They came during the night

Finally they’re here

They came during the night, and greet me this morning with their sweet white little faces

In lines they stand, silent and unassuming, and so small

And yet a symbol of hope

There will be more, they whisper to me, it’s okay, you’re nearly through

I can only just hear their voices through the icy breeze

It’s nearly over, the sun is coming!

We are on our return journey back to its warmth and light

Oh yes – the winter blossoms are here, they came during the night – or was it earlier?

Perhaps I have been too busy

To notice their arrival

But now, now they will grow in number, and cut through the winter blue

That has taken so many of us under its cloud

They will grow and conquer, overtaking the bare branches that have made us feel so alone

To light the way for anyone who takes the time

To notice

That Spring is coming

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A Winter Poem

On the darkest of days and coldest of nights
You set your hopes on the warm horizon and the brightest of lights
And Summer seems so far and Autumn seemed so quick
And everyone around you seems so depressed and sick
But you walk outside – and the air brings a smile
And you pull your scarf around your face and just breathe for a while
And you notice that the apple tree has budded tiny little buds
Tiny buds of winter blossoms that in a week or two will come
And you picture those glorious flowers with their petals of white snow
That will fall
And bring on Spring
And lead to the Summer
And then bring us Autumn
And ultimately back here, again
Waiting on those white buds
On the coldest of days
And the darkest of nights

Light

I used to love life…

breathe it in each day

and smile

And I wonder what has changed –

what has occurred in me?

To shut off that light

When did it become so dark in here?

And today the sunshine came through the  trees

And lit the Exhibition building

Lit the path I walked

And the people –

the people were taking photos

And smiles –

smiles were everywhere

Especially

on

my

Face

An epiphany

I used to write poetry all the time

I used to acknowledge the air around me, the wind, the warmth of the sun

I used to have time, well, I used to make time, to stop and breathe

And write what was in my heart

And feel better for it

Now I make excuses

I sit on Facebook, look at emails, and search for jobs

Instead of seeking what lies within, aching to be heard, festering alone,

And ultimately

Releasing it

From where it lies

You’ve got to have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?

I’m writing a novel. There I said it. Now it’s out there. I’m writing a novel and now you all know that I am, and you can hound me about it for years until finally, finally it will be published. If it ever is.

I’m about 12,000 words in. It’s 12,000 words of absolute shit. And every day I think about these words and wonder whether it’s worth continuing.

I couldn’t even write 12,000 words for my university thesis, which had a minimum word limit of 12,000 words. I scraped in due to the 5% under or over ruling. But still, I have put quite a bit of effort into the beginning of my novel, and obviously, it would be a waste to give up now. Or would it?

What if it never gets finished, published, read? What if it really truly is, absolute crap. I mean, I’m not stupid. If I didn’t think that somehow this dream could end with a published paperback with my  name on the cover, then I wouldn’t be bothering.

But even my mum, upon telling her that I was writing something big, said, “Oh… you know it’s very hard to get published….”

I know that this will be a hard task, and that I am a dreamer, but dammit if I don’t try. No pressure, no diamonds, right? If I don’t try, how will I know that I would have failed? Like in South Pacific – that song – “if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?!”

A tarot card reader/psychic lady told me last year in a reading that she “saw novels coming out of me”. It gave me great hope. For about 50 minutes she told me about my husband/children/retirement (to be), as well as my personality, my loves and hates, my career.

Then, after not saying anything about my love of words for the entire time, like an afterthought or epiphany that had just struck her, she opened her eyes wide as if channelling a vision of some sort and said: “Oh! But we have to do something about this writing!”

I was gob-smacked.

But still, despite this hope, I often just laugh at myself. You loser, I say. To think that you could achieve this. What a waste of your time! You’re never going to get published! You are not one of those successful people. Idiot. It’s just not going to happen. So I ignore the massive folder on my desktop and contemplate right-clicking and scrolling down to Delete.

But, my boyfriend believes in me. He has been the only person around since my novel’s conception and it’s gradual growth. He has seen the love that I have for this project, but also the hatred and frustration it causes. This man (I assume!) that the above mentioned Tarot reader said would be a wonderful husband and a wonderful father. I believe her. Best of all, when I wake up and complain that I am wasting my time on something I love, but will not take me anywhere, he tells me to shut up, and keep writing.

I write this to put my dream down on paper (so to speak) and share with you, my few, but lovely readers, what it is I want to achieve so that your thoughts can add some positivity to the cosmos and hopefully will add to my own positivity and motivation. I am my own worst enemy when it comes to my confidence and self esteem, and spreading my hopes and dreams might send some loving inspiration my way.

I am hoping that, in the words of another dreamer, that the following is true: “when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it.”

(The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho, read it, love it, dream!)

Beware of the forced blog

So I’m babysitting at the moment, and I’m trying to be creative. But clearly you can’t force creation. I bet God didn’t get peer pressured into creating the universe, or Da Vinci the Mona Lisa (actually I think he was forced to complete many of his master pieces). But anyway, that doesn’t matter.

So I’m babysitting, and I’m all like, hmmmm I should write. And my boyfriend over the phone is like, hey – you should write another blog.

About what? I say. And he says, about a girl, preparing to go travelling.

BORING! I yell down the phone, and I start to tell him how I tried to write more of my novel tonight, but realised with a heavy heart that I am going to have to write A LOT –  A LOT of words to complete a novel. No wonder they take so damn long. And because I can’t write fiction, well, haven’t really ever tried, I don’t know how I am going to turn the mediocre events of my past into 80,000 to 120,000 words. There are certainly literacy limitations to writing non-fiction. Unless, you’re Monica Lewinsky, or that teenager who sailed around the world alone (although, that couldn’t create 120,000 words surely…).

My boyfriend was like… you can make up a story! It can be about… a girl… who goes to… Nepal… to live with monks. (I am doing this in February.)

[Awkward silence]

Yep, I say, Good.

And then… he says, something about absorbing the soul of someone about to become reincarnated as a snail and realises her destiny as a Kung-Fu master who will save the local population from marauding baddies.

Ok, it was better than that, and thus I can’t go into details in case you steal my idea. But it was good. Really good.

Well for the moment, I say. I’ll write a blog about writing a blog.