At first I couldn't sleep, then l couldn't read, now I fear I cannot write. I have ideas for new posts everyday, but I cannot seem to string the words together in an appropriate fashion. I ask myself if this is another phase on my road of 'recovery'. I don't know and to be honest I am just going along with this and I have given up looking for answers. It is exhausting, all these questions, most of which I know I will never find their truths.
So, as I have been reading over previous posts. Some are quite interesting and telling and perhaps prophetic in their honesty. In their innocence in terms of how, when and why I wrote them, back then. Rather than leave this blog alone as a wasteland , I have scheduled a few posts which now speak to me on a new level, with a deeper relevance and resonance than when they were first written.
I hope those of you who are more recent visitors here enjoy them, and for those of you who dread 'repeats', l ask that you bear with me...
...as the man says, back soon with better stuff!
originally posted 11 November 2009
I have been pondering over our personal healing powers.
The inner strength, we all have. We find it deep, deep within us. Often at times, when we would least expect to dredge up another vat of determination and energy.
Other times it is within the things we cling to when we are in need of succour and comfort. The things we collect or unwittingly keep beside us. Around us. We feel secure within the blanket of our own surroundings. A haven.
This shoring up of personal warmth, that keeps the fear at bay and our sanity in a suitcase by the door.
The shopping bags of cheap tricks, to sustain and fill us when relationships sour or times are hard.
Our personal favourites. Our hot water bottles of love.
Casseroles, chunky soup and bread, chocolate.
Smells pungent of memories.
A tray set with a pot of tea and antique cups and plates. To warm.
Crackling fires, a seat by the hearth,
gazing into the flames of a sunset, that lasts as long as it is fed.
To me, healing powers are in meals, prepared with love by family
food which is a constant friend. Or foe.
The clutter that chokes our homes, spills from the drawers, vomits from the shelves
but which serves to warm our hearts, effuse our minds, confuse our hearts,
we choose the wallpaper of books and other detritus, which fixes us
to the floorboards of our daily lives.
The books read and kept, are friends that we cannot bear to part with,
they are like the memories that hold stories of love, strength, misery, fear and hope...
and so we hold onto the physical, as well as the emotional warmth.