Today was a beautiful, warm spring day. Henry and I took an early morning walk to the beach—no coats necessary. On the way, I dropped off the little free magazine Corridor at various spots. Later, I picked up the final piece of my edited work and visited some friends. Henry enjoyed a new garden full of smells. Then home at last to get into the garden. I spent most of the afternoon until the sun disappeared behind the trees, deadheading the hellebores and cutting back the crocus and snowdrop leaves. 

FLOWERS NOW BLOOMING IN MY GARDEN

POETRY – April is Poetry Month in the United States. Here are two of my poems written in the past.

MY CHILDREN

My life—three times given,

Yoked by my love,

Children; wild living ether

Heritage of my body, unbound

 Inborn harp of my soul,

 Links each, inexplicably, I

Dream of untold treasures, which

Run, boundless, flowing music.

Effusion of souls, springs of joy

Natural murmuring freedom

A GNARLY OLD MAN

A cold and clear day

An old man with Rastafarian locks

Grips a handful of plastic bags,

Over his large shoulders

A khaki jacket hangs loose,

Stained with dirt and grass

And faded by sunlight,

His twine-tied trousers

Baggy and food-stained

Flop over thick gray-blue

Socks shoved into carelessly tied 

Leather shoes

Stubby fingers bruised by the cold 

Poke through rough holes 

Cut in gardening gloves.

I, with my dog, watch him 

Fumbling through a dumpster 

Stuffing food and papers into his plastic bags

He looks up, winks

Proffers a carton of something

In my direction 

A gnarly-toothed bagman

Making the streets his home

Dining on leftovers 

Sleeping in corners, alone

I give him a smile 

and walk on

Circumstances being the only border 

Between us

BLUE BOTTLES WRITING STUDIO

Seven of us met on the 12th and read various stories, from the early days of the Beatles, when Pete Best was the drummer, to the unique world of the Pierrot troupes in England, religion, and becoming the CEO of Peeps, a dog named Doyle, and the simple pleasures of life. While pondering my topic, I had received at least three pieces of writing in my mailbox on the theme of being a writer. I had my prompt!

PORTRAIT OF A WRITER

Was there a moment in time, a sudden revelation, when I said to myself, “I am a writer?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. Perhaps it is because I have been forming words and sentences for over seventy years. Yet millions of people have done that. They don’t all call themselves writers. Not all storytellers win Pulitzer Prizes. Some never win anything.  So, what qualities transform an individual into a writer? It is not only the perfect syntax or punctuation—that can be learned. It has more to do with noticing the world around you and having an eye for details.

I love the small details I sometimes notice while walking my dog, Henry—the robin I saw yesterday, sitting just three feet away from him, resting on a semi-submerged log, dipping its beak into the water below. On a wet day, after heavy rain, I spotted thousands of snails filling the rails along the trail, something I had never encountered before. I stood and watched for many minutes, fascinated by where they could have come from and why so many were gathered together. I enjoy and am thrilled by the transitions from winter to spring and then summer as I sit at my table or walk daily through my garden. There are subtle changes as the days lengthen, the sun warms, and the flowers open their petals. The snow-white flowers of the snowdrops disappear, and the long, thin stalks bend down to propagate for the next winter’s blooms. The hellebores raise their little faces of purple, pink, and white after a long winter beneath the ground. The bare canes of the tree peonies now have swelling buds, ready to burst into bloom next month.

But why do I write? I believe I started because I needed to make sense of my life. My beginning and the many changes I have experienced to grow into the person I am today. As a young girl, I wrote short rhymes about books I read and used my dolls to perform shows. Was I destined for the theatre? No, I was far too shy to perform in front of anyone other than my parents. I loved books about dancing and ballet. But would I ever dance? No, I was uncoordinated as a child. But I could write. As a sad teenager, I mostly wrote sentimental ditties expressing my loneliness, insecurities, and desire to be loved. But as I developed and went to college, I learned to enjoy form and style—acrostic and haku were my favorites. While in college, I wrote about how I felt, my children, my neighbors, and my divorce.

I wrote a chat book of poetry, Wild Child, in 2010 with help from Mary Gillilan and the Independent Writers’ Studio, It wasn’t until after I did a reading at Village Books that I began to feel that maybe, sometime in the future, I could become a real writer. I continued classes with Mary and had pieces included in Volumes 1 & 2 of Clover, A Literary Rag, in 2010-2011.I was particularly thrilled when a poem I submitted to the first Whatcom Read anthology of stories, Borders, was accepted.

My writing stopped when I had to put all my energy into making an income to pay my mortgage. I resurfaced seven years later when I started a writing group with Bellingham at Home (an organization of volunteers dedicated to helping the elderly stay in their homes) in 2018. It was a wonderful learning curve, and in 2020, during the pandemic, we produced a book, The Blue Bottles Writing Studio, a variety of stories from four independent authors.

Since then, I’ve published Chosen in 2022, my first memoir about my early childhood growing up in the Caribbean, and I am about to publish my second memoir, Untethered. My stories of going back to England, living with my birth mother and siblings, school, marriage, and children, and finally moving to Bellingham. 

I still live in the house I purchased thirty-five years ago. My children are all grown and living their own lives in the States. I have a well-tended garden, and I write essays and stories about people, my dogs, my work as a landscape gardener, and the beach whenever the muse strikes me! I am confident I am now a writer—I have a few publications to my name, which is exciting.

One of the things I particularly love these days is that Grammarly, or AI Chat, isn’t always correcting my style, sentences, or grammar. I have learned to be clear in my writing—to remove the unnecessary while keeping the story intact.

****

That’s all for today, folks, thank you for reading.