Measure Of The Man

Oasis in my desert

Water in my pool

Heat when I am frozen

Calm to keep me cool

Food to all my hunger

Water to my thirst

Supplying all the needs I have

Justice to my just

Wind and waves that crash to shore

Powering my turbine

Giving all you have to me

Guess that makes you mine

Friend in all my wilderness

Calm to windswept wild

Man to all my woman

Parent to my child

Needs all understanding

Friend to all who greet

Measure of the man in you

Strength with love so sweet

Respect. There’s The Buzz!

I wrote this today when I came home from school. I’ve had a challenging couple of days. One, yesterday, with children who need and who get, from their dedicated workers, the love and care they need to grow and learn. A group of people I now have the utmost respect for; because I understand better. I don’t think I could do it on a daily basis. I was shattered after one day of special ed.

I almost decided not to post this because I felt it sounded a bit big-headed, as if, ‘aren’t I so good at this?’

But then I read this post. I understand where the thoughts are coming from and I agree with some of the matters pertaining to control being ousted from the hands of parents and teachers and children thereby feeling they can get away with just about anything. But then why not all children? Not all children act up or misbehave even though the same legislation governs all.

And I figured I disagreed strongly enough to want to share why I think children often act the way they do and how it can be overcome by very simple measures. I don’t have discipline problems with the many classes I take. These classes may have up to 33 children in them, the legal limit. And I put it down to giving and expecting respect. And walking that walk.

 

And so began another round,

Children lost and children found.

Those who try their best to please,

Those who want you on your knees.

 

And here lies where I do my best,

A daily sort of different test,

Where all who bring their many moods

Can be taught that good is good.

 

A mindful sort of joint respect

Expected, so you always get

A shift, a change in attitude,

A lifting of those many moods.

 

I love it when I have the chance

To encapsulate, in just one glance,

What is needed; I appraise.

Teaching has momentous days.

 

Another job I could not do,

So many different points of view,

But only one that’s worth its weight;

When love is shown they hesitate –

 

To bother with the nasty eyes,

The blaming culture, telling lies,

The arrogance that some may feel.

We get to basics, discover real.

 

And when you see the child within,

The innocence, the carefree grin,

Even those whose moods are black

Succumb to love and give it back.

 

Thirty years of doing this

I rarely shout or want to cuss

For children know, ‘cos they’re not blind,

That some there are who read their minds.

 

No hesitation if you feel

That here’s a job where, for real

You can make a difference if

You’re prepared to love and give

 

And, in return, (the pay’s not much),

The satisfaction’s such a buzz

When children know and find their way.

An enjoyable education day.

A Special Knowing

 

 

Some sounds cannot communicate,

Frustration writ upon her face,

One in class of only eight.

Disability, no disgrace.

 

His features formed in such a way,

Some may shun, avoid,

But hugs and cuddles and to play

Wants this gorgeous little boy.

 

Others too, though less severe,

Outwith my thirty years.

One day spent with angels who

Reduced my heart to tears.

 

They taught me more compassion

In the hours I spent with them.

For me, a timely lesson

In a different sort of pain.

 

A superior sort of knowing

In singular children who

Require some special teaching.

All involved, so extraordinary. And I bow to you.

We Are One

Taste sweet unity,

Inhale essence of

Understanding.

We are one.

Pain and love felt,

Synchronicity,

Simplicity.

We are one.

Truths whispered,

Known

And heard.

We are one.

Best and worst,

Inherent

In all.

We are one.

Beauty surveyed

In shared eyes,

Seeing all.

We are one.

Loneliness

Departed,

Hands joined.

We are one.

Carved,

Moulded,

Created from one.

We are one.

Astounded

The response to my last post has left me just as my title states – astounded. I have never had so many comments or likes on any one single post. And every comment was so positive.

I have had maybe half a dozen professional massages in my life and, each time, I have been wiped out by them –slept for hours afterwards.

I did this again yesterday. After returning from work I slept. Fully clothed on top of my bed. Woke, changed, crawled under the covers and slept right through until 6a.m. More than 12 hours sleep!

Utterly wiped.

Perhaps there’s a connection between having every muscle of your body eased and having your mind eased. The effect was identical.

If I dreamed at all I can’t remember.

Hopefully, the cathartic effect of ‘coming out’ has left me renewed.

I’m usually fairly quick to answer comments but there have been so many it may take more time. I am on it and will answer every one.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for the responses from everyone.

I feel I have been massaged from every corner of the globe!

So much sleeping also means I’m way behind on my post reading. I will catch up there too. This blogging/writing could be a full-time job. I wish!

Many thanks again to all of you who read and/or commented. It truly feels like hands and minds across the world. And that is such a beautiful thing.

Arc Of Understanding

Rainbow arc

Hidden by clouds this rainbow,

Only a portion revealed,

Shades of light seen for a spell,

More often than not, though, concealed.

A glimpse of light in its splendour,

Multi-faceted hues. Like

Iceberg submerged by ocean so deep,

Clouds conceal all the clues.

Poached by encroaching darkness,

Storm clouds gather to quell

Hope represented by God-given sign,

Stark matter can do this so well.

Doomed to diminish in darkness,

Etched evanescence in skies

Disappears swiftly from unseeing eyes,

Photons buried in lies.

Luminosity destroyed by dullest of days,

Cast vision further afield.

There, by and by, different portion of sky,

Silver lining, ultimately, revealed.

silver lining

Sad Tears. Happy Tears.

I’ve cried a few times over this holiday period. Yes, Hogmanay, I find a very melancholic night. I hate it actually. I don’t want to view it as the end of a year and reflect on another year of life passing. I want to see it as one more day in the unfolding days of life. But, for some reason, every year, I find myself weeping. I’m fine the following day, as if it never happened. It’s not alcohol induced. It’s just a sad sort of melancholy I cannot avoid in the hours leading up to the bells. And I know I was not alone in feeling this way. I have read a number of posts from others who felt exactly the same.

I want to share with you though another evening of tears. Happy tears.

Christmas Eve. My 20 year old daughter came home to spend Christmas and gave me my Christmas present on Christmas Eve.

It’s a beautiful leather bound journal with carvings and leather bindings. It’s gorgeous.

But she inscribed it to me. And here is what she wrote. I cried. And I hugged her for her love and understanding.

To Mum,

I got you this journal to say that not everything you write has to be read by the world and not everything that is read by the world is actually how you feel.

When you feel angry or frustrated or sad or lonely, I want you to write in this and be reminded of how proud I am of you. How proud that you’re my mother. I want you to write in this and remember that I love you very much, that we all do and that will never change. I want you to write in this especially when you feel that no one is listening or that something is just too difficult to say and know that I will always be here to support you. I want you to write in this, mum, even if it is just one word and I promise you that everything will be okay.

And then one day, if you allow me, I’ll read it. I’ll read it and be reminded that it’s okay to have flaws and faults because the strongest person in my life also did. I’ll read it and remember how brave you are and how your courage helps me through my darkest days. I’ll read it and know it all already because nothing you could say or do could ever disappoint or surprise me. I’ll read it mum and be in absolute awe at your talent. You’re amazing – never forget that.

Merry Christmas.

MK xxx

I’m crying again as I type this up. It is the most beautiful gift I have ever been given. The journal is lovely. The words take my breath away.

I am sure we all have people in our lives who feel this way about us. I happen to have a daughter who, like myself, loves to articulate what she feels. I am honoured she feels this way.

We all have those who love us unconditionally, I hope. And maybe we should try to say what we feel to let others know our love too. This has set me up for the rest of my life let alone the new year.

My Weans

When my 20 year old daughter said she wanted a ‘family tree’ picture I thought she meant gathered around the Christmas tree. Nope. IN the apple tree! So we did. Down the garden, through the wet grass, up the tree. Not the adults. We’re not stupid! We loitered around the trunk.  My 24 year old daughter and 23 year old son started on their patter and my jaws ached from laughing. All my kids about me for Christmas. Sister and her three, brother, future son-in-law. Magical times. Fifteen gathered to eat, drink, chat, laugh and celebrate. And all to do again for New Year. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I’ll be needing a holiday at the end of this.

To chat a while –

an hour

or ten –

and know you understand.

And in the understanding, know

that you are understood.

An implicit sort of knowing,

born of love’s connection.

Blessed,

Acceptance,

Joy,

Amazement,

Proud,

Privileged.

In awe.

These,

my own.

I am unworthy,

but not.

I must have had

something to do with

who they are,

how they are,

the wonder they are;

their personalities,

characters,

humour.

Thanksgiving,

we don’t have,

as some do.

But I have,

in measure fullest.

Blessed,

Acceptance,

Joy,

Amazement,

Proud,

Privileged.

In awe.

All twice.

And again

tomorrow

and every day hence.

Understanding

Honed to perfection,

Sharpened to a point,

Clear as running water,

Honest words anoint

 

Giver and receiver,

Taken to the heart.

Truth will set you free, they say,

Let utterances impart

 

Comfort to the wounded,

Insights to the blind,

Love revealed, in lightness,

Salving every mind.

 

Maybe not so serious,

Some laughter and a smile,

Some rectitude for what’s not good

Can make it all worthwhile.

 

A simple plan to ease the pain,

Honour where it’s due,

Sincerity in all we say,

Trust may thus accrue.

 

And with that trust comes something else,

A bolder way of being,

Intuitions and perceptions

Help with all we’re seeing.

 

No magic in the formula,

No poison pen of ink,

Simplistic, fair and genuine

Streamlines how we think.

 

Much easier then if words are real,

Honest, forthright, strong.

Confusions end, paths made straight,

Minds suffer if they’re wrong

 

In thinking what another says

Is somehow meant for them.

Care in how we phrase ourselves

May nullify the pain.

 

Losing in translation,

A risk we have to take,

But clarity, corrections made,

Of openness partake.

 

Undiluted, concentrate,

Speak as how we feel,

Remembering that hurts are wrong,

Help each other heal.

The Circle

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.