From Circle to Spiral - A writers' handbook and anthology

INTRODUCTION

This is a book about writing. In it we hope to show some of the things which writing can do; the enjoyment and satisfaction it can give, the insights and discoveries it can bring, its value both for ourselves and for those we share it with.

This book is also about a writing group; seven women who spent two hours each week sharing ideas and writing together. We would like to offer our method of working for others to use or adapt, and to share the fruits of some of our workshops. The third aspect of the book is the theme, ‘Polarities’ around which the six workshops are based.

Our group came together to pursue powerful writing. Between us we had varying experience of writing, alone and in groups (You can find out more about this in Chapter Two). We span a broad age range – mid-twenties to rising fifties – and come from a variety of backgrounds both cultural and geographical. What drew us together, though, one Sunday evening in June 1991, was that we all wanted to write. We were all interested in creating a particular kind of writing group, a setting in which we could each be free to explore writing for our own purposes. (We felt this would be most easily achieved in a single sex group, although some of us have since worked together in mixed groups with equally worthwhile results.)

The writing in the following chapters is the result of our second six week cycle of working together. During that period we became increasingly aware of the power of our writing, and we decided that we would like to share both our writing and our way of working together. It was then, in 1992 that the idea of making a participative book came about. Our idea was to show what we had done together in a form that would enable others to share in the writing as well as the reading.

We worked together on getting our work typed up, and the group chipped in to pay for childcare for me so that I could get to work on the opening chapters. About nine months after the initial conception, the manuscript was born! We sent an outline to several mainstream publishers, and were waiting for final responses when the group as it was came to an end. Sarah was moving North, I was starting a full time teaching post, and Pippa was at that time having treatment for cancer. For a few years the book was on a back burner, as interest from publishers waxed and waned, and time and energy spiralled off in other directions.

Meanwhile Kate, Maria and A.B. continued to meet and write together and I also went on to work with many more writing groups, all of them based on the same basic principles as the Circle to Spiral group. Through one of these groups I came into contact with QueenSpark Books, and we decided to send a copy of the manuscript to them, in the hope of getting some useful feedback. The response was very positive, and now having become closely involved with QueenSpark as a volunteer and a sessional worker, I can see more clearly than ever how fitting it is that Circle to Spiral should be published by an organisation whose aim is to make writing and publishing accessible to all.

We hope that this book will encourage and inspire women and men everywhere to find and use the power of their pens.

GOOD WRITING – POWERFUL WRITING

Good Writing?

This book, and our group, are based upon the idea that anyone with the basic ability to read and write has the potential to be a Powerful Writer. The idea of Powerful Writing, what it achieves, and how to achieve it, will be discussed in detail later. But let’s start with a more familiar idea – that of ‘Good Writing’.

What do we mean when we talk about ‘good writing’? Good for what? Good for whom?

Very often, a person in a group will say, ‘I’m afraid it’s not very good,’ before going on to read out a piece of writing with which they express, in a clear and powerful way, feelings which they would find very difficult to share in the course of day to day conversation. So why the disclaimer?

In our culture, writing, like many other valuable forms of expression, has been mystified – we generally think of it as something which only a few especially talented individuals are ‘good’ at. These are the people whose stories were given top marks, and read out to the class, whilst the others sat and listened. These are the ones who write and publish books, for the rest of us to buy and read. We may tend to think that if we don’t number amongst this special few, then it really isn’t worth writing at all. Or perhaps we write strictly for ourselves, thinking our work not fit to be shared with others. No doubt there is some writing that reaches a standard of excellence which not all of us will be able to achieve. When we are struck by such excellence, perhaps it is important to consider why it is that the writer has so impressed us. It is certainly a mistake to simply say, ‘she is a brilliant writer – I am not,’ and leave it at that. Writing may be impressive for many reasons. Skilful use of language, which may be the result of extensive practice, and a love of words, will enhance any piece. But usually when a piece of writing or art strikes us as powerful it is because something important is being commu¬nicated; an aspect of human experience is being dealt with in a sincere and honest way. There may be many ingredients which come together to produce excellence – it is certainly not just the result of innate abilities possessed by some and not by others. Outstanding writing may impress us and astound us, but it should not deter us from producing and sharing our own writing.

Writing for others?

For writers, sharing our work may be difficult. One of the reasons for this is that the exchange of written work, for many of us, does not have a place in our day to day lives. If we play a musical instrument, or sing, then there are ways we can organise our social lives so as to share these activities. If we paint or draw or sculpt, we can display our work in various ways which give our friends and acquaintances the opportunity to see it. In both cases we can share our art in ways which will leave our audience or viewer free to comment, without asking or compelling them to do so.

Opportunities to share stories or poems are harder to come by. It is especially difficult if we have written only in private to find the confidence to bring our work out into the open. In doing so, we may feel we are revealing a different, and important, side of ourselves. We may feel a strong need for acceptance, for approval and encouragement, and if these are hard to come by we may be easily disheartened, and find ourselves reluctant not only to share our work, but even to continue with it.

This can be a crucial problem, as sharing work with an audience is perhaps the completion of the artistic process. Whatever medium we choose to express ourselves, be it paint, clay, stone, music, or the written word, we can shape this medium to embody our feelings. If the messages contained in our art are not let loose to be received by others, there is much that we may miss. We stand to gain a great deal by witnessing the effects of our work on others. Often it contains much more than we ourselves at first realise, and so our understanding of what we have produced may be enriched by feedback from an audience.

The most obvious avenue for writers to seek may seem to be publishing. This, again, may be problematic for most writers. Rejection, or perhaps even more discouraging, no response at all, is the result for many who try this route. Of course there are numerous reasons why a piece of work may not be considered suitable for publication. Of all the forms which writing may take, relatively few are named and accepted by the literary world. Novels, or volumes of stories or poetry, require a substantial output which many of us, for various reasons (very few sectors of society find themselves with the time free from other constraints and pressures) do not produce. But is our work less potent, or less worthy, because it is short, or because we cannot label it as a poem or a story? Is what we have to say less important?

Some work may be rejected, because it is not ‘good’ enough, in the sense that there may not be a sufficient competence in our use of writing skills to enable our work to convey its message clearly to others. Or it may be that a piece of work is turned down because it does not seem to have anything new or interesting to say. In either case, the result is that support and encouragement are not available precisely where they are most needed.

Writing in groups

One solution available to writers who want to share their work and improve their skills, is a writing group. There are many kinds of groups focusing on writing, but they fall into two main categories. One kind, which might be called a writers’ group, meets to share and discuss work which members produce in their own time. Writing groups are different because they meet to write and share their work together, within the group time. Therefore, anyone can join one, whether they are already writing or not.

For those who have written alone, often for many years, joining a group is a big step. By laying our work before others, we open the doors for criticism, but also for approval. Maybe most important is the affirmation and acceptance of a part of ourselves which may have been kept totally hidden before joining a group.

Many people find the group important because of the time and space it sets aside for the purpose of writing, for some the only time and space available for this pursuit. Sometimes this is because there simply is not the time to devote to writing in our day to day lives. But hopefully, one function of the group will be to provide the right sort of time space. A writing group can become a space apart from the rest of our lives. A space free of the usual pressures and constraints. If the group functions well, it will be a safe space, where members can feel confident to write however they like, about whatever they feel, without the fear of ridicule, rejection, or disapproval.

Often people hope that they will be able to improve their writing skills by joining a group. They may hope to learn from the facilitator or leader. Many people express a wish to develop ‘style’. Here, people’s ideas about style, and expectations of teaching, are often based on their experience of school.

Teaching?

There is a great deal of variety in terms of the personal approaches of teachers. However, perhaps the common thread linking our experience, at least of the British education system, is the way that the teaching of writing focuses on skills and techniques. The further we go up through the school years, the truer this becomes. Usually we are taught writing in the context of English language and literature lessons. English teachers are responsible for teaching us the correct use of language as well as the appreciation of literature. If there is any attention paid to the development of personal creativity, it must be sandwiched between these disciplines.

It is interesting to note how ‘creative writing’ is given less and less space in the curriculum as we progress through the system. The message which may come across here is that writing about ourselves is in some way ‘childish’ and not to be taken seriously. When asked whether they write regularly, many people coming to writing groups are embarrassed to admit that they keep a diary.

‘It seems silly and selfish,’ said one woman, and then explained how writing the diary was her only outlet for reflections and feelings, which she felt unable to share with anyone around her. Our culture does not encourage us to pay attention to our inner lives. We are pressurised to perform numerous outward roles, to acquire and display symbols of success and respectability. The voice of our feeling and experiences, our inner voice, is shouted out. We are offered few ways to express our emotional selves.

For many of us, the experience of being taught ‘English’ in the British education system is not a positive one. Some of us may find our voices muffled from the very beginning. There is only one form of language accepted and upheld by the system. For many of us this is not the language we have learnt in our homes and use in our daily lives. Whatever dialect we use, if it deviates from ‘Standard English’ and creeps into our written work, the chances are it will be returned to us scored with a red pen.

As we progress through school, often we find that our teachers rely more and more on criticism to bring us into line with the requirements of examination systems. ‘English’ is perceived more and more as a set of skills to be learnt and used. The kind of teaching many of us experience can fail us in terms of empowering us to express ourselves in language. The criticism we receive may serve to undermine us. The distinctions about what is being criticised may often be unclear, the structure may be given more attention than the content. When the structure is criticised, we may be left feeling that the content has been ignored, or disapproved of; both equally disheartening. And schools, being the kinds of places they usually are in our society, we have not only our teachers’ reactions to fear, but those of our classmates. The typical classroom is not usually a safe space in which we can develop our use of written language for our own purposes.

Even the most inspired and creative of teachers will find it difficult to create and maintain the kind of environment that will enable people to use writing for themselves amidst all the pressures of the institution.

Of course it is of value to us to familiarise ourselves with the tools we can use in language, but even if we become experts in the use of these tools, this in itself cannot make us powerful writers.

What we need for powerful writing

For many people attending a writing group, or just wishing to write, their first need is to attain a basic belief in their own abilities. We need to be convinced that we will produce our best work not by attempting to imitate other writers, or to please an audience, but simply by opening up and being true to ourselves.

Creating plots and scenarios need not be a struggling labour, we don’t have to be well- versed academics to make effective use of images. Consider our dreams – in them, we tell ourselves stories, in settings which vary from the mundane to the fantastic, using powerful imagery which may be individual or universal. All of the material we need is within. Not all writing happens as easily as dreaming, although there are occasions when a piece will seem to just write itself. If writing does involve magical abilities, then this is a magic possessed by us all.

Many new writers talk about ‘style’ and seem to think of it as something which they will have to learn. Finding our individual style can be more a matter of ‘unlearning’. We often need to stop trying, rather than to try harder. Practise? Yes! Trying? No! Trying means that we don’t believe we are already capable, that we are attempting to accomplish something outside of ourselves, that we are reaching for some external goal or standard. If we write in this way, our own uniqueness may be sacrificed.

Consider the difference between talking to someone whom we are anxious to please, a prospective employer for example, and talking to an old and trusted friend. In which situation can we express ourselves most easily? Which voice is truly our own?

Personal style, that essential ingredient which so many aspiring writers seek to attain, is something which all of us possess. As each face is unique, as each voice speaks with its own particular combination of tone and pitch, accent and turn of phrase, so all writers, given the freedom from pressures and expectations (from within and without) about the ‘correct’ way to write, have their own individual style. For most of us finding that style will simply be a matter of practice. As with learning any new language, the more we use writing as a way of expressing ourselves, the more accomplished and fluent we become.

A powerful piece of writing also needs subject material, and the most directly accessible store of this, the subject with which we are most intimately familiar and through which we access every conceivable emotion, is of course, our Self. Our Self, which many of us have been taught to consider last, as least important, our own life which we may feel is insignificant, unexciting, or not of interest to others – here is our richest store of material for writing. Although we may choose to write of situations, of places events and characters which we have never directly experienced, which may exist only in our imaginations they will take their colour and vitality from our own experience.

Every one of us has the basic ingredients needed to make our writing powerful. A life, a set of experiences unlike anyone else’s, a set of views and perspectives which are correspondingly unique. And we can all speak to one another, because of the humanity we share. The problem for most of us is to find a way (and perhaps a time and a place) to tap into our powers.

Openness and sincerity are not optional if we seek to write freely and powerfully. Free writing allows our minds to move, allows us to grow and expand beyond any fixed ideas of ourselves and our world which might limit us. It is impossible to fully experience writing in this way and to remain unchanged. Our own unwillingness to be open to the changes which may come about through writing may be the first obstacle we need to overcome.

What powerful writing can achieve

Even when we write about a subject which we may have thought about and discussed many times before, writing allows a different kind of thinking and exploration to take place. Conversations do not hold still and wait for us like pieces of paper do. In writing, our thoughts get a rare chance to roam and expand, uninterrupted, unfettered; whilst at the same time we focus and direct them to our chosen subject. As our thoughts emerge onto the page, we are able to literally see them, thus our perspective on whatever we write about cannot fail to be in some way altered.

Our audience too, if they receive our work in the same spirit of openness, taking time to reflect on what is there, will find their view of our subject changed. The benefits of this exchange between writer and audience are in some ways maxim¬ised when writing is shared within a group, and themes and issues are explored together.

As well as altering our view of our external subject, writing can affect the way we see ourselves. This begins when we consider our past. Much of our writing, whether we plan it this way or not, draws upon our past experience. When we write directly about the past, there are several ways in which we are able to gain power over it. We may discover memories of which we were previously not aware. Finding ourselves with a new space in which to explore our memories, we have the opportunity to make new sense of our pasts, perhaps to see how events and feelings from long ago have affected or shaped our present. We also have the chance to express emotions which may have been bottled up for years, decades, even lifetimes. Unlike a therapy group, a writing group need not be specifically directed towards exploration of the past, it is simply that the opportunity is there. Perhaps because such opportunities may be rare in our day-to-day lives, we often grasp them. The group can also provide a valuable chance to let ourselves be heard; to have our feelings listened to and affirmed when they may, for many years perhaps, have been ignored or denied. Again, unlike a therapy group, a writing group need not pressure us to further explore any material which comes up in our writing. We need not seek to draw conclusions from what we write – although sometimes conclusions may present themselves. The group can simply be there, listening without judgement, offering its encouragement and its empathy.

Another powerful way of using writing, is to actually re-create our past. For example, when, during a series of sessions on the family, our group wrote pieces about ‘families we never had’, we were able to create for ourselves in that fifty or so minutes of writing, experiences of family life which we might have wished for, as children or as adults. As we wrote in this way, and shared our work, it seemed as though we had reaped some of the benefits of this imaginary past. This kind of creative writing can be entertaining and amusing, it can also be a healing experience which we can carry with us into our lives beyond the group.

By changing our relationship with our past through writing, we change our present self, and thereby also our future. By our discoveries and revelations, by our off-loading of baggage, by tapping into sources of power within ourselves, we can find new perspectives, new aims, freedoms and confidence. Writing can be a means of change, both for writer and audience, our views can be altered and expanded, we ourselves can evolve through writing. This means of empowerment can and should be available to anyone who chooses it. A culture which values excellence need not undervalue the skills used by the majority, to fulfil their own need for expression and aesthetic experience.

It is up to us as individuals to choose how to write, and how to use our writing, but it is an activity through which we can gain power which can affect every aspect of our lives.

OUR GROUP – YOUR GROUP

This chapter is aimed at people who would like to start a writing group, and those who may wish to adapt some of the ideas for use with existing groups (The workshop outlines could also be used by individuals). The basic workshop structure which evolved in our group has been tried and tested in many different settings, including various kinds of special needs groups. The set of ground rules has since been used and adapted for many different writing groups, and is reproduced at the end of this chapter and a simplified version of the ground rules which we drew up between us has provided a solid foundation for all of them. What follows is a step by step approach to the setting up and running of a writing group, based on our experience.

Who and where ?

Our group evolved in quite a spontaneous way. I had been running a drop-in writing workshop at the local Unemployed Centre, which both Jane and Maria had attended. It was during a discussion between myself and Jane that the idea of setting up a closed group in order to write for ourselves was first mentioned. Around the same time, Pippa told me about the writing she had been doing, and between the three of us we decided to start the group. Sarah joined us through the Unemployed Centre and we contacted Maria, who introduced the others to the group. In the various forms in which the group continued, members were drawn from circles of acquaintance.

As far as numbers are concerned the two obvious limiting factors are time and space. Around six is the optimum number, and any more than eight is getting too many for a two-hour session. Although more members will raise the energy of the group, it is possible to have a lively discussion and a satisfying sharing of writing with as few as two or three.

Ideally the group should meet in a relaxed and pleasant environment, with enough space for everyone to sit and write comfortably. It helps if the group can be sure of freedom from interruptions and outside noise. In our case Jane’s house fulfilled all these requirements, and became our regular venue. I have since found that a homely environment is very conducive to ‘open’ writing; perhaps because office and classroom- type spaces are more likely to be associated with school, but suitable spaces might be available in local community centres.

I have also worked with powerful writing groups in various settings; from ‘closed’ groups such as a group that formed part of the provision at a local Day Centre for women with learning difficulties, to advertised groups at an Arts Centre.

The role of facilitator

A writing group that has been set up to enable people to write powerfully must be facilitated, not taught. To facilitate means literally, ‘to make easy or easier’, and that is what the facilitator should do; not by teaching, judging or criticising, but simply by providing a framework. One of the first decisions a group may need to make is whether this role will be taken by one person, or shared amongst the group, bearing in mind that both of these options have their advantages.

In our case, I was keen to build on my experience of facilitating writing groups, and the others supported this. Together we agreed on a small weekly fee that each member would pay me for serving the group in this way. As with our group, many groups may wish to begin with a regular facilitator before going on to become a self-facilitating group. Comments from members who went on to share facilitating of the group can be found at the end of this chapter.

Some people are more comfortable with the idea of leading a session than others, and undoubtedly personality and experience may affect a person’s ability to do this successfully. Each individual will of course bring their own particular style and strengths to the tasks involved. However, I believe that the basic skills necessary can be learnt by anyone who wishes, and for some the opportunity to facilitate may be just as empowering as the opportunity to write. In this chapter you will find advice on the role of the facilitator as it applies to each stage of the workshop.

Whether or not she or he takes the role regularly, it is important that the facilitator participate alongside the group in all aspects of the workshop. Respond¬ing to one another’s work is something we all do. A facilitator need not be set apart from the group in ways that a teacher might be. Not only do the contributions of the facilitator raise the energy of the group, but taking part in writing exercises is an important way of breaking down the dynamics of power that would operate in a ‘taught’ group. I do not expect a group to make themselves vulnerable to me by sharing their writing if I am not prepared to do the same.

What is the group for?

It is important to be clear from the start of any group exactly why people are meeting together, what they will be doing, and what each person hopes to gain. The structure and working methods described have been developed to make powerful writing possible. When so many writing groups are more concerned with ‘good writing’, and writing with the hope or aim of publication, you will need to make sure that everybody understands the different aim of using writing for themselves. It is equally important to make it clear that although the group will be a supportive one, there are limits to the kinds of support it can provide.

With every group I have worked with I have found that using short writing exercises is a very good way of making sure that everyone has a chance to get their own thoughts down and contribute equally to group discussions. Thus your first five-minute exercise might be to write two lists; one list of what people want from the group, and another of any fears or worries they may have.

We also began our first meeting by writing two short pieces to introduce ourselves to each other, and to get our first experience of writing together and sharing what we had written (These exercises are reproduced at the end of the chapter). We used the first exercise as a kind of guessing game, which helped to break down a few barriers, and show up what assumptions we had made about each other. It also gave us our first short taste of what we would be doing in the group; writing both from experience and from the imagination.

Finding a direction

In between our first writing exercises, we discussed how the group would be run, and what form the sessions would take. Together, using the structure shown at the end of this chapter, the group chose a broad theme which we would work on for about six weeks. We then broke that theme down into weekly topics, and my job was to come along with a format based on each week’s subject; to provide the workshop outlines (Our first cycle, for example, explored ‘Families’. Beginning with a session about ‘Families we never had’, we went on to explore ‘Ancestry’, ‘Siblings’ and ‘Fathers and Mothers’).

We also felt it was important to have our group aims clearly written out, particularly to emphasise that although we were keen to explore the therapeutic benefits of writing, we were NOT a therapy group.

Workshop sessions:

i Timings

A standard length for a regular session for up to eight people is two hours. This time needs to be divided between discussions, writing and reading. It is useful for the facilitator to come prepared with a rough idea of how long each part of the workshop will be. Perhaps the most difficult part to estimate is the discussion which comes in between the opening exercise and the main writing. If it has not reached a natural peak forty minutes into the session, it must be drawn to an end, to ensure that ample time is left for writing and sharing.

Reading out what we have written seems to take a surprisingly short time. I usually calculate five minutes per person plus an extra five minutes. This usually leaves forty-five minutes to an hour for actual writing. I am amazed at how quickly people seem to become accustomed to timing their writing. We always finished within a few minutes of the agreed time and, as you will see from the writing in this book, the pieces almost always reach their resolution by the end of the writing time. When people are new to writing to a set time it can be helpful to announce when half the time has been used, and it is always a good idea to give a reminder five minutes before you want people to stop writing.

ii Opening up

Each session starts with a short ‘warm-up exercise’ designed to focus our thoughts on the subject in hand. These exercises demand that each member writes something quick, short and simple to be read out to the group. This ensures that every member of the group gets their say at the start of the discussion. Early on in the life of a group such exercises can be particularly helpful, as they can help to break down fear and nervousness which people often feel when writing in a new situation. Week by week, as well as providing the basis for discussion, the warm-up exercises show us where our views on the subjects converge and where they differ, and help to build up the confidence we need to express ourselves in a deeper way when we come to write at greater length.

More often than not, when the results of the opening exercise are shared, a lively discussion ensues. Although these results are sometimes very different from what might be expected, it can be helpful to have a few points listed which might focus the discussion. Occasionally, the group may veer off from the central issue, in which case it is the job of the facilitator to guide it back. Anecdotes often come up, and can be useful and enlightening, as long as we are careful not to let them divert us. Part of the ‘knack’ of facilitating is to choose the right point to break off a lively discussion – there must be enough said for the group to feel inspired and enough left unsaid to be explored in writing.

iii Suggestions for Writing

Each week the facilitator should offer a suggestion about how the subject matter might be dealt with, or what form the writing might take. It is a good idea to use a variety of approaches, sometimes bringing examples to illustrate a particular style or form. The suggestions are there to be taken up if group members so choose. Often, individuals have their own ideas, or find the week’s suggestion inappropri¬ate for what they would like to tackle, in which case they may choose to ignore or adapt the facilitator’s suggestion. As people have often become used to being required to write in a particular way (at school, for example) the facilitator should be at pains to make clear to new group members that they should not in any way feel bound or restricted by the suggestions.

iv Sharing our work

The final half-hour or so of the session, when we read out what we have written, is particularly exciting and rewarding. Having departed from the discussion, it is as if we each pursue a path in a different direction from a central point, coming back together to report on what we have seen. Thus as we share our work, we gain the wider perspective of the whole group, as well as our individual insights.

I usually begin this part of the session by asking who would like to read their work first. It is important that everyone feels encouraged and welcome to read, but equally, no-one should be put under pressure to read a piece if they decide they would rather not (In my experience this is very rare).

We often feel the full force of our own writing as we read it aloud. This can be exhilarating, satisfying, and sometimes very moving. If anyone becomes upset during reading (as occasionally happens), the group should not probe, or sit in embarrassed silence, but wait supportively, perhaps offering a few words of sympathetic encouragement, for that piece to be finished. Responses of the group to the finished work may vary; but at no time should we judge or criticise one another’s writing, offering supportive suggestions only when they have been requested. A piece of writing may attract comments about its form and style, or about its contents. Some pieces also attract questions, and sometimes writers wish to ask questions about how their work has come across. In this way, everyone is listened to, and receives the attention of the group.

Powerful writing

In the group, then, we have everything we need to enable us to write powerfully. We have: –

our individuality
our unique experiences and perspectives
sincerity and openness
a safe space (the venue and ground rules)
stimulation and triggers (the themes and format)

Perspectives from the group

Kate

I write because I like to create glittering structures of words, that sometimes contain my experience, sometimes transform it, and are sometimes pure foolish¬ness for its own sake.

I write in a group because somehow other people’s ideas and presence provides a stimulus to my creativity – reminds me of my experience and opens me to new experience. Also, because it creates a discipline – I never manage the time to write on my own.

I’ve been writing poetry since I was fourteen and had fervently hoped that I was an undiscovered creative genius – until I first attended a creative writing evening class about seven years ago, where I learned about cliches. I’ve been writing silly stories since then, and increasingly appreciating ‘community’ writing – learning about other people’s experience through listening to their writing. I have belonged to a writing group since that evening class and have very much valued the richness created by the vast differences in our experiences, particularly as most people in that group were thirty to forty years older than me. However, I wasn’t writing very much! The occasional intense poem and a very occasional story. I also found that I was censoring much of my experience, knowing that it might not be accepted.

Lorna’s group has given me the space in which I’m actually writing again, feel increasingly free to bring in my own experience and am pleased with much of what I write.

The first piece I wrote, ‘Mermaid’ started from a very clumsy image in an earlier poem that I’d happened to re-read not long before the group met. I was pleased with the way the image emerged in the group – it felt powerful, and well-written. It was also my first session in the group, as I joined it after it had formed – I was very anxious that my writing be seen as good, and did not want to reveal too much about myself. I liked the appreciation!

‘Independence and Intimacy’ is more obviously personal, and is very much of an issue in my relationships. I really wanted ‘Intimacy’ to lose out – I was surprised when she turned out to be the stronger one.

‘The Proud Princess’ was just fun. I’ve written various silly fairytales and love the form. I was surprised by the extent to which ‘shame’ emerged as an issue in the group discussion – I missed out on a lot of English taboos, growing up in Canada, with a doctor for a mother. The reversals in the behaviour of the princess came out of my anger that women had been so oppressed.

‘Heart’ is very personal – say no more.

In general, I’ve really enjoyed the variety in other women’s writing. I’m amazed that we start with the same input and end up with such totally different results (including perspectives: I confess that my original impulse on listening to other people’s perspectives was that I wanted to completely rewrite this one, as it has a very different form!). I also find that I’ve relaxed a lot and am not at all as much worried about the ‘goodness’ of my writing.

Sarah

I came to this group looking for something very specific, the discipline and motivation to make me write on a regular basis. Writing has always been a pleasure for me, I’d like to write like an artist creates a painting, with different colours and textures. The group has provided me with more than just motivation, it has been a stimulating environment in which both to write, and equally importantly listen.

To create something positive in my life seems my ultimate goal. In the group I have seen this in other people’s work too, in the different ways we approach a subject giving it more depth and new meaning.

I have also learnt about the way I see life. Writing can bring a spontaneous structure to my thoughts, ideas are given a shape. Within the group, this process is not forced, we progress together, working through stages to produce pieces that are individual, but at the same time part of a whole. All this is done in a non-judgemental relaxed environment where it is safe to say this is how I feel and this is something I made.

Jane

Until I was in my forties, I thought that I was not a creative person. I was sad about this. I felt that something was lacking in my life but nothing could be done about it. Then I started to go to an art class for women. I discovered that there was plenty of creativity in me and a great joy in self-expression.

When I was a child I was told I had no artistic talent, so any kind of art work that I could produce gave me a sense of achievement. Writing was different. I felt that I was good at talking but I couldn’t write. At school I was ‘very good at English’ and yet I had never written anything for my own pleasure or satisfaction, nor ever felt that anything I had to write was really me. Many people told me that they had written the odd poem at some time in their lives but I never had. The problem I had with writing was hidden because of my academic ability with words. In fact, I had put up a formidable barrier against writing as a new form of expression.

What happened with the art gave me the courage to try a similar group for writing and I found that given the necessary support and encouragement, I could do it. After this, I continued to write a little most weeks, with a friend, until I found Lorna’s writing group and again the opportunity that enabled me to write in a group.

What is very important to me about this group is the stimulation of being with others who want to write, of talking first to get ideas, so that, eventually, I can’t wait to start writing and it just flows without intervening thought. Because the other members of the group don’t judge my writing, or the self I reveal through it, I am able not to judge it or censor it. Because they respond to my writing, that helps me to do the same. I find intense excitement in the discoveries I make about myself when I write and I often experience strong feelings about my own and others’ writing, when we read to each other. Sometimes I have a sense of having expressed something about myself when the writing is not literally about me. Although I have no intellectual understanding, then, of what is going on, I know that I have somehow explored something about myself and even reached some sort of understanding or resolution which is outside the words. It is like dreaming aloud.

I am delighted by my new-found creativity and astonished by how easy it is after feeling completely blocked for so many years. It is still much more difficult for me to write on my own. The energy to get started and keep going comes very much from being with others and sharing the experience.

Maria

I joined the writing group after having been to a couple of the daytime creative sessions which Lorna was running. These sessions were mixed, so when Lorna said she was running one for women, I was keen to come along.

Although I was comfortable working with men, and sharing my writing with them for most of the time, there were some issues which I knew just wouldn’t come out of the end of my pen in a mixed group.

Being in a women’s writing group has meant feeling accepted and supported as an equal, and it has been within this environment that I have been able to reach in and express thoughts and feelings which I wouldn’t normally give an airing to.

Before joining the group, I had written very little – some poetry in my teens, and then a few funny stories which had been written as presents for friends. However, I always knew I wanted to write more. I carefully preserved the youthful poems and copies of the stories, and they accompanied me throughout my many house moves. These pieces served a purpose, they reminded me that I could write, I just had to find the impetus.

That impetus came with the writing group. The first session was really exciting – the words simply flew out of my pen. I felt exhilarated and as though I could write for hours. I realised that, at last, I had found a way of tapping into a huge well-spring of experience, emotion and thought.

Theoretically it had, of course, always been possible for me to write creatively on my own. The cost of pen and paper is negligible, and I could usually find the odd hour to spare. However, until joining the group, most attempts to write had consisted of staring at the blank paper and chewing the end of my biro to a pulp. Eventually, I’d put pen and paper aside and switch on the T.V. or pick up a book.

My guess is that somewhere along the line, I was made to feel anxious about writing. Being in the group has counteracted the bad experiences of school. Here there’s no hierarchy, no scornful criticisms, no competition, no grades, no compul¬sion, no exams and, above all, the writing is a joy and not a chore.

A.B.

Then: Why do I write? I’m a copywriter. I earn my living writing ads and brochures about things I don’t care about. I’ve been doing this for seven years… and if I ever knew how to write naturally, I lost it along the way.

As a copywriter, I punctuate and spell to perfection. The words I choose are always just right. They sound good. They even look good. They say nothing.

I have learned how to edit myself out.

I joined the writing group because I want to unlearn all that. I want to write spontaneously – blurt it all out onto the page so that I’m inside out and what I write is what I feel… So that it belongs to me and reveals me.

I’ve never managed to do this writing on my own. I don’t know if I can manage it at all. I hope so.

Now: Why do I write? I write because I don’t know what’s inside me until I look, and writing is one way of looking. Also, by writing it down, I get to keep what I find!

I write in a group because I wouldn’t get around to it on my own! Because the exchange of ideas in a group sets me thinking and gets me going. Because sharing what I’ve written and getting feedback reminds me that it’s me on the page and not just words. And because hearing what the other women have written refreshes my sense of how different we are, and how alike we are – and how special it is what we’ve got to say!

Pippa

I’d shown Lorna a diary that I had been keeping whilst I had cancer. I’d written this account to try to get in touch with how I was actually feeling inside and perhaps thinking I’d show it to some of the medical staff who I felt had no understanding of what it is like to have cancer. But I felt that I had failed miserably – the account was vaguely amusing, tightly written and for the most part lacked feeling. Lorna asked me if I ever tried to express myself in poetry. I used to do that. I wrote poems in class when I should have been listening to tales of Charles I. I wrote poems about how I saw other people, how I felt about myself, upside-down poems. I kept them for a while – I used to keep them all. Then one day I just got rid of them. Masses of words – I chucked them away – I can’t believe I did that now. I can remember the odd lines of poems that I have written and I’m angry that I can’t read the whole of them. I thought that they were worth nothing. I was wrong.

When Lorna talked of starting a Women’s Creative Writing Group I leapt inside – she’d asked me if I was interested – interested, I wanted it to happen then and there. A chance to develop my writing, to find a way of clearing out the debris and a chance to commune with other women who used words to create a picture of how they felt, what they saw.

Before the group started I tried writing a few poems when the emotions got too much for ordinary lines. I often wrote when in physical pain and the relief it provided – extraordinary. The other day I caught sight of a poem I’d written a few months ago and my innards churned, my skin burned, I’d caught how I’d felt so well that I was back in the place where I’d written it.

Being part of the group is wonderful. Listening to others’ work, thinking about Lorna’s suggestions as to how we approach different subjects digs up things in my head that I didn’t know were there. It gets me writing and builds up my confidence in my ability to express how I feel through words. It’s great hearing what other women write – it’s exciting, never, never dull. It’s hard sometimes reading out what I’ve written. Sometimes it’s even hard just coming to the group, but I’ve never come away feeling worse than when I’ve arrived! I won’t throw any more of my words away.

Moving on: organising a self facilitating group

Having met at Jane’s house for one and a half years, it never occurred to us to meet anywhere other than in each other’s homes, as we much preferred the informal atmosphere. We make sure, however, that the person in whose home we meet does not need to play hostess; coffee and tea are available – but on a strictly self-serve basis. The group now meets at Kate’s flat, as Kate has now got a young baby, who, though usually very quiet, certainly adds something to the atmosphere.

The group still runs in cycles. At the end of every cycle (usually every seven weeks or so) we open the group to new members. We spend one evening meeting the new women, introducing ourselves, and outlining the aims of the group, how it runs, etc – then brainstorm ideas and decide collectively on the theme for the new cycle. New members quickly pick up the existing methods of facilitation and often contribute new ideas with which to experiment.

Now that we are a leaderless group, we all take it in turns to facilitate a session. What happens is that, having picked one of the topics chosen by the group, you go away and work out how you are going to present it. As facilitator, you are also responsible for keeping an eye on the clock. We allocate five to ten minutes for the initial exercise. This could be based on one we did with Lorna or could be one that you think up yourself. There’s about ten minutes for group discussion of any issues raised and then forty to fifty minutes for the main writing. Finally, allow about thirty minutes for the reading out of what has been written. Newcomers to the group are not expected to facilitate straight away. They can learn by attending sessions led by the ‘old hands’ as well as referring to a list of suggestions that we have put together.

Personal reactions to the new group

Maria

I find that the system we have developed for ourselves works really well. Everyone has their bit of responsibility and I feel that this serves to bind the group together and motivate people to turn up. Being in the group has meant that my confidence and enthusiasm for writing has continued and I have recently scripted a fifty minute video on self-defence techniques for women, which I produced and made with a couple of friends.

AB

I stopped writing with the group – and altogether! – for a long while. I’ve been back with it for about three months now. I’m really enjoying the ‘rotational facilitation’ – it’s brilliant having so many different starting points for inspiration. I believe, also, that the experience of facilitating the group myself has helped me with the process of developing my own starting points from scratch. I’m now writing on my own as well as in the group. A huge step forward!

Kate

The change to facilitating for ourselves has coincided with the birth of my daughter. The experience of writing has changed quite a lot, now that I have a small person on my lap through the sessions either feeding or sleeping – and yet there is a lot of continuity, doing much to preserve my sense of myself as a person who is more than a mother. I’ve found facilitation for ourselves quite empowering and exciting. I like the way we are trying different exercises and I like the way that exercises I have tried, or suggestions I have made have been the catalyst for good writing. I still find the ‘discussion’ part awkward if I am supposed to be the facilitator, but I think this will become easier as I learn to trust that I don’t have the sole responsibility for making a discussion ‘work’, that it’s up to all of us.

From Circle to Spiral: Polarities

The remaining chapters in this book cover a cycle of six workshops in which we explored the theme ‘Polarities’. One idea suggested at the meeting was that we wrote about states of being which seemed to oppose one another; pairs such as danger and safety, movement and stillness. From a lengthy group list, we took six polarities; Hedonism and Abstinence, Excitement and Serenity, Freedom and Security, Independence and Intimacy, Open and Closed, and Shame and Pride.

These six workshops proved particularly revealing. Through discussion and writing, we found that our perspectives on the issues concerned sometimes altered radically. By the end of the cycle we had made exciting discoveries, and gained a great deal from our own and each other’s writing. We decided that we would like to share with a wider audience, not just what we had written, but also what we had gained in a broader sense from our weekly meetings.

Chapters Three to Eight consist of the writing from the six workshops, in its raw state, together with the workshop outline. By ‘raw state’ I mean that the writing has not been re-drafted, and editing has been confined to a basic correction of spelling and punctuation errors. We share the writing in this form because we want to show what can be achieved within a workshop, in perhaps forty to sixty minutes of writing time: and because we feel that each collection of writing possesses a particular power and energy which might be diminished by ‘polishing’.

We have found writing to be a source of empowerment in our lives, and feel that there are many more people who do write, or who want to write, and who could share in what we have experienced by coming together to write and share their work. We feel that in a society which denies to many of us the means to express ourselves, and in which writing has long been the preserve of an elite few, writing groups which do not aim to show us how to write, but simply provide us with the opportunity to write how we like, can open up for us a means of gaining enjoyment, satisfaction and insight.

We hope that you will enjoy our writing, and yours!

STARTING A GROUP

Workshop outline

Warm-up Exercise
Write an autobiography in 100 words. It must contain:
i) two true pieces of information about yourself, which other members of the group may find surprising.
ii) two false or made-up pieces of information about yourself.

Share and Discuss
Use this exercise as a guessing game. After each person reads their piece other members of the group must say which parts are true and which are false. Writers must wait to hear everyone’s guesses before revealing the truth.
This is a lighthearted way of showing the kinds of assumptions we make about each other.

Choosing a Theme
Take five minutes for everyone to write down a list of themes and ideas which they would like to explore in writing.
At this stage you can also list forms that you are interested in using, e.g. Haiku, dialogue, letters, etc.
Examples of themes we have used include ‘families’, ‘the seven ages of woman’, ‘roles we play’.

Share and Discuss
As you listen to each other’s ideas, look for links and areas of common interest. The aim is for the group to agree on a theme which everyone is interested in. Sometimes it is possible to find a general theme which draws together several people’s ideas (which might at first appear to be very different).
The next step is to break the theme down into six ( or the desired number) of workshop headings.
All this should of course be noted down, for use by the facilitator(s).
Finally, make sure that everyone understands, and agrees with the ground rules.

Ground rules

1. Confidentiality: This means that we will keep personal matters shared within the group to ourselves.

2. Support: This means that we will all encourage each other with our writing. We will listen carefully and give positive feedback.

3. Space sharing: This means that we will share the responsibility of making sure that everyone gets equal time within the group, to speak and to be listened to.

HEDONISM AND ABSTINENCE

(Hedonism – the pursuit of pleasure.
Abstinence – the avoidance of indulgence)

1. Warm-up Exercise
Write two lists, headed Hedonism and Abstinence.
Under each heading write down things that you do, ways that you behave and ways that you feel, which are associated with hedonism and abstinence.

2. Share and Discuss
Do you express one state more than the other?
Do you feel better about one than the other?

3. Writing Suggestion
Write a story in which you personify your hedonistic side and your abstemious side as two characters. This could be in the form of a ‘fairy story’ so that anything can happen when the two characters interact.

You could begin by involving the two characters in a dialogue — see where it leads!

For this kind of writing, it’s a good idea not to try to plan the plot and outcome before you start. The characters will be enough to begin with; let them create the story.

Beatrice and Hortensia

Once upon a time there was a woman who had two daughters. Her first child she named Hortensia. From the beginning Hortensia was, as her mother put it “No trouble at all”. She slept a lot as a baby, rarely had tantrums as a toddler, and was always ready to obey her mother, and to help her too.

When her little sister Beatrice was born, Hortensia proved herself invaluable to mother, as Beatrice had rather different habits. She could seldom be persuaded to sleep for very long, and when awake, demanded constant attention. Had it not been for Hortensia always ready to put down a book, or leave a painting she was absorbed in and fling herself into entertaining her little sister, Mother would never have got anything done.

As teenagers the girls were still very different from one another. Secretly each envied the other. Hortensia admired Beatrice’s vivacity, her lively, laughing beauty, always at ease and sparkling in company. Beatrice on the other hand aspired to her elder sister’s serenity, her self-contained composure, the perma¬nent beatific smile.

Whilst they were admiring one another, their mother despaired of them both.

“If only Hortensia would liven up a bit,” she said to their Aunt Gertrude who was, as it happened, an accomplished witch. “I know she’s always been a help to me, but sometimes she really gets my goat. It’s that bloody smug smile of hers. And the way she’s always so selfless, so forgiving. It’s so sanctimonious. I feel guilty enjoying myself in front of her sometimes. And that’s just it, why doesn’t she just enjoy herself, like Beatrice does. Mind you, she could do with a bit less enjoying herself, that one. The way she was stuffing her face with those cream cakes you conjured up the other day, she’ll be busting her bodice before long. And she never lifts a finger to help me in the house you know. Always giggling that silly giggle of hers, up half the night every night doing goodness knows what. Whatever it is, you can bet your life it’s nothing useful she’s up to.”

Gertrude listened to all this and as she listened she wondered, as she often did whenever folk complained to her, if there was anything that she could do about it.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any bright ideas that’ll help sort them out, have you, Gert?” asked Mother.

“As it happens,” said Gertrude, “I think I might.”

That evening, there was to be a party at one of the local palaces. Beatrice spent most of the day imagining how she would look in her new dress, her mouth watering as she pictured the sumptuous banquet there would be. Hortensia, on the other hand, was so hard at work, cleaning out the kitchen cupboards for her mother, that she hardly even remembered the party.

She had to dig out her one dress, a rather plain affair in navy blue, from the back of the wardrobe, and give it a good iron, whilst Beatrice tapped her foot impatiently.

“Come on, come on. We’ll miss the fun”.

“Oh I don’t know if I should go” said Hortensia.

“What! How could you even think that.”

“Well, I didn’t quite finish that cupboard under the sink. And I’ve had a few late nights this week already.”

“Oh rubbish, come on, get your dress on. Oh you’re not wearing that old thing are you? Why don’t you borrow one of mine?” Beatrice fussed.

“I’m actually quite tired – perhaps you should go without me.”

“I’m not going without you, and if that means we can’t go…”

“Ok, ok,” sighed Hortensia, knowing she was cornered, and quite glad about it really.

The party was just as Beatrice had imagined. She was soon surrounded by a crowd of lively young things, knocking back the champagne, and making them all laugh as usual.

Hortensia sat on a plush white armchair, which set off her dark hair and, although she didn’t realise it, all the shy young men in the room gazed at her adoringly, and couldn’t pluck up the courage to go and speak to her.

One young man though, one she had never seen before, and indeed if she had she would certainly have remembered him for her heart missed a beat when she saw him, came and sat down beside her.

“I say,” he said, “Have you seen that brazen young thing over there. What an unladylike way to carry on. The way she drinks, and that loud laughter. Has she no composure?” He went on in this vein for some time, shaking his head and tutting. Meanwhile Hortensia’s blood was boiling. How dare he talk about her sister like that. There was nothing wrong in enjoying yourself, after all. When he finally finished up “If only she could emulate you a little more my dear,” she could stand it no longer. “I’ll show him” she thought, and jumped up at once, grabbed a glass of fizzy from a passing tray, and hurled herself into the party with a frenzy.

Beatrice was too busy enjoying herself to notice what Hortensia was up to when the same young man came up to her and grabbed her for the next dance. As they whirled about, he spoke in her ear “Did you see that drab little thing in the armchair. The one in navy? I say didn’t she look a terrible bore, sitting in the corner like that. I bet she’s the kind who’d rather be at home running about in the kitchen”.

“How dare you speak like that about my sister,” cried Beatrice, stepping back. “As if she deserves anything but praise for helping…” suddenly she stopped short, for the young man had vanished. She didn’t drink quite so much as usual that evening though, and decided that she would do that cupboard under the sink. Hortensia should enjoy herself for a change.

Mother noticed the odd young man. She always kept a watchful eye on her daughters at big functions. She also noticed that her sister Gertrude appeared beside her just around the time of his mysterious disappearance.

“Thanks” she said. “I see you’ve sorted them out a bit”.

“Well” said Gertrude “perhaps. But I should say you’re the one who needs sorting out really. I mean one smiles, the other laughs, one way or another your house stays in order, they’re both happy girls and they love one another. I think if only you’d stop judging them so harshly you could be very pleased with the pair of them”. And with that, she disappeared, leaving all three of them to ponder on what she had said.

Lorna

Jacinda and Jane

Jacinda dances naked in the rain. Her long black hair has separated into sodden strands. Water is streaming down her body. Every time she leaps, she scatters raindrops and every time she lands, it is in a puddle which is growing rapidly.

Jane is walking carefully along the pavement, her umbrella over her head, avoiding stepping in puddles, keeping away from the gutter where she might be splashed by passing cars. She steps smartly forward, never looking to the right or left and knowing exactly where she is going.

Jacinda is becoming tired. It occurs to her that it is a long time since her last meal. With one last flying leap she collapses onto the wet lawn and lies for a while, flat on her back, feeling the rain beating heavily down on her and watching lightning flashing over the trees. Then she jumps up and goes into the house in search of food.

Jane had reached her destination. She knocks on the heavy gate and it is opened. Quietly, she slips inside. Her face is a little wet and her hands, but no other part of her flesh had been exposed to the rain or the sun for many years and she has no desire for it to be. She walks steadily to her room, goes in and closes the door.

Jacinda is in her kitchen with the fridge door wide open. On her table are ranged several delicious desserts topped with lavish quantities of cream. In the fridge can be seen more such delicacies but she is sitting at the table taking spoonfuls from each in order to decide which to eat. She licks her fingers from time to time. There is cream on the end of her nose. She is still naked but drying rapidly as the house is very warm. She decides on a lemon cheesecake and proceeds to eat several portions.

Jane has changed into drier clothing and is now in a large hall full of tables, all of them surrounded by seated women. Their heads are bowed in silence as they eat their frugal and tasteless meal. A dim light shines in through windows set high in the walls where no-one can see through them.

The day is coming to an end. Jacinda is in her warm comfortable bed. Music is playing on her bedside tape recorder and she is reading a detective story. She will go on reading till she reaches the end although it will then be almost 2 a.m., but this does not matter, as she can get up as late as she likes.

Jane has finished her duties for the day and is lying in her cold, bare room. Her bed is very hard and there is only one blanket but she had become accustomed to this and does not notice the cold. She tries to centre her thoughts on something beautiful in order to go to sleep and be fully rested before she must get up at dawn.

At first sleep does not come. The image she has in her mind is a flower but this does not seem to bring the peace and beauty she requires. Her mind shifts around, looking for the right picture and finds the mosaic pattern in the floor of the old entrance hall, built long before the nuns moved to this place. Her eyes rove around the circle, darting in to the centre and out again. She finds herself unable to move away from the centre. She is fenced in by the wings and concentric circles of the great pattern as it becomes larger and larger around her and for an instant she sees herself very tiny at the centre like a spider in a web. Then she is spinning faster than she has ever moved in her life.

Jacinda has fallen asleep, her book crushed under her head. She never did reach the end but now she dreams of puzzles and conundrums and being caught in a net and whirling around at impossible speeds. She smiles in her sleep.

On her island in the lake the Lady of Delightful Pleasures sits with her face turned up to the sun absorbing the energy she needs to complete the spell. Two stars come shooting down towards her. She ducks just in time as Jane and Jacinda tumble on to the sand. They are both asleep. Now the magic must be very carefully applied. A little slip would be fatal. She gathers her powers in to herself. “Off we go” she says.

It is morning in the convent. Dawn is breaking and a bell rings. The nuns assemble for the start of the day. Grey light supplements the candles they hold. But one is missing. Someone will go to look for sister Jane in her room and will be astonished to find her fast asleep and snoring, with a smile on her face. When she is shaken gently she mutters something in her sleep and turns over. Sister Mary returns puzzled to the morning prayers and sister Jane sleeps on, reliving in her dreams a month of pleasures lived in a single night on a fairy island. Later she will get up and leave unseen.

Some hours later Jacinda wakes up, surprised to see how early it is. She feels full of life and energy, in spite of the hour and springs, singing out of bed. As she eats breakfast she remembers she had arranged to meet someone today. She can’t remember how this arrangement came about – something to do with a mutual friend. She has so many friends it isn’t surprising that it had slipped her memory which one. At least she remembers the time and the place: outside the convent in Beech Road. Soon it will be time to go. She knows she will enjoy showing this woman her town as she is new to this country.

Jane

Lucia and Maud

“Please let me go,” said Lucia, “It’s important to me”. “We can’t afford it,” said Maud, “It wouldn’t do you any good anyway. You’ll just get ideas into your head. There’s no point. Sit down and eat your bread”. Lucia slumped onto the hard wooden chair. She felt despair and desperation eat into her. Her fingers crumbled the bread. Tears pricked the surface of her eyes. She sniffed and swallowed purposefully. “God”, she thought, “It’s freezing in here”. She looked at her aunt. She looked so miserable. Lank hair, uncut, her face grey, eyes blank, high-necked, long-sleeved dress, always a drab colour. She could almost feel her shutting out any warmth that might pass her way. Lucia longed for the touch of her brother’s hand on her shoulders. He was older than her and had made his escape. Some computer whizz kid now. She didn’t actually like him that much, but she envied him his freedom. The freedom that money provides. He didn’t come and see her that often, couldn’t bear the atmosphere of Maud’s place. The things that he brought for her, Maud would take away saying that it was too good for her now. Lucia wondered if she’d ever see them again.

A friend from school had asked her to go ice-skating and to the cinema with her and a party of other friends. She could spend the night at her parent’s house. Their house wasn’t that big, but it looked warm and inviting – luxury for Lucia. Lucia desperately wanted to go – to enjoy herself and to be part of the group. Surely Maud could remember having good times herself – how important it was to be with friends?

“I’ll go without fruit and milk for a week. Anything. I must go. Don’t you remember how it felt to enjoy yourself?”

“Enjoy myself? Enjoy myself! Me? How do you think I got this house? By having a good time? Go without fruit and milk – what an idea. Your health is very important. Lose your health and you’re lost. No-one will care for you, you’ll be left to die in a squalid old place full of old wrecks who’ve squandered their lives”.

Lucia sat back in her chair. She couldn’t stand this anymore. She’d do something, anything. She’d had enough.

“I don’t care if I die in penury, I’ll have some fun getting there”, Lucia shouted. “Give me those jewels that Robert brought for me. They’re mine. I want them”.

Maud looked up at her. “You can’t have them”. Her voice sounded fearful. “They’ll do you no good. Leave me alone. Go away”.

Lucia felt very angry. She hated her aunt for making her life so miserable.

“Where are they?” she shouted. “Get them, I want them.” Lucia grabbed her aunt’s shoulders. The cloth of the dress parted at the front. Lucia saw something glitter. She pulled the dress apart. There, lying next to the dry, grey skin were Lucia’s jewels.

(Unfinished)
Pippa

Barbara

Barbara looked out through the bars, shivering. The weather was grey, dull. Dull. She’d already heard the word five times on the forecast and it certainly applied. The grey was reflected into her eyes and these in return reflected it onto the walls of the small room. Its surfaces were smooth plaster, shiny and economical. She reached out to one; it was cold. Her bed was narrow and against one wall, she perched on the edge and swung her legs carefully, her Winceyette nighty flapped limply at her side. The fridge began to hum a low sound. She walked over, kicked it, walked back to the bed. The clock ticked. She made a cup of tea. She was unattached today, wading. No money, no milk, no food; no giro. Grey, grey, grey, her stomach grumbled at the prospect. Her life had shrunk recently, she grimaced, this was the carcass. It had changed shape, spiralling chaotically until it finally settled on a cast that was square. Small square and economical. No curves or slopes but bars and fluorescent light strips and tiles. Barbara often became mesmerised by the cracks between these as she sat swinging her legs measuring her days by the thick ticks on the worn clock.

It was as she was sat like this that she first began to notice something strange happening. In the corner of the room, she saw a leaf. She got up and walked over to it, it seemed too bright, she wondered how it had got there, she bent down. As she touched it it began to grow. Thickly a green carpet covered the wall. She looked at her feet, the cold tiles had been replaced by soft grass and she was no longer shivering. The sun above warmed her back and spun coppery silk threads into her hair. She turned. Where the bed had been, there now stood a beautiful tree and beneath it sat a woman. She threw her head back, laughed a honey laugh and gathered her silk robes around her. She beckoned to Barbara then was gone.

Running, jumping, skipping, she headed up a nearby hill, face raised to the sun, arms wide at either side. Barbara gathered her nighty more closely about her and began to follow. She felt a certain resentment that her world had suddenly become colour, and was rather peeved that she had to walk to the top of such a steep hill. Her shoulders slouched. She dragged her feet. When she was half way up, she looked to the top. The woman was still beckoning. She turned and looked behind her, in the path where she’d walked lay a trail of small grey boxes . She looked down and realized that her pockets were full of them. She began to unload the boxes one at a time, then wildly. Throwing, throwing, her movements became frantic, she tore at the Wincyette nighty and cast it to the ground. Its dead form looked pitiful on the green grass. She knelt and began to dig a hole. The earth was soft and peaty. She placed the night dress inside and watched absorbed. Freer. She began to walk up hill again. The woman at the top still beckoned, Barbara smiled at her. It wasn’t far now.

The summit of the hill was a plateau and on the plateau a stone table and on the table was a feast. Barbara was hungrier than she’d felt for a long time. She looked at strawberries and peaches and melons and pineapples and champagne and heard laughter. She ate her first meal there frantically. Juice dripped through her fingers and the sun beat down on her head. She drank thirstily and soon was drunk. Lying on her back she closed her eyes, the sun was warm, the light softened and she heard music in the air. Bird song accompanied a musical breeze and the rhythmic lapping of a distant ocean.

When she awoke she sighed, expecting to return to the grey but the feast before her had instead been replenished. She stood and stretched, her muscles felt lithe, her step light, her skin soft. A silken robe had been placed beside her whilst she slept. She put it on and cleared a space for herself on the stone table. Feeding herself, she swung her legs over the edge of the cool stone. It was then that she became aware that she was being watched. It was the woman. She sat at the opposite side of the table silently watching. She did not speak, nor did she gesture but Barbara knew to follow. Barbara followed as the woman disappeared, flying. Barbara opened her arms and flew, her feet touching the springy ground occasionally. Her robe billowed about her in slow motion.

At the bottom of the hill lay a calm blue lake. It reflected the sea and the sky, and when Barbara reached it, she too became part of the picture. The woman had once again disappeared. But where she had been there stood a small wooden rowing boat and upon the seat a bunch of yellow roses bound by a silk ribbon. Barbara rested then stepped into the boat. She turned to face the roses and the shore. She took the oars and rowed into the lake. The calm was broken only by the oars that sliced through the water.

In the centre of the lake she stopped and closed her eyes. Once again she became aware that she was being watched. She waited a while before opening them. There was the woman. This time she smiled and without rocking the boat, stood and dived into the water, she was gone. Where she had entered the water her robe floated. It curved at the edges dipping into the water. Barbara didn’t follow the woman but instead reached out to touch the robe. As she did she heard the chime of a faint bell. It became louder and louder. Barbara looked around startled. Grey clouds were forming and the wind began to gently play upon the layers of her robe. Barbara held them tightly around her. Her gaze increased with the wind, she became frightened. The wind rocked the boat, Barbara held the sides. It began to rain, Barbara felt afraid. Harder and harder the boat rocked, Barbara shut her eyes. She raised her arms and dived. Dived into the water through the rain and the grey. When she opened her eyes there was a warm orange glow. The grey of the tiles had been softened by the sun outside the window. Barbara sighed, it had been a good dream. She turned over and looked to the corner. The table between had been covered in a layer of orange silk and piled high with fruit. Strawberries, mangoes, pineapples and of course champagne. Two crystal glasses glistened by the bottle. She blinked, sure she was dreaming, then jumped out of bed, startled by the sound of the doorbell.

Sarah

Matilda and Miranda
— a moral tale

Once upon a time, there lived two sisters. The elder one was called Matilda, and she was very sensible. Everyday she would go to the market place very early and walk round the stalls, trying to see where the cheapest bargains were to be had. If she could bring home all the vegetables on her list, and spend less than her budget, she would be very pleased with herself. She would go home loaded down and come into the kitchen where her younger sister, Miranda would be sitting in her dressing gown having her third cup of coffee and say something along the lines of… “Look, Miranda, we’ll eat well tonight! I got a whole box of mushrooms for a third of the usual price. Mother will be pleased”. Miranda would look at her older sister and yawn. She thought her sister rather boring and wished she would stop talking about her bargains and her savings and how important it was to wrap up warmly and go to bed early.

One day, when Matilda came back from the market with a box of prime tomatoes that she’d got at a considerable discount, Miranda seemed more animated than usual. “What’s up?” asked Matilda putting her groceries down “You look flushed and excited, I hope your temperature’s alright. Maybe you should put a shawl over that dressing gown, it’s rather flimsy and it’s not that warm in here”.

“Don’t be silly!” replied her sister. “I’m excited because I got sent two invitations to the ball for tomorrow night. It’s going to be just wonderful. All the handsomest men and the most beautiful women will be there. The musicians are coming from the capital specially – and there are bound to be drinks available all night”.

“Well.” said Matilda “I don’t know that I shall be going. I don’t like to go to bed late, because I can’t get up early the next morning; and I can’t drink alcohol because it makes me ill, and the mark-up on soft drinks these days is sheer robbery”. Miranda stamped her foot.

“Why don’t you let your hair down once in a while?” she shouted “You’re so boring and cautious. Well I jolly well intend to go, so can I borrow your best dress, you know, the one with the jet beads?”

“Oh Miranda,” replied her sister “You know I can’t lend you that dress. It took me six months to save up for it. If you’re going to be dancing and spilling drinks down it all evening you’ll ruin it. Besides, it’s too tight for you round the bust. You’ve been putting on weight recently, I think it’s all that chocolate you’ve been eating”.

“Right!” said Miranda crossly “You keep your stupid dress. I’m going to the ball anyway, and I shall stay as long as I like, drink as much as I want and spend all my money”.

Matilda was saddened by her sister’s outburst, which had quite taken away the pleasure she had felt about the bargain tomatoes. The following day she deliber¬ately avoided Miranda, and went to bed at 9.30 p.m. to allow herself the luxury of reading for a full half-hour before switching off the light.

Meanwhile, Miranda made preparations for the ball. She had stolen her sister’s dress whilst Matilda had been at the market and now she put it on. It was lovely, although a little tight. She then took all her money and stuffed it into her black, velvet evening bag. She was determined to have a good time. With one final glance in the mirror, she tossed her hair and strode off into the night,

Matilda was unable to sleep. She felt resentful. After all, why shouldn’t she enjoy herself’? She was always working and trying to keep things in order round the house. Maybe if Miranda pulled her weight, there wouldn’t be quite so much to do. She heard the clock chime eleven, the ball would only have been going an hour. She switched on the light and jumped out of bed, it wouldn’t take her long to get ready and go. She pulled open her wardrobe door and saw that her new dress was missing. “That does it.” she said to herself “I’m definitely going now!” She put on her only other dress which she had altered from an old one of her mother’s. The style was outdated, but the material was pretty enough and the colour suited her. She ran a comb through her hair and glanced in the mirror – a perfectly respectable young woman stared back at her, she would have to do.

Miranda was tipsy. She had spent quite a lot of money on champagne for herself and her friends. She’d also been dancing a lot and was beginning to feel rather hot in the tight black dress. Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure coming towards her across the dance floor. She rubbed her eyes disbelievingly, it was Matilda. She looked around for a getaway but it was too late.

“I see you borrowed my dress ” said Matilda.

“Well, I never thought you’d need it” replied Miranda.

“That’s not the point” retorted her sister. “You’ve spilt something down it already, and it looks like one of the seams is splitting.” Miranda lost her temper.” Go to Hell! You bore me to death with your petty observations” she shouted and stamped her foot.

“And you infuriate me with your selfishness, you spoilt brat!”

“I just enjoy life and don’t spend all my time anxious about whether I’m being a good little girl.”

“I try to make things better for all of us, you ungrateful fool!”

By now the sisters were shouting rather loudly and beginning to attract attention. Their quarrel was soon interrupted by a stately-looking woman who came up and took then both gently by the arm.

“Come outside into the garden,” she said “You’ll be able to cool down there”. Meekly, the sisters allowed this imposing stranger to lead them out. “Who are you?” asked Matilda.

“Well, let’s suppose I’m your Fairy Godmother.” said the stranger, “What’s the trouble?”

“It’s her.” said Miranda crossly. “She disapproves of me having fun”.

“Huh!” replied Matilda “You disapprove of me trying to run things sensibly and efficiently”.

“Hmm..” said the Fairy Godmother “Why don’t I just arrange for you to live apart – a long way apart. You obviously don’t get on and you needn’t see each other again”. At this, the two sisters grew pale.

“Oh no thanks.” said Matilda. “It’s very kind of you to offer your help, but I’m sure we can sort something out”.

“Yes” said Miranda. “My sister’s really kind when you get to know her, she’s supportive and caring and always finds time to listen to my problems – and her vegetable stews are rather wonderful”.

“And I’d much rather stick with Miranda” added Matilda. “She’s so much fun. She makes me laugh when I’m feeling low; she sings so beautifully; and our house is full of her lovely drawings”.

The stranger looked on in silence as the sisters linked arms and walked back into the ballroom; then, smiling to herself, she disappeared into the night.

Maria

Alice (a fairy-o-type) meets Al the Blob

“You are a wicked, wicked girl, and you will never get to Wonderland!” declares Alice in the voice she learned at Sunday School – an indignant, squeaky mouse of a voice made brave by a strong sense of being right.

Al the Blob pauses for a moment, chocolate truffle poised delicately between her podgy fingertips. She raises one eyebrow towards the disapproving Alice, then pops the dainty morsel into her mouth, savours its rich sweetness, smacks her lips, and reaches for another from the heart-shaped box.

“Fuck off,” she grunts.

“What? What did you say? You’re bad you are… Just look at you! You’re fat and lazy and you say nasty words and you don’t even use a depilatory cream… You should be ashamed of yourself!”

The Blob looks thoughtful. “Sometimes I am,” she says. “And sometimes I don’t care at all. At least I’m real. You’re nothing but a cardboard cut-out, Alice. You stand there in that silly pink dress, with that silly pink ribbon in your silly blonde ringlets – and you tell me what I should and shouldn’t do… Alice, you don’t even exist”.

“But I’m here, aren’t I?” squeals Alice gleefully. “I’m here and I will always be here, and I will never go away!”

“I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” states the Blob. “You’re not as important around here as you used to be. Personally, I think the Fairy Godmother is finally starting to see through you. ‘Bout time too, is what I say”. She turns back to her truffles.

Alice’s face begins to pucker. Her lips purse up in a tight little “o” and her chin wobbles. She shrinks three sizes and her dainty pink bow slips over one ear.

“That’s not true!” she squeaks. “The Fairy Godmother loves me. I’m the apple of her eye. I’m her favourite, favourite girl!”

The Blob is faintly interested. “Alice,” she says, “You look like one of those inflatable dolls… and you appear to have a slow puncture”.

Alice stamps her tiny foot and pouts. The shoe falls off. The lacy white socks dribble down about her ankles. The frilly hem of the frilly frock sags dangerously low to the ground. She shrinks some more, and her arms are swallowed up in the broderie anglaise of her little puffed sleeves.

“You’re bad!” she squeals. “Bad bad bad bad bad…”

But even as she speaks, her words begin to slow and blur like a warped recording. Her face crumples and winkles like a small pink prune. She disappears completely within the satin flounces of her frock, wiggles a bit, and is still.

The Blob regards the empty pile of frills before her. Absent-mindedly, she reaches for another truffle… then pauses, the chocolate poised delicately between her podgy fingertips.

And puts it back in the heart-shaped box.

AB

FREEDOM AND SECURITY

1. Warm-up Exercise
Round poem: For this exercise each member of the group starts off a poem by writing one line. The lines are then passed around, each person adding one more line before passing to the next. Finally, when the poems are back to where they started, each member can add the final line to the poem they began. Divide the page in half. Head one half with a line beginning ‘Freedom is…’ the other ‘Security is…’; you can use an
image or an activity – anything which expresses freedom and security for you. As the poems are passed around, build upon what has been raised in the first lines.

2. Share and Discuss
What common images emerge?
How do freedom and security relate to one another?
Do we have to choose between them?

3. Writing Suggestion
Building on the idea of using images to express freedom and security, write a poem describing yourself as though you ARE your chosen image. You could begin it ‘When I am free I am a …’
You could alternate between freedom and security, or you could write the poem in two sections.

Freedom and Security

Freedom is an open door
Leading out into a sunfilled meadow
Running through it with a joyful heart
To the blue, distant mountains.
New landscapes ever unfolding

Security is a locked door
A blazing, open fire
The curtains pulled tightly shut
And a dark night outside
From which you are cocooned.

A group poem

Freedom and Security

When I’m secure I’m free
Free to do what I want
To go where I want
Restrictions are lifted
Decisions, choices welcomed with relish
I’m light and airy
Alive, my body vibrant
Not full of the fears and trepidation
That insecurity brings.

Rabbit

I’m free at last
They’ve let me out!
I can burrow where I please
Nibble at those tempting, juicy shoots
I can run and jump
Doze and relax in the sun.

Golden Eagle

Everytime an image of freedom and security
Comes into my mind there follows something evil.
If I imagine soaring into the air as a bird, swooping and
diving as I please, suddenly it’s all blacked out as
something bigger and stronger swoops down on me and scoops
me out of the sky for their breakfast. If I was an invincible
golden eagle I would have the power to be free, secure in the
knowledge of my power. Physically I’m powerful, and that makes
me dominant.

Mouse

I am very small
And there are lots of other animals
That would like to eat me.
I know that so I keep out of their way.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t go out and about,
I enjoy myself, I meet up with friends
Forage for food, take naps, relax
Chase my tail
But I keep my ears pricked
And my eyes sharp,
I take a few risks now and then
Maybe I’ll get eaten one day.
So what —
Today I’m free.

Social Security

Living on the social
Doesn’t mean security
You can get moved on
Your order books recalled
Your electric and gas cut off
Your phone disconnected
Shunned by society
The only security you get
When you’re on the social
Are keys from your friends.

Living on the social
Means you’re never free
You can’t apply for the jobs you want
You can’t go away for more than 2 weeks
They can question you anytime
About anything it seems
You can’t have your lover to stay more than 2 nights
You don’t have choices

You don’t feel free.

Fragment

“He made free with her”

Pippa

The Vine

I am a vine.

The vine is secure because it has strong roots,
Spreading beneath the ground.
It is free because its growth is unbounded
In all directions

The vine finds security in resting on other plants.
Letting itself be supported by them.
It is free as long as it does not overwhelm,
But spreads its weight.

The vine growing from the deep earth is free.
It bears flower and fruit,
Seeding itself.
And so it will always flourish.

Security

The walls which protect
may enclose.
The arms which embrace
may restrict
The warmth which enfolds
may stifle

From the comforting sleep
there must always be waking.

Lorna

Freedom

Freedom is a panther, stepping lightly,
running swiftly, feet scarcely touching the Earth.
In the dark night she is unseen by prey,
her movements so sure and delicate
and in the daylight she is camouflaged
But when the moon is full, she lies in her warm lair
with her young and does not wish to move.

The elephants are gathered, taking care,
one of another, in their group, secure
in their size and companionship alike.
Moving slowly, trumpeting softly,
they stay together for life.

Seagulls soar in the sun, declaiming loudly
their rightful possession of this place,
their huge, demanding chicks shrieking all the while
for more food. When the summer ends
and the chicks have flown, they’ll leave to ride in the waves
but next year they’ll return, coupled for life.

And, on the tallest tree, a blackbird sings
the sweetest song of all. It is a song
of freedom, of opening the throat
to let every note be true until
it has said all,
A proud bird.

The whales sing too, joining voices
in the deep sea, dark blue world.
Unhampered by their vast size,
they frolic for no purpose
other than playfulness
and nearby dolphins are inspired to leap,
laughing into the air.

Transformation

The caterpillar has freedom to eat
all day long. It munches lustily
and thinks of nothing but food.
Food is its universe.

Fixed in its chrysalis;
the creature endures
immense changes
while remaining static.
Time seems suspended.

When it emerges,
the butterfly, unaware
of its brief, heady future,
unfolds sticky wings.
Change has created beauty.

Its hundred eyes see
a bright world.
Lifted on fragile wings
it flies to its first taste
of nectar
and mating on the wing.

Unlocking the door

The door is padlocked.
She struggles daily
to open it.
Now she has the key
but the lock is rusted.
Now the lock is oiled
but the key is lost.

For years she continues
to play this game,
until the padlock
breaks from sheer fatigue
and the door opens.

She is afraid to see
what might be there –
a threshold to nowhere,
a step into deep space,
where she will tumble,
freefalling forever
into eternity
or a sunny meadow
with distant blue
mountains and dew
on the grass,
where she can run barefoot
among the daisies.
Which will it be?

The fear of knowing
is too great.
Tomorrow she will buy a new padlock
and throw away the key.

Jane

Freedom [ the seagull speaks ]

My wings beat slow and powerful
Neck straining forward
Toward the sun.
Exhilarated, I wheel and spin,
Calling and soaring.
A feathered arrow
Always pointing
In the right direction.

Security [ the mole speaks ]

Packed around me the dark, rich earth
Keeps me safe.
Its worms nourish.
It blankets me
From the frost above.
No need for sight
Surrounded by the scents and textures
Of my Earthworld.

Synthesis [ the tree speaks ]

Reaching for the sky
Requires long roots

Maria

EXCITEMENT AND SERENITY

1. Warm-up Exercise
Five senses poem: For this exercise, we give each feeling a colour, a sound, a smell, a taste and a physical sensation. You can use a simple format:

Example
excitement is (colour)… Happiness is the blue of Summer skies
it sounds like… it sounds like laughter
it smells like… it smells like magnolia blossom
it tastes like… it tastes like treacle tart
it feels like… it feels like cycling on a Spring day.

2. Share and Discuss
What kinds of contrasts do you see in the poems?
Do you prefer one state to the other?
How do you move between excitement and serenity in your life?

3. Writing Suggestion
Write a piece which includes your descriptions of both excitement and serenity. Focus in on the physical, mental and emotional sensations. You could try moving the writing from one state to the other, showing the transition in words.

The central figure could be you, or an invented character or creature. The writing could take the form of story, poem or prose piece.

Mermaid

mermaid swims in the quiet midnight waters
blue-purple seaweed curls round her, as she tends
the images that flow through, gleaming gold, or green
then gone, quietly, quietly, gone into
depths and peace, held by mermaid’s hands
for the necessary moment
held and known and then gone
mermaid swims, and the midnight garden
surrounds her

BAAAAAA

Damn that thing
Fingers on plastic

mermaid sinks again into the cool waters,
now warming in early sun

PURR – tickle – warm fur on her cheek
PURR – tickle – warm paws, tentative

Go away, cat

Mermaid dives down, deep as she can, into
the sea that’s drying up fast
She touches the last blue-purple flowers,
now turning brown

BAAAAA

Damn that thing
Fingers on plastic

Mermaid dives, desperate into the dying sea
PURR – tickle – warm?

Mermaid remembers Cat, warm silly creature
who can’t live in the sea
who can’t turn the tin-opener on the Whiskas tin

and she comes to land
magic-saying away her tail
trying to forget the knives

BAAAA

All right, all right
Fingers flicking switch on plastic

Out of bed MRAOWL

Need to pee – half a tick, cat

MRAOWL

So, pee and kettle on, and Whiskas
And quickly shower to wash off the waterweed
And muesli – slow sludge of milk into grain
And –

Oh my God, I’m supposed to be there
in half an hour

Hunt the keys, clothes, papers
through the kaleidoscope of flat

Bye, Cat

Slam door

RUN

Kate

Africa

“Aren’t you excited about going?” I felt around in myself – I obviously wasn’t exhibiting the right emotions. I ought to feel excited, I ought to be – what? Jumping up and down, ringing up lots of people, rushing around, organising? I was excited. I knew that. My body felt tense and alert, I often woke up in the night, bright and energised, I’d get up in the morning with a tremendous sense of expectancy. Tiredness could be brushed aside, my brain tingled into action instead of cranking slowly into gear. I wanted to get on with the day. I also wanted to be on my own. I wanted that excited feeling all to myself. I wanted to enjoy that feeling of well-being that excitement provides. In order to contain that excitement and not let it go over the edge I needed to be on my own. If I spent too much time with other people the excitement might get out of control. The sense of lightness and well-being changing; my heart pounding, throat constricting, tears welling. The excitement takes energy instead of generating it. So I practise a sense of serenity and peacefulness when I’m asked if I’m excited – I keep my voice clear and calm, my thoughts focused, my body still, but that energy, that inner energy that excitement brings is there – bubbling, waiting to explode. I can’t imagine being on that edge with serenity. It’s harder to achieve that sense, but worth the effort. It takes longer to leave; the effects of that energy providing a sense of tranquillity and harmony. I can understand why those who visit ill or elderly people are told not to “get them excited”, but I’d rather die excited than serene!

“But if I go to sleep I might miss Christmas, I might not wake up, ever, and then what would happen to my presents?”

Pippa

The vortex and the void

Excitement, spinning with its own momentum. It is a centrifuge I generate, drawing others in; or sickening them if they resist. It could go on and on, until I am sucked up through the centre of the vortex I create. It is sensation seeking, a drive to react and react, like the frantic rubbing of sticks to create sparks. It is constant change and forward motion. A physical craving, an emo¬tional craving, a mental craving.

In the centre of the whirlpool is stillness.
Beyond the chaos of life
I am
Space,
Peace, Stillness.
Beyond and within.
At the centre of the expanding universe
A fixed point
From which all is generated.
Strip away thought,
Desire, Need, Action,
And my centre is the same as the centre of all.
Is all.
Contains all.
Begins all.

If peace is at the centre,
And speed increases with movement outwards
Then the fearfulness of excitement
Is not about being flung outwards,
But about being sucked in
To the void.

Lorna

Woman at a window

Smooth, the cat’s warm fur,
She sits, thinking of nothing
but the feeling of softness.
Everywhere is quiet; the sun
fills the room with the gentle light
of early morning, the sky
pale blue. A breeze
lifts the curtain slightly
and carries in the smell
of fresh baked bread mingled
with magnolia blossom.
Outside there is movement.
Children go to school, clattering
along the pavement. Workers call
to each other. A pneumatic drill
starts to lash the air. The day
begins to heat up.
She is inclined to stay away
from the coming and going
out there, to remain stilly
holding in her energy to herself,
taking little notice of the world around,
but she wants also the taste of adventure,
the sound of many people, singing, laughing,
an orchestra playing Beethoven,
huge choral works. She craves
speed, risk, danger, running in the wind,
thunderstorms.

The Climber

The lake is very clear, very still. Above it, rises the dark sheer cliff. There is a climber inching down slowly, harnessed by ropes. Each toehold is carefully searched for, tested for safety, as she moves on.

The woman by the lake watches calmly. She trails her hand in the water and lets it trickle through her fingers. The sun warms her back. She is content.

The climber stops to mop her brow. Here the heat of the sun is more intense and, combined with the heat generated by the mingling of excitement and fear makes her sweat ‘profusely. She is halfway down the cliff face. Her companion at the top observes with care and concludes she has stopped for a rest. There is nothing wrong.

(unfinished)
Jane

Detail in the Pattern

Today will be the day. I feel it deep inside me. Every sense is sharp as a knife – so tense with the readiness to be used that the steel blade seems to vibrate in expectation. It is ready to be used. It is perfectly ready.

I see everything in four dimensions. The light refracts through the drops of morning dew that hang glistening on my lines. My multi-faceted eyes take in every shifting shade of the nine colours of the rainbow. The softest of breezes turns my world into a shimmering fantasy of colour.

I am aware. So aware. I breathe quickly, taking in air through every pore.

And there! It happens! The lurching, sickening impact. The shattering of light into a thousand screaming pieces. I spring. I dart. I parry and thrust. No time to think beyond this moment… Strategy, structure, action. The frenzied vibrations of his struggle reach me clearly, each nuance of his movement as sharply defined to me as the light. A wave of something deeper washes over me – could this be what he is feeling? Fear panic scream silent horror. I brush it aside. I spring I dart. I parry. I thrust.

And it is done. He moves feebly yet, but will not now escape. He is wrapped tight. I kiss him once, and he is still. And I drink deep. Deep and long. Deep and full. And there is nothing else till I am done.

Now I am at peace. Hungry no longer, I rest. The world is quiet now, softer at the edges. I await no signal, look for no promise in the colours and the light. I let them be. They are. I am.

Later, there will be work to do. The web must be repaired. The dead and the debris cut free and set adrift.

Later, I will hunger, and know the exquisite pain of readiness once more.

For now, I am still.

A. B.

INDEPENDENCE AND INTIMACY

1. Warm-up Exercise
Round poem: For this exercise each member of the group starts off a poem by writing one line. The lines are then passed around, each person adding one more line before passing to the next. Finally, when the poems are back to where they started, each member can add the final line to the poem they began.
Start two verses on each page – ‘Being independent means…’ and ‘Being intimate means…’
As the poems are passed around, develop what has been raised in the first lines.

2. Share and Discuss
What are the attractions of each state?
Do you have any fears or worries about either independence or intimacy?

3. Writing Suggestion
Write a dialogue between the independence seeker and the intimacy seeker. The characters don’t have to be real or human – use whatever or whoever comes to mind. The characters could be in some kind of situation or relationship, or the piece could take the form of two speeches, songs or poems, in praise of independence and intimacy.

Insect

“I want to be intimate with you” said the insect, lightly brushing my skin with its pale, feathery antennae. I wondered what it meant. Did it want to crawl over my skin, suck my blood? Maybe it just wanted to talk to me, to tell me its secrets. Ugh. I shuddered, I couldn’t help it. Surprisingly, it was the thought of what kind of secrets it might have that made my shoulders quiver involuntarily.

“I don’t want to suck your blood or anything, if that’s what you think”. It gave me a reassuring glance, and I noticed that its eyes looked almost human. That didn’t make me feel any more comfortable with it though. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I looked away quickly, hoping I wouldn’t have to meet its gaze again. I couldn’t think of anything to say. The insect lifted one of its fragile forelimbs and made as if to touch my arm.

“Don’t” I couldn’t help myself. I jumped away from it, and then I had to look at it, and I could see by the way it was hanging its head that it was hurt.

“You seem to find me repulsive” it said, sadly, softly, warmly.

“No, no, it’s not that. You’re O.K. , honestly. It’s just that when you say ‘intimate’, I’m not sure what you mean”.

Was I lying? Well, maybe. If I looked at the insect, really looked at it, well, I suppose all insects are beautiful when you really look at them, or if you see pictures of them in a book or something. Especially when the artist has made a big deal of their colours and suchlike. But that’s just it, when it’s a picture, you can look and look; but this insect was sitting right beside me, and I really couldn’t bring myself to fix my gaze on it for long enough to appreciate its beauty. Even though I thought I ought to. I thought it would be better – better than looking away all the time.

“Come on, you know, intimacy” said the insect. “That thing that everybody wants, and everybody needs. I want to love you. And I want you to love me too”.

It spread its wings. I could look at these, as long as I didn’t let my gaze wander to its face and body. They were beautiful. Almost breathtaking. A double set, long and rounded at the ends, like a dragonfly’s. They were veined in pale green, a delicate, intricate pattern, shimmering in the light.

“Don’t say that” I said, “It scares me”.

“What are you afraid of?” asked the insect, in its gentle, velvety whisper”. Is it loving or being loved?”

I shuffled around nervously, not knowing where to look. We were sitting on a grassy bank. There was a clump of clover in front of me.

“Perhaps you’re afraid of losing your independence” said the creature, softly.

“Perhaps you’re right”. This time I didn’t flinch as he patted my forearm lightly with his antennae. A soft caress which could be so pleasant, if only. If only what? I don’t know.

“Well look at me, look at my wings. I can fly, I do fly, all the time. I’d never let anything stop me from flying, and so the last thing I’d want to do is hold you down”.

I shook my head. “I can’t fly anyway” I said reproachfully.

“But of course you can. How would you get home otherwise?” I looked up into the beech tree. There was my home, up in the branches. It was true. Of course I could fly. How could I have forgotten.

“You’re just like me.” said the insect. That was what I couldn’t bear. I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to hear. I spread my wings and flew away, leaving him crawling in circles, calling up after me “What did I say wrong?”

Lorna

A Dialogue

INDEPENDENCE: Yippee, door’s open, off I go, bright, hot, wild…

INTIMACY: NEED, need, need, need, need

INDEPENDENCE: Oh yuck, not her again.

INTIMACY: NEED, need, need, need

INDEPENDENCE: Look, you, you’ve got to cut the apron strings and stand on your own two feet.

INTIMACY: NEEED, NEEED

INDEPENDENCE: I’ve had enough of this. I’m off. (slams door) Wow, yeah, great, wonderful, I’m free, world’s my oyster, bet I can slay 37 dragons before breakfast, here I go! Oh look – over there – a great big juicy red dragon. Powee – zingo! Take that (BASH) and that (BASH) you foul fiend. Gotcha!

One down, 36 to go – and where’re my feet? I can’t see them! It’s her fault – that whingey one back home. She’s put a spell on me.

I’ll show her! Spell won’t stop me.

Hey, a giant – hello there, ol’ giant, you wanna be dead? No? That’s too bad – ZAP. World’s now got one less giant in it, folks.

My body’s got holes in it – I can see right through.

Oh look – a cliff, 3 miles high at least – what’s that sign say? Treasure – and it points straight up. Here we go, folks. I can do anything!

Foot in that crevasse, catch hold of that branch and boy, oh boy I’m a long way up.

World looks a bit strange from here – it’s all going grey. It’s cold.

Never mind, bit of brisk exercise – what – that stone – it’s come loose – oh no!

INTIMACY: Mmmm (hums to tune of “All Through the Night”)

INDEPENDENCE: Where am I?

INTIMACY: You’re home.

INDEPENDENCE: What happened?

INTIMACY: I caught you as you fell from the cliff and took you home.

INDEPENDENCE: Why did you do that?

INTIMACY: Because you need me.

INDEPENDENCE: Well, yeah, I’m glad you saved my life and all that, but all you’ve ever done to me is whinge about your need. And it’s all your fault anyway – you made my feet disappear and my body fill with holes and the world go grey and cold – and look, you’re doing it again. I’m disappearing.

INTIMACY: You need me. As you push me away you fade.

INDEPENDENCE: What do I need from you? All you ever do is try to tie me down.

INTIMACY: I’m your colour and your life.

INDEPENDENCE: But you keep whinging about needing me.

INTIMACY: I need you with me in order that we can both be born into the world. Without you, I’m a baby, howling unfed. With you, I’m a woman, powerful and certain of her way.

Can we both go through that door together?

INDEPENDENCE: Okay.

Kate

Independence : the lone lion

I am the lone lion.
I do not hunt with the pack.
I live the hard, solitary life,
but I can keep my kill for myself alone.

In the long dark nights
I lie in my lair
turning my eyes to the moon.

Sometimes my roar is heard
far, far away
as I prowl the vast plains.

I do not care for the company of others
for the fighting for status,
the sly manoeuvring.

And I do not want a mate,
who will leave me with cubs to feed
when I’m too weak to hunt
and food is scarce.

Intimacy : the hump-backed whale

I am the joyful whale,
turning my tail in the air
as I dive positively back into the sea,
my mouth full of herring.

My sisters and brothers fish with me.
we are bound together by our needs.
We sense with perfect accuracy
the precise moment to release
our net of bubbles in unison
and surround our catch.

Our collective leap,
mouths open to consume
the wretched fish,
is a jump of delight
in the wonderful
possibilities of such
perfect communication.

And afterwards,
under the waves,
we sing.
Water is resonant
with sounds of love,
celebrations of synchrony.

The lone lion : II

But sometimes I am hungry
and unable to find what I need –
an animal which can be killed
by one lion alone
and then I fear the time
when I can no longer continue
to live this way
and must join the pack or die,
my strength insufficient
to survive alone,
because I know that then
it may be too late.
I will have nothing to contribute
and be unable to fight for my place.
That is why lone lions die young.

The hump-backed whale : II

I pity the lion –
her life so full of desperation.
The lion is swift but I can move
great distances around the earth
to where food is plentiful
and I can exist on my vast reserves
for long periods of time
without becoming weak,
so I can give birth in the warm
tropical seas, no need for food,
keeping my young close
until it is time to spend the summer
feeding in the sharp arctic seas
and all the time I have around me
others of my kind who live my life with me.
We swim down deep and dance together
and when we surface we also look at the moon
but most of all we like to emerge into the sun
before plunging back into the deep darkness.
Our voices join and alternate.
We have nothing to fear.
We are in harmony.

OPEN AND CLOSED

1. Warm-up Exercise
a) Going around the room, make a group list of things which can be both open and closed, e. g. door, eyes, etc. (we named 21)
b) Under the headings; ‘when I’m open’, and ‘when I’m closed’ jot down whatever comes to mind.

2. Share and Discuss
Talk about how you behave when you’re open and when you’re closed. What differences come up?
Does one state feel more positive or negative than the other?

3. Writing Suggestion
Choose one (or more) of the things named in the opening exercise, and use this as a metaphor to explore the qualities of open and closed. You could try describing yourself as if you were a flower, for example, or simply write about the flower and see how it develops.

Dentist

“Open wide, say ‘Aah’ “. Mouth cranked open by deft, cold fingers.

Shiny, chrome instruments are introduced. Throat starts to feel dry from the contact with so much air.

The dentist’s breath breezes past my stretched lips. The whining needle is on my tooth. Jaws aching, small stabs of fear as the drill comes close to nerves. Eyes open wide with silent pleading – “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, please, please don’t hurt me ! ”

Difficult to breathe, can’t swallow. Guts clenching; fingernails jammed into my palms; toes curling over in my shoes; compensating for the vulnerable, gaping mouth; and in my head, a silent scream that cannot come past my stricken throat.

Open Up

Open up! Open your door – let me in. Don’t shut me out. Listen to my words and respond. See me, experience me, feel me. Let my fingers probe your flesh and pry you open like a mussel shell.

Tell me your thoughts, all of them, even the darkest. Keep no secrets from me, yield them under my interrogation.

Open your eyes, gaze on me that I may witness each emotion appear in your face. I want to see you vulnerable. Open your arms, do not cross them over your chest, hiding your heart from me. Deny me neither your warmth nor your tears. I want to hear your laughter, your sobbing, your cries.

Allowed in, I mellow, my grip relaxes. Warmed, I unwind and gaze less intently. Content to let you decide what to share and what to keep to yourself.

Denied access, I rage and beat my fists upon your door until they bruise. I feel myself grow cold and hard. You will hear me. You will see me. You will not ignore me. My shouts echo in your ears. I turn your face viciously towards mine so that my hot tears may fall on it and burn your skin. My fingers, like bayonets, claw at you. Give me what I crave or I will rip it from you in a welter of blood – your guarded heart, kept sealed away – pulsing at last within my clenched fist.

Blissful Sleep

Curled up snug and warm,
Tucked in all cozy.
Light out, curtains drawn, door shut.
My senses slowly turn inward,
As I drift towards the cities of my dreams;
And I prepare to meet myself
In a hundred different guises.
Old memories unearthed in the archaeology of sleeping.
My history parades through with its attendant emotions.
Conflicts resolve themselves on timeless battlefields.

This nightly journey into the inner universe
Is an inexorable healing.
My body rests and renews herself cell by cell.
My brain sifts through the debris of the day.
Nocturnal restoration.
Little hibernation as vital as breathing.
Blissful, blissful sleep.

Maria

Heart

I’m Kate’s heart, and I live in a steely-banded chest, lots of locks and chains round me.

Kate doesn’t know about the locks and chains. Kate thinks she’s being open when she drags a chunk of me, bleeding, to the surface through the iron bars and squeezes out of me a few woes to be gobbled by open ears – or she plays her determined tunes of ‘listening skills’ for the ears. Or she freezes me, so that she can be an ear, handing out snowflake chips of pity.

Poor Kate, she tries very hard.

She’s been to seventy-three different counselling skills classes, trying to pull me into shape, trying to make me warm and open. She’s furious with me when I shiver and dive out of her reach.

I wish she could see where I live – my steel chest is full of doors that I can choose to open. Sometimes I stray out, in the bright spring and touch, very gently, the baby leaves just unfolding and hear the blue sky singing. But I usually meet Kate, clodhopping over the hills, determined to Enjoy Nature – so I disappear before she sees me.

Sometimes I allow Kate’s cat to see me – we cuddle each other, and purr together, and I call her silly when she chases her tail in the bathtub. Then Kate remembers that she’s still not taken that cat to the vet to get her shots, and I close my doors again.

Or sometimes it’s Kate’s friends. I once dove off a very high cliff to be with one who was in distress – came right out of my box. But the friend fell in love with me, and I got scared – and silly Kate thought “right, I must love this person back”.

Sometimes it’s Kate’s books. She’s got an amazing collection of incredibly boring books around, but there are one or two which are alive, and I can dance in their pages. But then Kate remembers that she’s got far too much work to do, and out comes a dry and dusty one again.

Kate’s students and I sometimes have a laugh when she’s busy writing on the board. But then she worries about ‘covering the syllabus’, and I reluctantly say goodbye.

And I do like going down the pub with Kate’s mates. Put a bit of alcohol in Kate, and she’s woozy enough to give me my own way for a while.

And sometimes I get into Kate’s cupboard of wool and odd bits – and hypnotise her long enough to create woolly flying creatures, that swing in the wind.

Even the work she moans about can open my doors – I occasionally seduce her from the endless round of ‘things that ought to be done’ into chasing strange and wonderful ideas and magic worlds.

But what to do with that Kate? Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, she’s still enough to listen to me, to let me open my doors to her. But she finds it so hard to believe that I’m there – she’s just like a hedgehog – touch her, and she’s a prickly ball. Or else she thinks, if she hears me, that she’s having a religious experience, that her world view really can’t wrap itself around, so she retreats in confusion.

But sometimes now, she sees with my eyes and lets go of her pretendings, her shoulds and musts and oughts. Sometimes she sees me, not as this small bloody muscle, but as the strong bright tree which I am becoming. Someday she’ll climb into my branches and sing with the wind and stars.

Kate

Mindscapes

Here is a closed mind.
It is an arid landscape
of man-made constructions.
It does not flow.
It contains no soft surfaces.
Hard edges define differences.
There is no blending.
The colours are greys.
There is no light and dark.
Flatness pervades.
From one level to another
you move stepwise on
flat surfaces.
There are no slopes.
Nothing changes,
unless abruptly,
when a building is demolished
and another is constructed in its place
of the same materials and design,
although here and there edges are crumbling
a little.

This place was built with the intention
of surviving as long as its maker.
It must not decay and therefore
it is made of materials that resist erosion
and adhere well to each other.
There is as little likelihood of degeneration
as the maker can achieve.

Inside this closed mind
I wander, lonely,
searching for some other creature
that lives and grows
like myself,
but there is no-one here.
No birds fly. The air is silent,
except for the hum of the machinery
that holds everything in its place.
All the energy of this world
is centred in that.
This is why there is no sunlight,
no moonlight. All that energy
is absorbed into the central machine
and there is nothing left to give light
and warmth. So no plants can grow.
Green is absent from this world.

Why do I wander here where there is no life?
Any time I can step off this flat world
and find myself somewhere more open
because it is bounded but not binding.
There is no gravity to hold me here.
Its very flatness ensures that.

I take one step and am here
in the open landscape of the mind.
The horizon curves. I am in a boat
on the huge ocean. Waves carry me
along. Clouds move across the sun
and then it reappears. There is a sudden
shower of rain. I can see in the distance
mountains on a green island.
Here green and blue do exist.
This world is produced by great forces
which are both inside and outside it
and it changes slowly, except for occasional
sudden crises, like earthquakes and
the eruptions of volcanoes.
This world grows from one state to another
transforming its substance as it does so.
It takes in the sun’s energy and uses it.
It receives warmth and light
and at night it rests and enjoys the thick dark.

The sounds of this world are animal sounds.
Its smells are musk and flower scents.
In every part of it creatures live,
finding spaces for themselves.
Nothing here has hard edges.
Where one thing begins and another ends
may be uncertain, as with the sea and the shore
and mountains and rivers.

So even the birds’ nests blend into the trees
and a cave may be a home one minute
and then a mere cavity again.
And the creatures find each other
and touch, mate, fight, huddle together
for warmth, care for young and old,
make their lives together.
They have grown from their beginnings
in order to live in this world
and so they are fitted
to live well here, creating their own beauty,
each in its own way. And, because
of the way they have developed together
in this world, as it grew,
they are able to coexist in reasonable harmony,
even when sometimes their interests are in conflict.

This is a good place to be,
whether it is night or day
and no-one would ever want to move
back to the flat closed world who had
lived here long enough
to draw a few breaths
of the remarkably clear air.

Jane

Small Stories of Absolute Certainty

The Clam: I am open. I need to be open, you see, to survive. I take in nourishment from the ebb and flow of the salty world around me. No, it isn’t always safe. Open, I am soft and vulnerable. But there’s no life without risk… and I can always snap shut in danger. Hard and tight so no-one gets in.

The Sea Anemone: I am open. I reach out, seeking contact, sensitive to the smallest vibrations in the water around me. Open, I am exquisitely dangerous. Dangerously exquisite. Oh yes I am. I sting and swallow when least suspected!

Closed, I am harmless. A soft silly lump on the bed of the sea.

The Coral: I’m always open. Always always always. But I am always safe (too hard to hurt, you know). I will be open long after I am dead, until I crumble away to nothing.

The Sea Urchin: I am never open. I am always safe.

Most of the time, I haven’t a clue what’s going on.

Trial by Error

The first time I opened my legs, I got bruised. It didn’t stop me opening them again – too soon, too often, too carelessly. But I closed my mind.

I closed my mind to the possibility that I would ever be anything but bruised by sex. I closed my body, too. Shut down my senses and felt nothing.

And still I opened my legs.

Some men were kind, even respectful. Too late. By now I was bruising – abusing – myself. Saying yes. Silently, screaming No!

I have opened my legs, but I will never let you in.
You can take me, but you can never have me.
Making love, I hate you.

It has taken a lot of undoing. I still get stuck sometimes. But mostly, now, I open my mind, my heart and my whole body – before I open my legs.

Or else I keep them shut.

A.B.

Open and Closed

Knock at the door.
Who’s there?
Go away
I can’t even open it today.
My mind is dragged down with debris
Heavy with horrible imagining.

Knock at the door.
Who’s there?
Go away
I can’t even open it today.
My heart fluttering full of fears
Nervously gnawing at my confidence.

Knock at the door.
Who’s there?
Go away
I can’t even open it today.
My hands clenched tightly together
Muscles aching from keeping so much in.

If you could open me up and see inside, there’d be days when all you’d see is a deep, dark pit. But on other days you’d find glossy flowers and sweet scents. On those days the air is light and bright and sunny, charged with zappy waves of energy, an abundance of good feeling exuberantly dancing around me. Those are great days. On those days my mind is starry clear and receptive, aware and open. My body feels light and airy, the shops have what I want in stock and I know I’ll get a seat in the pub. And even if I didn’t it wouldn’t matter. I’d hug my friends and relish the warmth returned. Confidences would be exchanged and those worries that have been hanging around for days would be dispelled by sharing. At the close of the day I’d be in my bed tired and replete, my body relaxed and warm, my mind slowly winding down, my hands outstretched, enjoying the soft, old feel of the sheets as I easily drift into a peaceful sleep.

Pippa

Saturday Night

When I first saw her she was wearing bright colours and smiling
She bought a round of drinks and chatted
Everyone’s open on a Saturday night.

She smiled and nodded and gestured with open hands
But was betrayed by a look in her open eyes which said
I just want to be left alone.

As she thought it she shuffled
She looked at her watch
And smiled and shuffled
And smiled

She was receding drawn to safer darker places
She fought but soon would disappear
She fought trying hard to convince.

Clumsy uncomfortable self conscious
If only she’d been born with a reversible
Open Closed sign hanging around her neck.

When I saw her later
There was only a brightly
Coloured shimmering shadow
Curled in a corner on a chair.

Daffodils

I’m open I’m here it’s me hello
I’ll be friendly I’ll smile,
I’ve been born with the face of a daffodil.
I’ll bloom in the sun and good company
I’ll dance I’ll sing I’ll hum
I’m alive I’m free.
I’ll walk along the beach
Listen to the sea
Smile at children with ice cream faces
And candy floss fingers
I’ll skip, my feet charged.
I wish I could
Soar over horizons
Ride with the wind
And helter skelter on passing draughts
All day in the sun
Until it sets.
Then I will float to the ground.
My fingers will fold around my hands
My eye lids will hug my eyes
And my mouth will hold in my words
My layers will close
Until tomorrow.

Sarah

Open, closed

When I’m open I’m vulnerable,
I’m ready to make new friends,
Ready to explore new experiences,
Willing to accept criticism,
Willing to accept praise.
When I’m closed,
I’m protected,
I spend time alone,
I don’t listen, I withdraw into myself.
I don’t hear when I’m being spoken to.

Springtime

I wake up,
I open my eyes,
I cast off the covers,
I open the curtains,
I let in the light,
I open the windows,
I let in the air,
I open the box of breakfast cereal,
I feed myself,
I open my diary,
I attend to things,
I open my arms,
I embrace,
I open the door,
I go out.

I give myself to the world,
The world gives itself to me,
I’m open to excitement,
I’m open to love,
I cheer for every fresh green shoot I see,
Applaud each leaf unfurling,
The flowers come,
The world blooms.

Summer

My eyes are open,
I blink in bright sunlight.
I am unclothed, I have thrown off all protection.
I have let in the light,
And I have been dazzled,
And I have been awed,
And shocked and dazed and horrified by what I’ve seen.
I am in the air.
My feet no longer know where safe ground is.
I float.
Not sure where I should be,
I float.
I’ve stuffed myself.
I am full,
My life is too full.
I run away.
My arms are open because there is no room for them to close.
I’m carrying too much.
Someone I embraced will not step back.
My arms are open.
I am out.

The world has taken me.
My eyes are open.
The bright summer sun makes me blink.
Forces me to frown and squint.
The green things have all thrived,
Now they are battling it out amongst themselves.
There is not room for everything to grow as much as it could,
Or wants to.

Autumn

I am tired now.
My eyelids grow heavy.
I’m glad of shorter days,
of a softer light,
a softer perspective.
I like to see the trees shed their leaves.
I like to watch the leaves fall to the ground.
They will decay now,
the worms will do their work.
There will be nourishment in the future.
It is time to bring a new order.
Gather in stores,
close the doors.
The windows can’t be left open wide anymore.
I want warmth.
I seek warmth.

I become happier in my own company.
I watch the world.
I watch it spinning.
It spins slowly enough for me to catch what I need before it goes by.

Winter

I am afraid of the dark.
I close my eyes.
The world is dark now.
It’s a dark place.
I close the curtains to shut out the darkness.
I don’t like to see that black which could be hiding anything.
I close the windows to keep out the cold.
I feed on myself now.
I turn in upon myself.
I curl up.
Caught in the act of chasing my tail.
Curled up, I embrace myself.
The world does not give me what I crave.
I cannot ask.
I forget how to seek.
Everything is bare.
The year will turn upon its pivot.
Soon I will be able to look forward to the spring,
But not yet.
Grief will visit first.

Springtime
I wake up.

Why I sometimes shut my ears

Sometimes I spend time with other people, because I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. But me and my thoughts, deprived of time alone together tend to start getting intimate in company, and ignoring everyone else. No wonder they get pissed off.

Lorna

SHAME AND PRIDE

1. Warm-up Exercise
Under two headings, take a few minutes to write down the feelings and experiences that come to mind when you think about shame and pride.

2. Share and Discuss
Is your experience of shame and pride affected by your upbringing?
Do these feelings influence your lives and your relationships?

3. Writing Suggestion
Using any of the suggestions from previous workshops, write a piece of prose or poetry exploring shame and pride. Using a fairy story can be a powerful way of exploring these issues, at the same time as giving you plenty of freedom.

The Proud Princess

Once upon a time a long time ago, there lived a princess, who had all the standard princess-type characteristics – the thirty seven fairy godmothers, the mega-amazing beauty, the charm, the beauteous etc, etc.

One thing she didn’t have, was the Doom. I mean, most self-respecting princesses are under some spell or other – how else would they find suitable husbands? The Wicked Witch had been feeling more than usually subversive and devious that year and had been reading Spare Rib (added zing to her toad-transforming spells). So, she’d turned up at the christening and said “I give you Pride.” Everyone said that didn’t count as a Spell of Doom and talked about suing her – after all, how else would the princess find a suitable husband? The Wicked Witch was adamant.

So, the princess grew up, beauteous, charming and thoroughly etc, etc. And Proud.

The first inkling the king and queen had of the Pride was when she insisted on running about in the Royal front garden with nothing on in the summer.

“What will the Neighbours think?” said the Queen, shrivelling a bright shade of pink.

“I’m beautiful”, said the Princess, puzzled. “And it’s hot out”. Eventually she was bribed into wearing clothes but she remained very puzzled. She was starting to realise that the adult world was rather odd.

Then there was the peeing in the Royal Banquet Hall. “Oh look” said the princess. “It’s beautiful and golden and makes the floor shine like jewels. It’s wasted in the toilet.” The Queen shrivelled even brighter shades of pink and managed to convince the Princess that the town sewage system would feel deprived without her royal donation. The Princess was baffled as to why the sewage system was more important than her father’s guests, but, being etc, etc as well as Proud, she complied.

And next there was the Event, which is here recorded for the very first time in a fairytale. It didn’t happen to proper, humble princesses (goodness knows how the next generation of proper, humble princesses arrived on the scene without, but never mind). The Princess started having periods. Beautiful, red, bloody ones. She thought it was wonderful and painted a mural in blood on the throne room wall. This time the King shrivelled as well and decreed that this was enough, that the Princess was ordered to feel ashamed. Unfortunately, the Princess had also had enough – the adult world was just too peculiar and she wasn’t having it. The King had no recourse but to lock the Princess in the tower.

At this point, everyone breathed a sigh of relief, said “her Doom has struck” and began to wait happily for the suitable husband to come to rescue her. They’d reckoned without her Pride. No way was the Princess submitting to this nonsense. She pulled the bars out of the window, climbed down the tower and over the garden fence and went in search of the Wicked Witch.

The Wicked Witch who had of course been lying in wait for just such an event, welcomed her with open arms and proclaimed that she had become a new type of creature, hitherto unknown in fairytales, called a Strong Woman. The Wicked Witch explained to her that the Strong Woman would be seen to be one of the most dangerous creatures in the kingdom, much more dangerous than a mere fire-breathing dragon and hence that she needed to be armed….

Well, to cut a long story short, by the time the Princess was sixteen she was the terror of the kingdom. Young girls were to be seen naked in the streets, admiring their bodies. The town sewage system languished (or at least it did till the Princess realized there might be other reasons for using it). Rich, red blood decorated every wall. Girls began to explore the wonderful, magical feelings rising up in their bodies – occasionally allowing boys to join in. The Social Structure shrivelled and turned bright red and eventually rotted away completely.

And now? Well, after much experimenting around, the Princess (who’s now in her mid-30’s) has decided it’s time to have a monogamous relationship with the Wicked Witch. For a while. While they bring up the kids, anyway.

Kate

Shame

Mother says “You’re a good girl, a wonderful daughter”. She’s proud of me, she has my photographs lined up on her mantle shelf. Portraits of me framed and on her walls. There are even more images of me in her room than images of Christ.

Friends tell me that my mother will talk to them interminably about how well I’m doing in my job; how I’ve created a lovely home; how I have lots of friends and go on interesting holidays.

My mother tells stories. Half-truths, she re-invents reality. She reduces me to a shining, glowing, good girl – a cardboard cut-out with no more depth than those smiling photos on the mantlepiece.

She turns her face away from her other daughter. The one that scares her rigid, the one she despises and does not understand. The Bad Girl, the Wild Girl, the Slut, the Rebel, the dirty, disrespectful, angry, uncontrollable, bad, bad, bad, daughter. The one who’s been shut out for years. The dark daughter who will be heard; who will get attention, and whose behaviour grows ever wilder till she does get it.

This daughter speaks in harsh tones, she swears and curses and spits on the ground. Hear her cries in the jangling chords of violent music turned up to ear-splitting level; the screech of car brakes and wailing sirens. Dressed in black and made-up extravagantly, she stays out all night, experiments with drugs and sleeps around. She has grown hard and brittle, unable to inspire love, she wants to provoke fear and loathing. Her pride feeds on shocked faces and the indignant mutterings of horrified citizens.

One day, Mother turned her face towards me and took a long, hard look at her dark daughter – this monster she had spawned. She cried, she ranted, her face contorted; she fought and struggled, but it was too late – she had acknowledged the daughter that for three decades she pretended did not exist.

The Wild Girl was strangely peaceful. She maintained a respectful silence whilst her mother wept and twisted on the sofa. When the sobbing had subsided, I went over and picked up my mother’s hands and said, “Look at me”, and when she did, I said, “I love you”.

Maria

Shame

“You worm!” screamed the witch, brandishing her bangles. Their deadly rattle rang in my ears. She extended the smallest finger of her huge right hand towards me, and in an instant I found my whole body diminished to the size of that one finger. I was powerless, my limbs shrivelled to nothing. I was writhing on the ground at her feet. She could stamp on me, crushing me to nothing but a puddle of slime at any moment. I squirmed in terror, feeling horror throughout this hideous naked slimy twisting body which had become myself.

Way up ahead her eyes bulged huge, a maniac’s glare filled with contempt and disgust, and evil intent. An ugly sneer dragged her features askance on her looming face.

“You snivelling little git. Lick up this mess this instant.” She gestured at the slimy deposits which had been splattered about me as my real body had exploded away. “You made this fucking mess. It’s all down to your deceit, your greed; don’t expect me to clean up after you. Now lick it up before I grind your pathetic little head to a pulp.” I wriggled frantically, coiling inside and out of my tiny spineless body as she stretched out her immense foot. A flash of purple from the varicose veins in her ankle, and it was over me, giving mighty weight to the threats she spat at me.

I was utterly, utterly at her mercy. I had no means to defend myself, and no-one to defend me (There were those who would have beaten her aside, snatched me up and restored me to myself in seconds, but they had been long since banished from her dark domain. There was one whose duty had been to protect me, but he wandered the kingdom in a trance, blinded and useless). Soon, perhaps, she would restore me, but not out of mercy, no. Only to preserve for her the sensations of her power. She could use it whenever she chose.

Some around us glimpsed a little of what lay between us, but the true horror was well concealed from them. How could I ever reveal what I underwent, when to speak would be to relive. To recall would be to feel the shame, the shame, the awful ugly diminishing contemptible shame. She was well armed and wielded her weapons with skill, and the cunning by which she concealed them was remark-able. I was a prisoner in the shapes and forms of her incantations. I could only cling desperately to the stained and shrivelled remnants of myself, preserved precari¬ously by another’s magic stronger than her own, in the hope that one day I would escape and make repair.

Pride

There was a courtier once, who stormed out of the witche’s domain, unable to live with the atrocities he only caught a whiff of. Later, much later, he told me that he taunted her with the accusation that I possessed more power in my little finger than she did in the whole of the her body. It seemed the other way, but now I know that he must have been right. Now, through the reversed telescope of years I see behind what then seemed only senseless raging evil in her eyes, like huge grey pebbles under water, a cold and squirming fear.

I escaped long ago and discovered in the world outside her dominion a place where no power now will ever control me as hers did. I walk free through wonders I dimly dreamed of, marvelling now and then when I remember how it was to be without them. Around me as I walk grow towering trees. They spread their branches over my head, full of love and benevolence. Their limbs extending above and above me, in a pattern of endless giving.

My body is my own. It is full of life and strength. I hold my head high, poised, full of wisdom bought early at great cost. Around my shoulders is the enchanted cape the magic women weaved for me. I delight in the majestic swish, glittering through the night air as I fling it about myself. The ground loves my feet. It kisses my toes lightly into the air with each tread. I can run like a winged angel on the green slopes which glow in the moonlight. I can walk sure footed over ground racked with earthquakes. I can extend my arms like the trees, I can embrace the world. I skip toward a towering beech, leap forwards and catch the earth in my hands. My body is graceful and strong, even upside down. I discover with amazement that I don’t need to feel the tree trunk with my heels to balance. I can stand on my hands and wave my feet in the air.

I am remarkable.

I am proud.

Lorna

Fallout

Shame descends.
Shame is falling.
Shame is a grey dust falling.
Invisible, it contaminates everything.
It brings death;
Death to the soul.
The heart will die.
First the heart dies, then the soul.
There is nothing left.
The body is shrouded in a grey veil.

Who put this shroud around this body? I ask, as I stand beside it, a proud sentinel. There is a tiny noise. A small grey creature squirms out of the thawing mud. Everywhere I can see more of these limbless creatures emerging from the mud flats. They are the aftermath of the explosion. The desolate landscape with its twisted, broken trees and withered grass contains no other life.

Who did this? I ask again, knowing that there is no-one to ask. The limbless creatures are silent. They have no voice, can scarcely move. Their t existence is minimal. They have no hope of a bright life like the ones who came before them, now all dead, contaminated by the fallout.

But inside me there is a voice that answers: You did this. You neglected to take proper care of those you were responsible for. You put yourt own desires first. You satisfied your lust without thought of the consequences. You caused the chaos. You are bad. You are evil. You are low, like these worms. You should be down there, wriggling in the mud with them, not standing up tall here with your head in the air.

I begin to shrivel. I see the mud grow closer. In a moment I shall be down there like them, squirming, drowning, suffocating. Help me, I cry, knowing again that there is no-one to answer.

This time there is no inner voice. My face is down in the mud. In front of me two eyes stare into mine. It is one of the creatures but these eyes are strangely human. I stop struggling to think about this. It speaks to me: So you are down there now as well, it says, casually, as if that were quite normal. I didn’t think you had voices, I say, surprised to find I still have one. That’s because you don’t listen, it says, fixing a bright eye on me. You have never listened to me. You are too busy trying to stay up there and avoid getting down among us.

I am too astonished to answer. The experience is so different from what I expected. Instead of mindless, voiceless, ugly creatures, I see I am surrounded by a lively, chattering group of people like myself. They have lifted me up out of the mud. Although we are all pretty covered with it, no-one seems to care and indeed it is quite warm and comfortable. I think of the stories of the healthy effects of mud baths and face packs and so on and smile to myself. There is a round of applause. She’ll do alright, says the first creature to speak. She’s one of us now.

The sun is bright. We lie basking until the mud is baked in a stiff coat all over our naked bodies and then dash, shrieking into the sea, rolling in the waves until we are washed clean. The sun is bright and we are proud. We do not hide our bodies from ourselves or from each other. On the shore lie the cast off, grey shrouds of our former lives, that encased us and prevented movement. Now we are free to run, swim, jump, fly. Any element is open to us. We look back to where we were and grieve together for that past of restrictions but we do not let it hold us back, now that we have seen it for what it is.

Jane

Postscript: The Reading

The little girl was six or seven years old. Curly blonde hair, blue eyes. Wearing a crocheted dress made of soft pink wool. And she stood up in front of the whole school at Assembly to read her poem.

Way up high
In the sky
The airplane dips and soars
Like a bird
Have you heard
The motor as it roars?

She wasn’t the least bit nervous. Her voice piped out clear and strong over the assembled school. And when the applause came, it was thunderous! She accepted this as her due, and beamed from ear to ear as she marched back to sit cross-legged on the gymnasium floor.

She had read her poem to everyone because it was good. It rhymed, and the words made a nice pattern. It was right that everyone else should hear it.

That’s why she’d asked to be allowed to read it in the first place.

The woman was 29 years old. Short blonde hair, blue eyes, serious eyebrows. She wore black, slack and loose and comfortable. And unrevealing.

She sat in the writing group and read her story to the other women. Her mouth was dry; her voice shook. Every now and then her tongue twisted the words she’d written as if to disguise their true meaning.

When the applause came it was quiet. Gentle and appreciative. She bobbed her head at the acknowledgements she heard and bit back the disclaimer “It’s not very good, really”.

But somewhere, deep within her, she beamed from ear to ear. It was a good story. It was right that everyone else should hear it.

That’s why she’d asked to be allowed to read it in the first place.

A.B.