And really quite sad
That some of the things
I’d like to pursue,
Won’t let me.
What about you?!
And really quite sad
That some of the things
I’d like to pursue,
Won’t let me.
What about you?!
Flights of fancy flood imagination.
Other beings, other worlds creation.
Anticipation of these other parts
In minds and inter-galactic charts
Where maps reveal a stellar, cosmic plan,
An interlinking with the thoughts of man.
Spirits drifting in these other plains,
Watchfulness and interaction gains
Experience for all we see on earth.
A time for thinking new. A soul rebirth.
Today I was reinitiated into the joys of ‘social dancing’.
For the unenlightened, this is the kind of dancing your mammy and daddy might have done. Well, actually, my mammy and daddy didn’t do these dances. They were more your tango and fox trots and waltzes. But you get my drift.
You know the kind of dances. ‘The Gay Gordons’, ‘The Saint Bernard’s Waltz’, ‘The Canadian Barn Dance’ and ‘Strip the Willow’, among others. These are the dances that teachers like to encourage the ten to twelve year olds to learn for the day when, ‘You might be at a wedding or a ceilidh.’
In fact, the children involved today will do these dances at their school Christmas party.
A lot of schools have moved away from inflicting this punishment on children. I don’t know whether some child or other in the past begged their parents to take the education authorities to the European Court of Human Rights to ensure that their civil liberties were not impinged upon. But social dancing has rather gone the way of the dodo.
One of the schools I go to has, however, decided that it is still a valuable lesson in humility and had a practice today. I wouldn’t normally have been involved but I had a ‘Please Take’ scenario.
Three class loads of kids piled into the gym hall and were then instructed to choose a partner. The same one as the week before. So they had already had some practice at this. Nevertheless, the faces of some of the boys and girls were a study as they struggled with who to ask and then shuffled beside them awkwardly, trying not to make eye contact. There are always the one or two who are quite up for it. Worth a watching those ones.
I smiled to myself remembering this horrible experience from my own days at primary school. It could have been worse, right enough. My secondary school involvement in dances was a hundred times more humiliating considering I went to an all girls’ school. So that didn’t make for much fun in the dancing stakes. Especially as a teenager.
We were allowed to invite boys from the local co-ed school once we reached our fifth year at secondary. I was about fifteen, I remember. We were all glad- ragged up and the boys were there. So too were the teachers. Old, wizened women who had never smiled since they were babes. Patrolling the assembly hall and ensuring that all partners stayed well apart from each other. No risk of Christmas kisses there. Or even a smoochie dance. No, no, no, it was all very disco from a distance. Status Quo and head banging. Some Slade and Sweet thrown in for good measure. While Macbeth’s witches shook their heads in dismay at the volume of the music and cackled to themselves every time they split up a possible meaningful relationship.
Anyway, back to today.
Heights between and within the year groups varied quite widely so we tried to pair the children so that the boys’ arms could actually reach above their partner’s shoulders. And so they didn’t look too ridiculous. We’re not that cruel.
The girls are really quite mature in their approach to the business of dancing with boys and some even extended their hands expecting to have them taken. At this point, many of the boys pulled the sleeves of their jumpers down over their hands to ensure no possible contamination from members of the opposite sex. An interesting way of dealing with the problem. But one I have observed many times before.
With instructions not to be ridiculous, they began. After demonstrations from two of the other teachers. A young lass reading the instructions from a pile of notes. Step, two, three, stamp, stamp. Step left ……you know how it goes.
The ceilidh music began and off they stepped. I wanted a video! You really would have to have been there. The almighty exertions of these children to follow what to them were convoluted steps while trying to hang onto their sleeves and count out the time to the music was a joy to behold.
So much better than the panto I had to endure the other week!
Not content with watching and encouraging I’m afraid I just had to join in. I’d forgotten how much I liked ‘Strip the Willow’.
It was a good day. And the children definitely improved. So in future years they can join in any wedding or ceilidh with ease! Very worthwhile practice, I think. And so much fun to watch. They were laughing at the end too so it couldn’t have been as horrific as all their protestations would have had us believe. Enjoying school? Teachers and pupils? Ridiculous!
Eyes scan the platform, darting here and there, scoping strangers, frantically searching for him. Winter coverings move of their own volition. No face registers awareness. No face searches her soul, for none is he.
The train pulls in at last, new coats alighting, no recognition in the sea of movement. Left and right, garments hurry by, beyond her interest and eyes.
Then she sees him. She knows him. She has always known him. Every coat around disappears and there is only one face…..looking directly at her.
Movements speed up while time dwindles to nothing. An endless approach, eyes never leaving eyes. Distance enlarges and diminishes. Keeping two apart. And drawing them closer together.
Without warning, time returns to normal measure. Then launches into overdrive, the two racing towards one another in hurried footsteps that seek to end the waiting.
In seconds, only two exist. One to one. Eyes drink eyes for the briefest of infinite moments, acknowledging the other soul. Hands reach out, hers to touch his face. The kindest face she’s ever known. He allows this exploration for just some seconds, knowing her need to touch his flesh, to admit the understanding. His hands then reach to clasp her head and draw her to him. He breathes her in, recognising her scent as a long known drug from other years. No more delay. Lips meet. In hunger and knowing. They begin to devour. To consume the other. A taste of honey draws two closer still. Nothing may keep them apart. No sound exists but rushing blood in the ears as circulation escalates to building pressure.
A gasp apart. A wildness in the eyes. The anxious, endless lifetime of waiting is over.
In quieter moments, calm descends and peace prevails.
Time slows down, actions terminate and silence hails.
A blessing on an eve of pleasant pastimes,
Moments stretch and fill, a sweeter lifeline
To all the busy days that lie ahead,
Reposed, reclining now upon my bed.
December’s come and Christmas days are looming,
Excitement builds in kids, their faces blooming.
Activity so manic, all things pending,
Trees and decorations, all that spending
Time in frantic towns, in busy stores.
I’m really not excited yet. It bores.
To think of shopping really is no pleasure,
I’m gonna cheat and really will endeavour
To buy the pressies all upon the ‘net.
I hope I can achieve my aim. And yet,
There is a little frisson of a thrill
To join the hub. I maybe will.
But only for a day or two near Christmas.
Until then I’ll shop online and bypass
All the feet and sweating bods and trains.
I’m good at panic shopping! That’s my aim.
Achieve so many stockings full of wonder
But do it from my bed, no fear of blunder.
It’s not Bah! Humbug! to avoid
All the bizz and too much hectic noise.
I just prefer a calmer sort of retail
Where I can browse online and never fail
To buy the stuff. I have to make a list.
I’ll even check it twice in case Santa’s missed
Any sort of person that needs giving.
With kids, so many friends all need serving.
A token for the neighbours, this as well.
I’d really better start. Oh, bloody hell!
I do this every year. It’s how I am.
I wait and then I rush and try to jam
A month of work into a couple of days.
You’d think by now I’d learn that planning pays.
But no, it’s true, I never can be arsed
To start Christmas any earlier. What a farce
I feel it is to bring it so far forward.
I’ll get there just the same. You mark my words.
Video reading Santa’s Little Shopper
Will my loving ease your pain? Do you need?
Does what I say make a difference? Will it feed?
Can anything matter if you ache?
I weep at hurts. For you I’ll take
The pain. Believing that it helps for you to know
That someone, I, care and want to show
Compassion and a willing open heart.
If it helps, pour it out, then restart
To find a better place, a loving state to be.
I’ll hold you in my arms and set you free.
I only promise love. That’s all I have.
More than I need, so let me give.
If anything is troubling, share it out,
Spread it wide and rest your mind from doubt.
There’s a world of love awaiting if you seek.
Don’t be afraid, alone. Trust and speak.
Not my favourite type of pie. I much prefer rhubarb
With a touch of ginger. Tart but warming.
Or apple, sprinkled with cinnamon. Sweet but spicy.
Humble pie is bitter, sour tasting.
No matter what flavour it is topped with.
I swallow it with dread. And it goes over in lumps,
Choking on the way down.
But, once consumed,
It tastes sweeter, more full of flavour
Than any other.
For it means I had to say,
‘I’m sorry. I was wrong.’
As tough as that is to do, as hard as the crust may be-
It cuts at the throat –
To move on, it is necessary.
No matter what pie you love,
I have been reading a number of posts on abuse and bullying. There has been some coverage on TV about the same. The impact of child abuse or bullying on the child and the later adult may never be fully understood. One such post I read had a huge impact on me. The author speaks of her own experiences as a survivor. http://nae50.wordpress.com/2013/11/28/might-have-could-have-was-abuse/ And links to a video and song ‘Committing Slow Suicide’ by Scott Stapp from the group Creed. The video is harrowing to watch. It may even have been taken down by now.
The levels of abuse and types suffered by children enrage me. I cannot thole bullying in any form. My reactions are visceral when I read or hear of it. I was bullied by someone as a child. I stopped it. No one else. I took control. But. It left its imprint. I will not and cannot tolerate any sort of control of myself. And view others who seek to exert control as similar to monsters. My experience, however, was as nothing compared to the suffering of others. If people suffer more, they hurt more, it takes longer to heal. And their methods may be quite different and not always effective. The struggles of survivors to heal and find understanding and reasons for the actions of others leave a lifelong mark. And it may break them or make them stronger. Those I have been reading are among some of the strongest people I have ever encountered.
I’m drawn to hurt like moth to flame,
Others’ pain fills me with shame
That angsts I feel, though deep and wounding,
Hold no candle to some depths of hurting.
Mind sets, altered in early days,
Fight with nature’s inherent ways.
A struggle then, a lifelong one,
To come to terms with what was done.
Comprehension and forgiveness
Demand some reasons, any answers.
Dependence on an earthly crutch
May transfer or hide so much.
Seeking some oblivion
From hurts performed by some or one.
That child of then exists right now,
Trapped in time, until somehow
Someone, you, maybe another
Comforts, absolves, helps uncover
What was hidden or openly done,
Unobserved or viewed by some.
Abuse of child in any form
Is not so rare but is not the norm.
Many kinds or types there be
Killing, suffocating, we
Who know the hurt a bully causes,
Inflicting pain, causing losses
Of memories of childhood pleasure,
A time when all should build as treasure.
But stolen by the hands of one,
Abandoned then to struggle on
In adult life with child inside
Who seeks still love, approval, pride
In being who they ought to be
Not discredited and forced to flee
From inner mind where sanctuary
Sublimates or sets them free.
Acknowledgement of all who hurt
From childhood trauma. Not your fault!
Beating, words or actions done
By other must be owned by one
Who perpetrated such a crime,
Robbed innocence, God’s divine
Gift to child and all the world
To view with wonder when beheld.
Those who steal such gift away
Will answer, surely, come the day
When asked, ‘How did you fill your life?’
To answer, ‘I killed a child, as if with knife,
By stabbing at the hearts of pure.’
No one escapes! But some endure
An endless query. Why me? Why then?
To ask those words again, again.
No answers here, I cannot claim,
But trust that love always reclaims
The heart of child for loving much
Is what they do so well, with such
Belief in trust. May, then,
Trust and love, regrow again.
And pain depart or recognise
That no guilt attaches in your eyes.
Decided to dance a little deeper in life, and wow can spirit dance!
Adventures to beguile you, worlds that will enchant you.
- A paradigm shift in the meaning of 'domestic abuse' & the Atlantic Bridge to ‘1984’...
The thoughts that run through my heid on the subject of Scottish politics and the influence of Westminster rule in Scotland
IT'S NOT ROCKET SALAD.........in the Land o' cakes and brither Scots
Musings on Faith, Education, Arts, Sport and Travel
bringing you the community news in Orkney
When it comes to life, write your own account...
A Son of Scotland
Scottish food - local to global
Irish History Online With Green Lamp Media
Read Iain in The Herald and Sunday Herald, every Wednesday and Sunday.
Side A - Politics, economics, Scottish Affairs :::: Side B - Guitars, gadgets, amps, mods.
News, opinion and analysis on the things that matter to you.