|'Little Girl Lost' (pen and wash|
drawing on calico)
I cannot believe it has been over eight months since I posted on this Blog. So much has happened to ‘Wild Somerset Child’ since then, when I wrote - in April 2014 - of re-charging the batteries. I’m now but a glimmer of my former self; the batteries have run down. The lights have gone out and in a way I am a young child again, observing in retrospect the theatricality of the fairy (Tinkerbell) dying in a performance of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.
2. Re-energising my spirit is very much needed. So if you, too, believe in the metaphorical and ever in your childhood clapped your hands at the behest of Peter to keep Tinkerbell alive, please do so for me. There’s no need to actually CLAP; just healing thoughts through cyberspace will, I am sure, be sufficient.
|Sheena's 'Wild Thing' - such a lovely gift|
I’ve been posting on Facebook over these missing months but, for some reason, have lost the ability to write my former ‘stories’, particularly on this, the most personal of my blogs. Could only dip in and out in paragraph-style about my cancer, and RQ dying. I might not have been blogging even now had it not been for a dear Facebook friend from the west coast of Canada, Shena Meadowcroft, who sent me the most beautiful gift (pictured right).
She wrote: “Wild Spirit … Dancing. Too ill to work … to tired to write, or paint, I returned to my one constant throughout the years …. fabric art. As the figures began to emerge, each and everyone of them was dancing. Caught up in this dance was the spirit of friends and strangers alike.” Sheena continued that everything to make her figures was either recycled or donated, coming together in a spirit of healing. For “Inside each and every one of us, there is still a Wild Spirit … dancing”.
Warm hugs through cyberspace, arriving at a time when I was at my lowest ebb. So out came the images of my own dancing girls … my ‘little people’, even ‘little witch’ (left) that was a gift from within the family many years ago. A gift that made me cry so much that I wrapped her in a linen handkerchief shroud and hung her from the cheval mirror on my dressing table. She needed love, and still does, for I think she was meant to represent me. Me, a witch?? She was give to me many years ago and maybe she was meant to be a joke. Occasionally I still take her down from where she hangs suspended, as if on a gibbet, and cradle her in my hands, like a tiny doll.
I am trying so hard to be me again, even though I am still sometimes sobbing in my heart, and for real. I take myself out to lunch of a Saturday or Sunday, where I sit notebook in hand, deep in thought. I watch middle-aged and elderly couples who are also eating; few of them communicating. Not a word to each other; how very, very sad. Had RQ been with me, we would have been chattering about our plans, and forthcoming Press events, the house and garden, his workshop, my magazine features and stitching, books and music …. so many things. But he is not here, and so I talk to myself on the page, willing myself not to be so silly; to take up my pen again and write. Create. I must move on.