That moment what i borrowed your belief in me and became a writer!
https://open.substack.com/pub/katiereevearnold/p/changing-how-i-see-it?r=1vcbn2&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
I get to have this day, and I am lucky because not everyone will get this privilege. One day it will all end and we will most likely not know when that will be.
What must it feel like to know that getting to have these days is short term? A diagnosis that is beyond treatment, a terrible accident, the body breaking suddenly.
I wonder if we will be lonely, after we lose a loved one. I wonder what we will do now. Can they still hear us, see us, help us as we get to have more days on our own journeys?
Can we feel them near us, surrounding us with love, guiding us? Will they send sounds or clues to how we should be living our lives?
For me, when I see a random pigeon I think of my dad. He used to make us laugh by trying to chase the pigeons out of his garden. They always came back.
That got me thinking, what if he got to have this day again? What would I do if that happened?
You see, I never got to say goodbye in person. The last time I saw him he was happy, very much his usual self. I couldn't stand to see him laid out in a coffin, a cold former figure of himself. I didn't want that lasting image in my head.
I miss him, I sit where we sprinkled his ashes, I still feel the urge to text him even though it's been nearly four years.
If we got to have this day again together, I would absorb his wisdom, his library of knowledge, his love for me and his grandson. I would share a joke, talk about the football, comment on the neighbours, hold his warm hand, drink in his every feature.
He leaves an unfixable hole in my heart.
So because I get to have this day again, I will continue to try and make him proud. Be the person he brought me up to be. Losing him was a shock that I will never fully recover from.
Someone once told me that you never get over losing a loved one, you just learn to live alongside it. They were right.
Here I am living, learning, remembering and making the most of everyday.
And then I think. And I conclude that he does get to have this day again and again through me. He is physically gone, but his soul will live in me forever.
Thank you @BethKempton for the inspiration and for allowing me to dig deep
Hello, fellow writers!
I read through all I had written during Spring Light as Beth recommended. As a result I ended up with this "Thursday Substack" as I call it (I've been posting on Substack every Thursday since the Winter Writing Sanctuary): https://open.substack.com/pub/voiceitandletgo/p/note-to-self?r=2v25gh&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
My Spring Light post is up. @BETHKEMPTON, thank you for this space. Everyone, thank you for being here and supporting each other with likes and subscriptions and such. https://www.oldgrateful.com/p/coming-out-generational-trauma
I finally managed to write a Spring Light post. Hopefully more to come! https://open.substack.com/pub/rebeccakershaw/p/spring-light?r=62t9m&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
I am new to substack and am in the process of learning how all of this works. I thought I had posted this earlier but I can't find it now so I am trying again.
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
I am new to substack and am in the process of learning how all of this works. I thought I had posted this earlier but I can't find it now so I am trying again.
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and for quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
Hello everyone. First time on Substack so do not know what to expect. Thought I would try it and see what happens. There is no title for this piece at the moment.
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
This piece is untitled at the moment.
A bouquet of freshly cut lilacs arranged in a canning jar sits on the kitchen counter. A single thin white silk ribbon is tied in a bow around the neck of the jar. The lilacs are a deep purple accentuated with light purple buds waiting to burst open. They are surrounded by thick heart shaped green leaves which also fill the bottom of the glass vase. The picture before me is a simple one for the eye but not so simple for the heart.
The original lilac bush was first planted in the backyard of my childhood home sometime in the 1960’s. This Old-Fashioned Lilac bush provided a backdrop for many backyard celebrations and quiet contemplations. The scent from the lilacs in the jar is a talisman for memories. I begin to remember. . .
-a high school graduation breakfast where a group of girls sits on a blanket spread out on a gently sloping hill covered in soft green grass. One of the last times together before the future really begins. Laughter fills the air on this sunny day in May.
-a young boy, a grandson, running with wild abandon as a new little beagle pup follows barking with its tail wagging in absolute joy. After a little bit, they both stop. The boy lays down on the soft green grass while the pup jumps all over him urging him to get up and play. The boy suddenly wraps his arms around the wiggling pup binging her close before they resume the chase.
-A few years later another pup joins in the fun with another granddaughter and grandson. The scene from those earlier years is repeated. On this afternoon in April, the breeze carries the laughter coming from everyone watching.
-Mom and dad, years later, sitting together on the patio enjoying the backyard they immaculately kept for 58 years. They sit in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying each other’s company.
In the fall of 2018, my brother and I sold our childhood home and turned the keys over to a new owner. As I looked around the backyard one last time, I decided I needed to bring a piece of it to my own backyard. I dug up a sucker shoot from the original lilac bush which I then planted in my backyard. With that, I physically closed a chapter of my life; emotionally, the chapter will never end.
As the years passed, I carefully tended to the needs of the off shoot of the original bush. I watched the shoot grow from a single skinny stick less than a foot tall to a bush over five feet tall.
Dad had passed away in the fall of 2015. Mom in the summer of 2017. I also said goodbye to the two beagle pups, the oldest in July of 2023 and the youngest in April of 2024.
Two weeks after the youngest pup passed away, nature gave me a precious gift. On this sixth- year anniversary of the transplant, I was greeted by the very first lilacs. As I breathed in the scent coming from the newly emerging flowers, I let go of a deep sigh. Tears came to my eyes. My thoughts quieted. I could sense the past surrounding me in a warm familiar hug. I began to smile and I remembered. . .
Lessons from a sparrowhawk -
The emerging leaves and blossom make it easier to hide. To watch with absolute stillness. The tits have become forgetful over winter - they too think they can hide on this spring day as they flit from branch to branch, looking for lunch. A spring madness seems to have come over them and the others. An insatiable greed has arrived and they’ve lowered their guard for their gut... [continued on my substack - https://open.substack.com/pub/catmwrites/p/lessons-from-the-sparrowhawk?r=24v8hk&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true]
===
The Sparrowhawk
You drop to the path,
from the apple tree above,
silently,
clutching something.
A frustrated flap
as though trying
to readjust a slipping coat.
Gripping your prize
you suddenly take flight
wings outstretched.
The air is still for a moment
before the warning calls
of the great tits
and blue tits sound,
like a death knell,
Beware,
Beware,
Beware,
One of our kind is lost.
INVITATION G: ON EPHEMERALITY
Five years
I see that I walked into a dark forest not knowing what awaited me. I had not map, no light, no instructions. I didn’t even know that I was going there. No contract or intention setting or deal. I walked in as if it was just another day in my life.
In 2018, the day after my fiftieth birthday I walked with bare feet on what I thought to be rocks but turned out to be open baby oyster shells and cut both my feet. I had stitches and could only walk a silly walk on my right heel and the toes of my left foot. We laughed.
“Welcome to the fifties”, my life said. I didn’t listen. I busied on. Creating a career. Being a mother. Loving my husband. Caring. Listening. Absorbing.
In 2019, my father died in my arms, two weeks after he received a terminal diagnosis. Right after his last breath, the radio played La Vie en Rose with Louis Armstrong.
But life was not pink. It stopped. I could see the beautiful summer through my windows. I could eat, drink and laugh. But I wasn’t feeling it. I was somewhere inside myself. Hidden in a far dark corner where I could be alone and silent.
“Take your time”, life said. But time didn’t exist anymore. It had stopped. Or I had lost track. It didn’t matter. As long as I could be alone in that silent, dark place.
Until one day, I found myself tangled up in my busy life again, my father by my side, walking with time again. Ticking in rhythm of duties and care for others forgetting how to listen to my own heartbeat.
In 2020, in the midst of the covid crisis, I was doing my uttermost to stay positive, engaged and hopeful for everybody around me when I had to schedule the death at a Wednesday at noon for my animal soulmate through 16 years, a beautiful chocolate labrador named Cannelle. I was furious when they carried her dead body out of my house.
“Love”, life said. I sneered back at life. “Ha! Love you say! That is a strange way of showing it.” I missed her so much.
In 2021, I woke up after a deliberating dream, felt strong and powerful. We went for a hike through a forest and along a river. My son dared me to climb an old not very tall cherry tree and I fell. I fell on my head and broke my back. I was lucky that there would be no severe consequences but only three months of slow healing.
“Listen”, life said. And I did. I had the time. There was nothing else to do in the hospital bed in my living room. And I listened to my body, to the blackbird singing spring welcome from the birch tree, I listened to the words of my heroines and the rhythm of my own body. I listened to the love of my husband and my son and family and friends. Getting this time to get to know myself. Taking care of me. Drawing, writing, reading and listening. I was almost happy and so grateful to just be alive.
Then menopause kicked in !!!
Falling from the cherry tree, I had fallen in menopause. After the fall I never saw my period again. A foreign power had sieged my body. It was not mine any longer. It was under attack. Brain fog, hot flushes, aching joints, night sweats, irregular heartbeat. I had it all.
Just recovering after the fall, taking up my activities and more or less normal life again, I was constantly reminded that I was a mortal middle-aged woman and life became a constant battle and longing for moments of physical cease-fire.
“Wake up!”, life said. Shake, dance, scream, jump. Be alive!” I felt a rage against everybody and everything. “Why me?”
In the late summer of 2022, my mother received a terminal diagnosis, and I went to care for her. I caught a covid in the airport and had to keep a distance with her the last days of her life. Was that a symbol of our relationship?
And there I was. Orphan. Shaken to my roots. 55 years old. Thinking of the conversations I would have loved to have with my mother. Of the words I would have loved her to say to me. It all went so fast
“Embrace”, life said. This is yours. Also. This. One. All of it. Accept it. Be in it. Live it.
And so I do. With scars on my feet and a crack in my back. With a soul longing for deepness and laughter and my heart filled with love to give forever, but I understand now. I do. My body told me so.
A little late... about light:
The early spring lights
flow in between tree trunks
reach the muddy surface
of the forest lake water
and lay down to rest.
A gentle breeze
push waves of light
across the muddy surface
of the forest lake water
and play a tune in the bush as it disappears.
Standing at the shore
I watch this ephemeral scene
on the muddy surface
of the forest lake water
and thank the elements for this beautiful act.
francesgaudiano@substack.com is the link to my substack page where I have posted my musing on things within a frame.
Invitation H:
https://substack.com/profile/173100833-voice-it-and-let-go/note/c-55151576
Possibilities
The hollow cylinder, made of a dark, swirly-patterned and grainy wood, stands on the far edge of the writing desk.
Its lacquered, glossy rim is thick, catching late-day light from the window above and out of frame.
Hollowed but not empty.
Standing upright in the centre of the cylinder is a dry marker pen, its white plastic body just taller than the cylinder. A royal blue top declares the marker’s colour. A fragment of a printed label is visible on the white barrel - obscured partly by the cylinder wall itself and by the other occupants of the cylinder’s dark interior.
Six slim pens are resting here, casually lounging at varied and almost, but not quite vertical angles.
Mid-grey slender stalks with a shiny metal pocket clip each, topped with small, clear plastic bubble in the centre of which peeps a smaller circle of colour, possibly the colour of the ink within, if I have been didligent in replacing their tops earlier in the day.
In between work shifts, they lounge in their wooden space like so many after-work men propping up the bar of an early evening pub, talking over a pint and over each other.
Blue for ‘body content’; black for ‘research needed’ and red for ‘not thought this bit through yet’.
The pens are waiting.
Maybe, in a moment, I shall pick one out of the little group.
And begin again.
The low level metal shaded desk light holds its opaque black cone directed downwards, fixed to the lamp stand by a black metal bracket through which is threaded a black electrical cord. The lampstand itself is a simple wooden column, about an inch square, fixed vertically to its matt black metal rectangluar base.
Unheeded and uneeded yet in the still daylight, the lamp is waiting.
Perhaps as dusk deepens, I shall turn it on.
Light seeking...
Possibilities
The hollow cylinder, made of a dark, swirly-patterned and grainy wood, stands on the far edge of the writing desk.
Its lacquered, glossy rim is thick, catching late day light from the window above and out of frame.
Hollowed but not empty.
Standing upright in the centre of the cylinder is a dry marker pen, its white plastic body just taller than the cylinder. A royal blue top declares the marker’s colour. A fragment of a printed label is visible on the white barrel - obscured partly by the cylinder wall itself and by the other occupants of the cylinder’s dark interior.
Six slim pens are resting here, casually lounging at varied and almost, but not quite vertical angles.
Mid-grey slender stalks with a shiny metal pocket clip each, topped with small, clear plastic bubble in the centre of which peeps a smaller circle of colour, possibly the colour of the ink within, if I have been didligent in replacing their tops earlier in the day.
In between work shifts, they lounge in their wooden space like so many after-work men propping up the bar of an early evening pub, talking over a pint and over each other.
Blue for ‘body content’; black for ‘research needed’ and red for ‘not thought this bit through yet’.
The pens are waiting.
Maybe, in a moment, I shall pick one out of the little group.
And begin again.
The low level metal shaded desk light holds its opaque black cone directed downwards, fixed to the lamp stand by a black metal bracket through which is threaded a black electrical cord. The lampstand itself is a simple wooden column, about an inch square, fixed vertically to its matt black metal rectangluar base.
Unheeded and uneeded yet in the still daylight, the lamp is waiting.
Perhaps as dusk deepens, I shall turn it on.
It's a beautiful morning here after a very past week, so I went back to the start of Spring LIght. All feels like it's perfect timing for me now that we're at the end of the month.
"A cool light breeze wraps its arms around my back, as the warm sun gently greets my face and body, and I smile, knowing I am fully in the transition to spring."
So far behind but reminding myself this is not a race...
3. Moving
Through the frame of my fingers I saw the face in the mirror, and it saw me. We held each others gaze for a moment and then we both smiled. It was as if, for the first time, I saw the real me, viewed from a different perspective. I'm simply a face in the mirror, framed by fingers, shaped like a heart. 🫶
I'm so very behind but slowly catching up...
Day 5 | Embracing
Grief - in all its forms.
Grief comes to us all in the end. That sliding down the wall grief of a loved one lost, the news triggering an unexplained need to be physically grounded. The autopilot grief, where life must carry on in the immediate before you can allow yourself space to process the information in great gulps. The grief that comes to you in the silence of the night, tears leaking down your face, pooling at the crease where your earlobes meet your neck, wet and cold, as the house sleeps.
For so long, grief felt like the exclusive right of the dead. In truth, we grieve from the moment we’re born. Wailing grief for that maternal comfort that doesn’t come quickly enough. Life long grief for those toys dropped and lost forever. For nursery, for infant school - grieving for each chapter that closes, fearful of the next. A subconscious grief for toys and clothes outgrown - that heat of embarrassment at the words ‘surely you’re too old for that’. [continued over on my substack https://open.substack.com/pub/catmwrites/p/embracing-grief?r=24v8hk&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true]
Thanks for reading x
Lessons From the Spring Snow Crabapple Tree
Short days and cold nights
Snow falls on bare branches
The sun and earth continue to dance
Light increases and leaves sprout
Flowers bloom with splendor and fragrance
The tree intuitively knows
When to turn inward
Gathering its strength to survive
And when to share its gifts with the world
I almost did a Lessons from a Crabapple tree but couldn't quite form what I wanted to say. This is beautiful :)
Thank you, Kari. ❤️
I am behind now as couldn't do the exercises on the weekend. But here is my invitation H:
Lessons from the sea...
Another lesson I have learned on my daily walks by the sea, which surprised me, is that my mood doesn’t change depending on what the sea is like. Be that deep azure blue, and twinkly in the sun’s reflection, calmly moving back and forth in a steady rhythm, or crashing waves, roaring tumult, and deep green, under a moodily overcast sky, crashing onto the shore. I thoroughly expected to get this boost from the sea before I started my routine strolls. Perhaps I expected the same effect I get when before a yoga class, I can feel tired and ratty. But more often than not, as soon as I get on the mat and forget the day thus far, all those feelings melt away. They may be replaced with calm, but equally, they can send me thinking more deeply within myself. I guess the real lesson for me is that I see the sea as an entity with its own personality, so much so that it’s the sea’s patterns or moods that I observe in much the same way that I would a colleague’s that I also saw on a daily basis. @bethkempton
Looking an object -
The cat’s ashes sit on the windowsill. They are in an attractive container, a carved wooden cat. One would think it was just a decoration, not a vessel for a former life.
I loved that bloody cat. When I sat up late at night reading and drinking my glass of wine, he would appear, leaping up on the sofa and settling in my lap. Butting his forehead against my book, or my glass, he would insist that it was time to pet him. I would sit there stroking the solid weight of him – he was over fond of his food. How soft his fur was to the touch and how warm his body. They say cats don’t come to you out of love but only as a heat source. That is okay. I may have only been his hot water bottle, but to me, he was a companion.
We’d chat about my day, and he would give a clipped meow on occasion, though usually his comments were more purr-like. The steady vibration of his inner rumblings soothed me, no matter what I was telling him. Usually, I was complaining about someone who had hurt my feelings or who had been unfair to me. He never disputed my view of the situation, just listened.
People pay a lot of money to therapists so that someone may listen. I had a cat. He did cost me money in the end – vet bills, you know. But he was worth every penny and oh, how much money I would give to have him back with me now.
Not feeling very Spring like as it raining in my corner of the West Country but still enjoying the bluebells.
Lessons from a Chinese Money Plant (Pilea peperomioides)
I have always thought of money as something unnatural, something to be feared or hoarded. Whenever I have money I spend it quickly. I love having things, beautiful things, and I have often felt guilt about that. That material objects do in some way enhance my life.
This is the first Chinese Money Plant I have ever owned. I felt it was important to have it in the middle of my writing table. This decision was alongside the other decision I have made over the last few months, that I like writing on a dining table. Writing is about nourishment, it is not about work and offices. I want to write where I eat my meals, because both writing and food provide me sustenance.
It was in my last airbnb that the owner had placed a Chinese Money Plant on the dining table. There was something about this plant that I loved having alongside me as I wrote. Because somewhere deep inside I have always feared that writing will make me poor. That to pursue a writing life will also mean to shackling myself to want, and missing out.
When I look at these leaves shaped like small coins, its forest green leaves, growing in dank earth, and how it keeps growing new coins everyday, I give myself permission to believe that money and abundance is not an evil. It is not something in and of itself that is bad. And that with each word I write, and each coin grows, I am taking one step closer to being richer in all ways.
Thank you so much for the re-introductions to Haikus - I am in love!
Evil flourishes
in the dark, or in the light
before the blind man.
...............................
It is easy; to
defeat evil, all we need
do - is to see it.
I did this in under 10 minutes, don't like it at all, but promised myself I'd post this go round (something I didn't do in the Winter Sanctuary)
Lessons from Lichen
Lichen hanging,
grey green hair
wisping down,
wind ruffling this
old man’s beard
as though it were chuckling.
Laughing lichen
from above. Reminders
to not take it all so
seriously.
Seriously, a bird swooped
and hit my head the other day.
Likely looking for
lichen strands to
adorn a nest.
I read once,
lichen lay
where the air is clean.
Breathing deep
Exhaling soft
Embracing calm.
Draping, reaching
stretching, flowing
thriving where
community grows.
Thank you so much for this Beth. I’ve just completed the last exercise. And after resisting for quite some time I finally feel I’ve fallen in love with writing! I haven’t shared yet because I’ve been mostly offline, tucked up in a cosy hideaway deep in the heart of Wales, on my very own solo retreat. I was following my intuition, discovered this magical place and after I booked it discovered that Spring Light was running the very same dates :))
Hello all! I wanted to share my reworked sentence from Day 1. I'm a little behind, but will committed to finish Spring Light! Editing has always been my weakest point, and I loved the final exercise of enhancing a sentence.
--> For the one minute we spent together in the glassed wind tunnel, my body and the wind were delighted to play.
Inspired after today's dreamy Underwater World Visualization
SPEAKING WITHOUT WORDS by Michelle Forman
Go to the water,
It speaks to you.
Go to the water,
Listen
For the music.
It’s the call,
Of wisdom waiting to guide you.
Go to the water,
Dance
To the rhythm of the waves
Shimmering in shades of blue.
Go to the water,
Be open
To receive the magic.
Go to the water,
It’s safe, my darling creature.
Go on the journey.
Last post
***
Ceaseless tides in life
holding, withholding, mother
seas shift, light remains
“You are a writer and the world needs your medicine.”
I’ve been having a hard time believing these words until today. I mean, truly believing. Daring to believe is scary. From what height can I risk a fall? That is something for me to find out and I’m going to find out. It is scary, yes, but scarier not to. I have to take the risk.
When I dig so deep I that I can’t deceive even myself — I know I have something beautiful and valuable to offer. And so the floodgates have opened up and here I am, sobbing and pouring my heart onto this page.
I also know that believing these words today doesn’t exempt me from having to work to believe them tomorrow. So I will need to remind myself again and again why I’m here and what I need to do. I’ll have to coax myself out from my hiding place not just today, but every day.
Keeping myself at the same safe place where there is no height to fall from is the saddest existence and merely existing is no way to live. Daring to climb to a great height is both the riskiest AND the healthiest thing I can do for myself.
Thank you, Beth, for your words. They have earned a place of prominence in my heart. Thank you for sharing your wisdom in such a beautiful, gentle and authentic way. Your encouragement means more to me than you can know.
🙏
Inspired by the meditation today:
CHANGE
The old leather-bound book unfolded
to a page headed with a single word
“Change”.
What did it mean?
What was to be done?
Wondering why it had opened here,
Perhaps others had flicked through it
and stopped exactly in this place.
Maybe it was the unsealing
of a secret message,
or the urging a new beginning.
What did it mean?
What was to be done?
Change brings the chaos of endings,
Change creates transformation,
alternation, difference, a shift.
What did it mean?
What was to be done?
A sheet of age-old vellum,
marked with just a heading,
waiting for the chapter
to be written.
Light, dear friend, I haven´t forgotten you...
Strangely dim today, I won´t let you bring me down. Usually you burst through that window casting shadows in places and beaming your warm liquid gold over others. But it´s only natural that there will be days when you don´t shine quite as brightly as you usually do, and it is no more a reflection of dimming beauty than the nightfall that obscures you. Sometimes I wonder if night and darkness were sent to us to remind us every morning how Blessed we are to have you. You are still right there, stunning the world with your glistening brilliance, day after day. You hold the kind of light that never truly fades, a luminous radiance of loveliness that is unrivalled.
Lights
I see the lights in the distance,
I´m drawn to them like a moth.
I´ll keep putting one foot in front of the other,
Even though they´re a long way off.
I´ll follow the twists and turns in the path,
As I journey through the night,
Keeping my gaze fixated,
On the lights that shine so bright.
Sometimes I might stumble,
Other times I´ll fall.
There will be moments when I fail,
To see the lights at all.
But I´ll keep my eyes wide open,
Pick myself up from the ground,
Brush myself off and take another step forward,
I won´t stop until I´ve found...
The lights there in the distance,
The sunshine and blue skies,
A lightness to my heart
And the smile that lights up my eyes.
The spark that flickers in the dark,
The stars that shine above,
The fire that burns within my soul
And lights up the world with my love.
https://donnabradleybrown.substack.com/p/life-is-beautiful-f4d?r=1tmcgb
Life is Beautiful is my Substack, above is the link to my latest essay, inspired by Wednesdays invitation <3
Hi all, I haven't yet started writing but will soon. Here's my substack: https://substack.com/@eveninsilence
Thank you all for creating a lovely Spring Light experience!
Lessons from Spring Clouds
Grey and moody the clouds,
Free to release on a moments notice
Should they decide,
Only a minute ago, blue sky peeked,
But no, not to be,
Patience, compassion, hold the possibilities,
As the clouds do
It can be both, all,
Emotions.
Lessons from the birds
***
Awake whilst it is still dark,
sing your heart out
into the early dawn light
call out your companions.
Your voice is the perfect pitch
yours the first notes
of the slow crescendo of song
echoing through the woods.
I will sleep in the night
Rise with the sun
begin my day with joy
and thanks
for the life spirits
and their eternal cycle.
Thank you for another lovely writing experience Beth, and yesterday’s Q&A was both informative and moving, ferrying us over the river of words that I tap into even more with each class I take with you 🦋
Invitation F: Memories of Light
In the darkest of winter
I was on a never-ending
quest searching for light.
In the deepest of summer
I was on a sweltering
chase after the light.
In the fires of autumn
I was struck with a burning
realisation that light is escaping me.
And in the blossoms of spring
I was ever so beautifully
reminded light is without
as much as within