writing

The Open Door

/ Samantha Jayasuriya / 2 Comments

Writing group last night, sitting around Carol’s table, there were many prompts available to us to get on and write. We plumped for this quote that could be used as a starter for a poem or a piece of prose. I chose prose.

Today we believe that tomorrow will knock and lead us to an open door.

Here is my story, it took me 30 minutes to write.

She lay looking at the sign on the wall above the lintel to the door of her room. It was painted a pale green colour, the writing in cream highlighted in gold. Typical of the signs you found in shops similar to ‘The Present’, a gift shop she remembered from the High Street, long since closed. Motivational quotes written to encourage and raise morale.

Maria shifted her head and turned her face away from the sign. It was an effort now to move, these past few days she had been feeling much weaker and ever movement took a lot of energy. Energy that was quickly slipping out of her body, squeezed out by numerous growths that had taken up residence, unwanted and uninvited.

But the phrase had got in her head. It nagged her and made her restless. Waking her in the dark of night, boring holes in her sleep fence that no herd of sheep could fill.

Tomorrow will knock and lead us to an open door. Up to this point she had dreaded death. Moving into the hospice three weeks ago was in her mind the final straw. She had fought this illness for so long, so many different drug trails, so many different doctors who tried so many strategies. She had entered the hospice reluctantly. It had felt so defeatist and she was a fighter.

And now she had a glimmer of hope. What if death would be a new doorway of living for her? What if with death there came new life. A new way of living? Maybe not the purgatory that the nuns and priest had drummed into her as a child, but something else?

Maria’s days and nights were now filled with thoughts on what would be beyond that open door.

If according to Hindu beliefs she was going to pass through the door and be reborn, she wished to come back as a grasshopper. Whiling away the days in the sun eating grass and singing to herself.

If according to Buddhist beliefs her consciousness continued in another form, she wanted to be an oak trees. In fact the one acorn in an oak tree harvest that was able to put down roots. She would grow and live for over 500 years, watching, observing, connecting with other trees and lifeforms.

If according to Islam, on her death she would be taken by Azar’il and be questioned by two further angels, she would have to get her answers right to ensure a pleasant resting place in Barzakh!

Maria realised how similar this belief was to the purgatory tales of her childhood. The purgatory according to her mum, where she would be picking up pieces of thread and the many pins she had dropped in her sewing lessons. She smiled remembering these close times with her mum whilst sewing her dolls clothes.

How are you doing today Maria?

A voice broke into her thoughts. Maria turned to see that the shift had changed and a new nurse was sitting by her bed. ‘I’m good, waiting for the knock.’

‘Waiting for the knock?’ replied the nurse.

Maria gestured with her head to the sign over the door. ‘Oh’, came the reply. ‘What’s your viewpoint on what’s beyond that open door?’ enquired Maria.

‘Well..’she could sense that Lydia, as that was her name, was torn between duty to her patient and keeping a neutral professional approach and also had a clear interest in the topic.

Lydia, shifted her body in the chair, helping her to block her voice from the open door and the staff nurse behind.

‘I’m a humanist, I believe that we have one life and we need to live it well. There is no afterlife, no reincarnation. It is important that we live each day well.’

As the days passed, Maria’s mind drifted, had she lived each day well? Was there more she could do before tomorrow knocked and led her to that open door?

The root split the casing of the acorn. It had lain in the soil for a good few months, feeling the cold of the winter and the coming warmth of spring. As the root reached down into the soil it could feel and sense other plants around it. Tomorrow will knock, the green shoot was ready to push its way up through he open door of the soil ready to face the light.

Where did that story come from? Definitely from an article I had read at the weekend of a woman who wrote the stories of people near end of life. Here’s a link if you want to read it too. https://www.theguardian.com/society/2023/mar/05/what-being-a-hospice-volunteer-taught-me-about-life-and-death

I also wanted to include the word ‘hope’ as Carol my writing colleague didn’t want to write about it. Hope is always left in the box of stories.

If you liked my story, please leave a positive comment to keep me writing.

Treasures in time – where did that come from?

/ Samantha Jayasuriya / Leave a comment

Summer a season for just slowing down your pace.

This story was written a few summers ago when I pulled a distant memory from my childhood to put into words.

Much of this story is true.

Uncle George, lived across the road from my childhood home. By his blue front door, you would find purple rhododendrons, in august they would be past their flowering time. What you would find would be the brown dried up flower heads, with spider webs adorning.

Uncle George as we knew him was an archaeologist and did attend and take part in may digs in the local area. His house was very much as I have written it in the story you may have just read.

He was a kind and gentle man, I think he had family but cannot ever remember who they were and recall them visiting him.

He always had a pocket full of Murray mints and if I were to eat one today, I would remember him with true affection.

The little fossil I found that August afternoon, did disappear. I am pretty certain it ended up in the collections of one of my older siblings. Who knows, not me! But my search for that elusive piece of magic goes on. When I am digging in my garden or beachcombing, my eyes will be down with Uncle George’s voice gently whispering in my ear.

Fairy Godmother

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I found out today that it is #nationalhotteaday


Tea! I love it, but don’t love caffeine and managed to kick caffeine out of my diet in 2018. I still love tea, my favourite drinks being Turmeric tea or Rooibos.

I start each day with a cup of rooibos in my fairy godmother mug that was gifted by my Goddaughter Alice. I’m a Godmother to 3 people all of who are adults now.

As I am in writing mode I set myself a challenge to think of 9 different Fairy God Mothers, each one would drink from one of these mugs.

1. She never forgets any event in your life. Always there ready to give a helping hand.

2. She collects Godchildren like the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

3. She longs to be a Fairy Godmother, has the presents, the speeches, the tokens of love but is locked in a house and cannot get out.

4. She thinks Godchildren should be seen and not heard and preferably not seen.

5. She loved being a Fairy Godmother but is out of wishes right now.

6. She was not asked to be a Fairy Godmother and is trying really hard not to mess up the christening.

7. She has 12,458 Godchildren. As an ant Fairy Godmother, her work is never done.

8. She is a ghostly Fairy Godmother. Occasionally she gets to help in the liminal space between sleeping and waking.

9. She has just been voted the top 1 out of 100 Fairy Godmothers and is prepping her costume with new gossamer wings for the award ceremony.

It is quite amazing what I can write whilst I nurse a cup of tea.

Happy writing everyone.

Savouring

/ Samantha Jayasuriya / Leave a comment

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

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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

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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

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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

/ Samantha Jayasuriya / 2 Comments

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 

Beginner’s Mind, Pen and Paper

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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.”

So I begin again

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https://unsplash.com/@oddityandgrace

After a long hiatus, I have decided to bring back the blog.

The image I chose to restart my blog made me smile. Fear really holds back my writing, but I’m letting go of fear now.

Over the years, I have written more and more and want to share it with the world.

My plan is to share some of the ways in which I try to find the best routine for writing. I might share some of my work, I might share some of my drafts.

Over the past 6 years, I have periodically joined a writing group where the sole purpose is to put pen to paper and write.

I have really enjoyed the way of writing, it helps me be less critical of my stories and poems. Some of these I have entered into competitions. I have had two poems published which I will share with you in later weeks.

So for any of you who might not know me, who am I and why do I write?

My name is Samantha Jayasuriya and as the blog title says, I truly love my home. It is where my heart lies. But from my desk just like my role models in my life, I can travel the world.

We all do this when we pick up a book and open the cover. A writer can do this too when they pick up a pen. I may not have been in the places that I write about but I can use my imagination.

I have used the work of Natalie Goldberg to kick start my writing when I get stuck for ideas. Her wonderful book http://Writing down the bone makes me smile each time I read it and give me hope for a new idea.

In her preface, she says

“Trust in what you love, continue to do it, and it will take you where you need to go.”

I’m trusting in my pen to lead the way.