Saturday, July 16

The Magic of Words

My poor dear neglected little space. I have spent hours on you this morning sprucing you up ready to return to regular writings.

You hold so many dear memories as well as signs of my struggles when putting my fingers to the keyboard and trying to find the words was like pulling teeth. Well now, dear blog, you will find your self a re-energised space, the words are right there, almost spilling out of me in the eagerness to no longer exist purely inside my head, but to be seen. Pulled off the page, held up and examined in the light.

Friday, July 15

I am

I am a woman standing on the precipice the very edges of Self
I am a woman opening doors to see what is behind them
I am a woman unfurling
I am a woman putting one foot in front of the other
I am a woman searching, eyes scanning high & low, wide open in excitement
I am a woman in transition
I am a woman who believes she can
I am a woman who believes that she is
I am a woman who wants to be seen
I am a woman who wants to be heard
I am a woman who has found the ground beneath her feet
I am a woman who is the woman who was
I am a woman who will be the woman who is yet to come

*inspired by a prompt from the divine Hannah Marcotti

Thursday, July 7

A visit to Peterborough Cathedral

A couple of weekends ago I went to visit my dad, when rail signals caused havoc with our planned day trip we decided on a day trip to Peterborough to visit the Cathedral, which is a beauty.

Wednesday, June 22

Bunkers Hill

We took a trip out to Bunkers Hill garden centre last Sunday to buy bedding plants for our garden. The weekend prior a dead tree came down bringing some fencing with it, smashing the patio and missing the flat by about 1.5 inches. Whilst this was a bit of a shock at the time, the upshot to this is an extra foot & a half or so of garden and a lot of wood chippings to use as mulch, so we decided to make a flower bed on the new bit of garden.
Monday, June 20

And now, I write.

Every so often I think that I'm ready to come back to this space, to start blogging again, to write. When I was younger I wanted to be a writer. Sometimes now I still think about being a writer, a weaver of words, a storyteller... but the blank page. The words that don't fall from my fingertips as I sit with them poised above the keyboard. Is it because I have to work at it? Because, perhaps, a blog post is so far from instant? As well as finding the words I also have to upload and edit the pictures, whereas instagram, well, the clue is in the name.