Therapy

 https://www.lauriestonhall.org.uk/

Lauriston Hall is a commune in Scotland which runs courses. I went three times for Women's Art Therapy. It was amazing. When I was writing the last post I remembered one of the things I dealt with at Laurieston was the lack of intimacy I suffered as a child.  I remembered taking photos of the paintings I produced about this so I searched them out. Rather more successfully than the Bayeux Tapestry mock up. Not only that, I scanned them.

I painted what I would have liked to have happened at five years old. I even remembered the dress I wore.

I painted this to illustrate the need I had. I wanted to be hugged by all those arms.

The important painting here is the lower one. I wanted to nestle in the branches of a tree to feel safe.

Reflexion on rejection

  "Can I have a cuddle," I asked my mother. I was aged five. "No. You are too old for that now."

I didn't argue. I didn't cry. I didn't turn to my sister or brother. I accepted it. I was too old for cuddles now. I have no idea if I would have been a different child if cuddles had been allowed. What I do remember is a feeling. I felt that I was surrounded by space. I was alone and I was in this huge space. 

That of course was a very long time ago but I frequently relive that feeling when I feel alone. The remembering leads to my acceptance of aloneness. I survived then and every time I feel alone I know that I am not dependant on anyone else. I can do it alone.

I do not take criticism well. I rarely offer my work to be read by others. I hate criticism. I have occasionally offered my work to be evaluated like a kind of exam with assessment of factors marked out of 10 or 20. Interestingly I rarely agree with the comments.

I think about publishers and competitions logically. Publishers are inundated with work and their objective is to publish something which will make them money. They choose a work which they can promote so that it sells millions of copies. So for the one work which is accepted hundreds go in the trash can. I am not saying that the rest are rubbish but that they can only publish a limited number a year so the rest lose out. It is like a lottery; win a few, lose millions. 

Competitions are slightly worse. We know that thousands enter all kinds of competitions and there are often only three winners. First,  second and third and occasionally a few runners up. If you win a competition it does not mean that you will get a publishing deal. Prizes are usually monetary and sometimes a place on a prestigious writing course. 

So Trying to get a work published or winning a competition is logically like winning the lottery. It is a number's game. It is said that one has more chance of getting runover by a bus than winning the lottery.  I suppose for writers the odds are marginally better.

So rejection. Am I sensitive to rejection? Of course I am. I can deal with it but why subject myself to it when the odds are against me?

Do I still write? Yes I do. I write three blogs. I write for myself. It helps me to get my thoughts in order, to work out problems and I write out opinions. One blog is like a diary. You may ask what is the point of them if no-one else reads them. The answer is that I read them. Occasionally when I haven't written for a while I read earlier posts. I am always surprised how interesting I find them. I know that they wouldn't interest others but they also give me an insight to my thoughts on certain issues.  Occasionally they have spawned a letter to a magazine, Mslexia for instance. Letters which have been published without being judged or rewarded with a prize but just ideas that have been shared.

Where have they all gone?

 Where have all the daisies gone from Silverdale

and buttercups from Goldenhill and Goldendale?

Where is the grass from Pennyfields and Summerbank?

Etruria, Dunkirk and Florence evoke images of Europe

but no they are here in Staffordshire.

No parrots in Parrots Drumble, No kids in Kids Wood, 

 but there rooks in the Rookery.

 Acres Nook

Now trees we can boast about 

A 350-year-old yew tree in Shugborough Estate is vying to be the best in the country with it's 575ft crown circumference.

Staffordshire can boast 66 different species.

but tragedy has struck in the name of progress.

             HST  HST HST HST HST

But now this historic Staffordshire yew tree is bidding to go one step better and be named the best in the country.

And members of the public in the West Midlands are being urged to get behind the campaign and vote for it to become the winner.

The 350-year-old tree at the Shugborough Estate, has a crown circumference of 575ft - about the same size as the auditorium at the Royal Albert Hall.

More than 200 nominations of trees across the country were lodged in the competition to find the best which is being run by the nature charity, The Woodland Trust.

Not Rainbow Woman

  I am not an exciting, brilliant red woman.

I am not a dynamic, energetic orange woman.

I am not a shining, beaming yellow woman.

I am not a peaceful, calming green woman.

I am not a communicative, opinionated blue woman.

I am not a shadowy, spiritual purple woman.

I am not a dainty, blushing pink woman.

I am a plain, ordinary, BEIGE woman.

But Arnold Bennet said that he was fascinated by "The interestingness of ordinariness".

Clayhanger Press

 We searched far and wide for my sister's initials,

Under "Top of the Hill" and 

I am just an ordinary woman

Keep on Keeping on or as the French say, Bon Continuation.

How can I write when I am a beige woman, well white to be precise? I am not black or disabled or suffering from a terminal disease nor have I been in a terrible accident. I am not the winner of a sports event. I have not won prizes nor do I excel in my hobbies of painting and gardening. Although I do give money to charity my activities do not warrant notoriety.

I come from an ordinary family. My parents and all my siblings and my grandchildren and great grandchildren are to date ordinary. 

I suppose reaching the age of eighty is some kind of achievement but believe me it is not an achievement which brings any kind of thrill. It brings arthritis, fatigue, and memory loss and other things which I may remember later.   

I do not have a degree in Creative Writing. I have had no success in any of the many competitions I have entered.  

There is one thing that spurs me on to write, it is Arnold Bennet's statement " the interestingness of ordinariness". It is a very awkward phrase, even clumsy. But hey if Arnold Bennet says the ordinary is interesting who am I to disagree.

Jean Wild