Oh what a beautiful morning

Impervious mackintosh shielding against

rain as it

drips from the

spokes of my rainbow umbrella

Wellingtons, soggy

with a leak in the toe

detracting my eye from the sparkles

of my rainbow coloured umbrella

Umbrella spinning slowly

in a puddle

Blown from my hand

allowing the rain to

drip

from my coat

into my wellingtons

Squelch!

Savouring

As I walked, I had to step around the bodies. Standing still, faces bathed in a golden glow.  Cameras out pointing to the sky.  I glanced up, the clouds high, puffy and white against a deep blue sky.  That blue sky that I love so much accompanied me on my journey.  

I walked on a little further, crossing the busy junction continuing to dodge the statue bodies all looking up. Men, women, teenagers, workers and shoppers on one of the busiest junctions in London at Oxford Street yesterday the 6th October late afternoon. 

As I crossed the road I stopped in the middle and turned and looked to my right.   

I too was then transfixed by the wonder in the sky.  My fellow humans had been sending me messages that I for a short time had ignored. ‘Sam, stop, pause and lookup.’  

They were drawn to the energy from the evening sun as it lit like a beacon, low in the sky.  We were all taking part in a collective moment of awe and wonder. The sunlight lit the busyness of the street, bouncing off the tops of buses and the bonnets of the cars and taxis.  Each person knew that this was something special.  

As I took in the view, felt the sun on my face, I too pulled out my camera to capture the glory of that moment. Then put away my phone and stood #savouring the moment.  

Drinking it in, I could feel the sunshine warming my bones, topping up my energy. I had a moment when I wanted to talk to someone near me, but not wanting to break into the reverie they were experiencing, I stood still and shared the joy that they were feeling. There was a palpable sense of joy all around me. 

As I crossed over and continued on my way, there was a lightness in my step and a smile on my face and the faces of others who had savoured the beauty that evening. 

This moment fitted so beautifully into my week as on Tuesday I had led my late summer/early autumn masterclass which was all about savouring. The power of savouring that I experienced yesterday was pretty special.  

So join me and use this hashtag and share moments of #savouring this autumn. I would love to share those moments with you.

I am interested in finding out how you are savouring life right now. 

Too much

I joined a wonderful Kitchen table creative writing group last week. We had 3 prompts and had to write to a time limit of about 12 minutes.

This first piece was prompted by a recording of a leaf blower. I enjoyed writing this. I promise I am not a noisy neighbour!

“ Pete, this is it!  You have used that leaf blower so many times this week.  There cannot possibly be any leaves left in your garden to blow! 

What is it with the blower, can’t you use a rake or a brush?

Yesterday, my book club friends came around and we had just fired up the BBQ and you started. 

The day before we were all trying to enjoy the paddling pool and the waterslide and you started.  

Sunday, when we were having a late night drinks party to watch the perseid meteor shower you started.  

What exactly is going on?” screamed Sam over the hedge. 

“Don’t stop there Sam, what about Saturday, when you had a mini sports day in your garden to celebrate the Olympics? 

Or Friday when your teens had their very own rave till 3a.m.

Or maybe last Monday when your whole extended family came out to celebrate ‘freedom day’.  There’s plenty more I could go on.” retorted Pete.

 

“What the heck”, Sam replied.  “Are you trying to tell me that I make too much noise, that I’m the one who is at fault?  That my social engagements are too much for you?” shouted Sam who had turned a lovely shade of puce. 

“Yes, they are,” replied Pete. 

“Too much

Too loud 

Too often 

And just too bloody noisy!”

That was it, Sam turned on her heel and stomped indoors. Her blood boiled just a little bit more as Pete switched on his leaf blower. 

12 minutes, written on the prompt of anger and to the noise of a leaf blower. 

Keep that hand moving

I like the practice of writing non stop for a period of time. It allows my brain and body to get into sync and let the ideas flow.

This piece was written whilst I sat in the National Portrait Gallery in February 2017. I pulled this one out as I remember the day very well. It was cold out but warm inside. The art attendants were almost snoozing in the heat of the building. There a few people in the gallery, out of tourist season (when there was a tourist season) a couple trailed around giving a cursory glance at the paintings. I sat quietly, put pen to paper and let the thoughts flow onto the paper.

Here’s my wandering thoughts captured in time that day ending with a short poem.

Dark, grim, determined and resolute. Sure of what they know, what they do and what they have done.

Averted eyes, cast down make me think that they are scared to look the artist squarely in the eye as they are afraid that the artist will see into their deepest desires.

Was this the fashion of the time to avert our gaze? Is looking straight forward a challenge, a risk too far? By looking ahead you could be caught off guard, hit from behind by a glancing blow, a push or a shove.

This is how it feels now in this world. The feeling around makes you want to hunker down, hid away from the darkness which is rising in the west and is setting in the east. By looking down away from the challenges you do not see what changes you can make?

Who are these people before me/ The political thinkers of their time quickly forgotten except for the oil paintings which hang in this gallery for all to see.

Aahh, now I read the labels and see that they are not politicians but poets and philosophers.

Algernon Charles Swinbourne 1837 – 1909 Friend of rossetti and poet, a young man in the portrait with red curls and a piercing stare into the future, holding his head up and looking out. As a poet who wants to see the world and be ahead of the game.

John Stuart Mill – Philosopher 1817 – 1904 Looking down, an old man with thinning hair. His eyes almost black and downward looking. His mouth in a set determined line.

What did he think about when he died? What were the first thoughts that came to his head? When did he realise that the world was a bigger place than his family? did he just sit and think, learn and read or did he work in another way to earn his keep? What seasons did he prefer and why? Did he ever learn to swim. What would he make of the world today? Would he want to follow another path? Who knows, there are no right answers for time has taken both poet and philosopher to a different place. Poet and Philosopher together placed near but not near in thoughts and ideas, wealth and power, age, youth and fitness of thoughts, deeds and works.

Semi lit

Quiet, hushed

Ready for sleep

Murmuring from afar

Creaky shoes on polished floors

Stopping, stepping, moving off

The hum of cars and lorries and

doors clicking one by one

Lowered voices

choosing not to disturb

the portraits on the walls which

line the wide wooden corridors

One by one

accurately mapping onto the walls

Keeping check of time

Tired, knee, stiff

cold, up since 5.15

Sit down, chat, talk

recuperate, connect with other

people

Samantha Jayasuriya

A line of oaks

A favourite oak from one of my walks

My first published poem on the online platform Words for the Wild

I have very clear memories of writing this poem. I was sitting in the classroom we used for our writing group. I could hear the pens of the other writers in the room as they scribbled their own poems and prose around the theme of trees.

I took my mind to a set of oaks that had captured my heart the first time I set my eyes on them. Standing tall in the grounds of the school where I was the Headteacher. These trees were a huge part of the reason why I wanted to work in the school. At least 250 years old, they towered over the playgrounds and the field surrounding the school. I loved them, the children loved them, the staff loved them.

When a child would have a tricky time, they would often escape to the field. The oaks would always provide a natural distraction from that heightened emotion and help them self-regulate to a safer space. Trees are pretty amazing.

Here’s a link to the published page. https://wordsforthewild.co.uk/?page_id=2188

If you don’t want to leave, here it is.

I would love to hear what you think in the comments.

A line of Oaks 

How do you track time? 

Is it by the seasons?

The light as it lengthens and shortens across the year?

Is it by the moon as it waxes and wanes?

Or by the stars, as they make their celestial way across the sky? 

Do you track time by the sowing of seeds, the lambing of sheep or the harvest of grain?

I track time by my observations of the oaks.

That stand in a line on the edge of the field by the village hall.

A line of age

Planted by intent

To map out belonging.

A line which has lasted two hundred years or more. 

A line of memories of countless children that have swung and climbed the branches, who grew and outgrew their socks, shoes and homes. 

A line of time shown by the thickening girth

And countless rings which hide beneath the rustling branches.

A line of six whose presence gives protection from summer sun and driving rain when caught out on a walk.

And shelter to those who need time to think, time to pray, and time to whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears. 

I track time by their leaves that grow, flourish and fall.

A line of age.

A line of memories. 

A line of time.

A line of oaks. 

By Samantha Jayasuriya

Mind over matter

I wrote this in a short burst in my writing group time in 2018. Now as I train to be a somatic coach, I recognise the beginnings of focusing and looking inwards. In the chapter – Writing as a practice, Goldberg talks about the need to practice whether you want to or not.

I’m taking this to heart and have built in a half an hour each day to write.

Only writing is writing.

Skandinavisk candle – Koto An old Finnish word for ‘home’.

Mind over matter

So many parts of me, all connected by sinew, tendon, cartilage, nerves and more. I ignore my body until it starts to hurt when it puts on the brakes and calls me out. Stop, stop, stop – a pounding migraine in my head, the throbbing pain in my neck and the sharp stabbing pain in my knee. Up until the pain arrives, I feel like I am invincible, bounding through time and space. Moving this way and that, tramping footpath, field and verge. I am oblivious to the stresses and strains I place on the tendons, nerves, cartilage and more. 

As the red lights flash, I know the time has come to stop, take stock and be aware of the parts of me which make me whole. To get back to green, I use my mind. 

It is a quiet pause in the day to slow down my breath, and be aware of everything around me – a chance to still my thoughts and focus on the senses which help navigate the days and nights. 

My sight moves into the foreground, focussing on my palms, noticing the lines on the creases in my fingers, the curve of my nail and the joints in my hands.  

My ears tune out the immediate sounds all around, hearing once again in the distance the blackbird on the fence as he calls to his mate, urging her to take care.  

The smell of the washing as it hangs on the landing mingles with the fragrance of shower gel and deodorant … the morning smells of get up and go. And the taste of toothpaste in my mouth; the minty freshness which I inhale as I breathe deeply.  

And my sixth sense suddenly switches on. I am aware of the energy surrounding me and in me which is all powerful and awe-inspiring.  

As my body stills and quietens, I begin to listen to the shouts and calls from within. The knots in my shoulder begin to unwind as each breath loosens the tendons, relaxing the clenched muscles which in turn take oxygen to my furrowed brow.  

I  straighten and lengthen my calf, allowing my knee to relax and slip back into a more comfortable easy state. The release of pain cheers my brain and my breath quickens. As I bring myself back into the here and now, I use the sinew, tendon, cartilage, nerves and more and take a step forward into the day.

By Samantha Jayasuriya 

Write until the ideas stop

I added this photo to my insta page today and thought that it also needed to be here.

To remind me just to get on and write.

To write because I enjoy it and to stop worrying about what other people think or like.

One of the challenges of writing for me is letting go of the editing pen. I have to consciously make myself leave it in the box. Sometimes I have to wrestle it out of my hand.

Joining a writing class has helped me lose the editing pen. In timed conditions I can let my mind go and just write.

Now, I am trying to get this as a daily practise and scribbling down half formed ideas that can be fleshed out into fully formed poems or prose at a later stage.

Earlier this week, I started a story that had been rumbling about in my head for months. It will be worked on over the next few months and as the ideas come, I’m just going to get them down.

Today, I’m putting aside an afternoon to write and if the weather is nice, I’m off to a cafe to drink tea, eat cannoli’s and write.

Beginner’s Mind, Pen and Paper

I have read and re-read ‘Writing down the bones,’ many times but have decided to work my way through the book again.

My aim is to revisit the wonderful ideas that Natalie Goldberg offered when she first wrote the book in 1986.

Pen and Paper – the key implements to help a writer capture their thoughts.

I love to write in pen, but choose to use a rollerball parker pen as my ink. The pen I love to use is slightly weighty in my hands. It was a Christmas gift many years ago from my youngest son.

I prefer to write in black ink and use a medium rollerball. I hate the feel of fine pens on paper and much prefer lots of ink to come out, marking the words as they go.

Paper is very much down to what comes to hand. In order for me to be able to capture my thoughts, I mostly use small notebooks. I try not to use my bullet journal, as you can see in the photo. I prefer to use notebooks which are just for creative writing.

The blue scuffed notebook you can see was started in 2017. I wanted to share this with you as my notes whilst talking to my mum have been scribbled inside. These notes were to write her story down. She was keen to tell her tale and I am so glad I asked her when I did as her memories became more fleeting over the years.

Now she has passed away, they are precious, more precious than the objects she may have willed me to have.

In 1986, people may not have had the computers that they have today. Voice recorders definitely existed, but the ease with which we can record on our phones was not accessible to all.

I still prefer to write stories by pen, capturing my ideas on paper. As Natalie writes –

“You want to be able to feel the connection and texture of the pen and paper.”

Roses in June

I pressed my nose and inhaled deeply

The scent filled my head and made me swoon. 

Heady fragrant but with notes almost fleeting, 

Reminders of times gone by 

My fingers traced the velvet curve of petals edge, 

Each one nestled into the other with a centre hidden   

Sharp thorns protecting the soft downy beauty a the end of each

slender stem 

My eyes flicked over the bloom entranced by the last drop of dew 

Slowly evaporating in the morning light. 

Colours diluted at the tips, saturated in the centre. 

A bee buzzed, attracted by the heady scent and promise of sweetness 

Deep inside 

Thwarted by the tightly furled petals it moved to 

Nearby blousy blooms, 

Already past their glory to revel in the nectar of 

Roses in June