What do you live for? What gets you out of bed each day, gives your life meaning, stops you from killing yourself?

What do I live for? Poetry, I would have to say, now that I am living alone and no longer live for my relationship. Poetry has been the thing practically all my life really, the thing that has gone on alongside the relationships, alongside the adventures and joys, and problems and failures, and all the whole conglomeration we call life. It's the constant. 

It probably keeps me from killing myself — not that I am suicidal, but maybe I would be if I didn't have poetry. As it is, if something causes angst, I am liable to start writing about it instead of going for the razor blades or sleeping tablets. 

Poetry. Reading wonderful poems by other people, yes; and also making poetry, the thing I have given my life to. I live for poetry because it has given life to me. Well, in a way.  I suppose that sounds grandiloquent, and also anatomically ridiculous. Nevertheless. 

I can't imagine life without poetry in it. What do people do, I ask my fellow poets in times of grief or stress — people who haven't got poetry? How do they cope? 

Other joys get me out of bed. The cats, a sunny day, a visit from friends... But poetry is the great essential that is always fresh, never boring or tiring — not to me (and what it does to others is none of my concern).

It is the crown on life, the meaning to it, the approach to God.

This post is part of an online event to celebrate the re-launch of Fiona Robyn's writing career under her new name, Satya Robyn.

The first Mindful Writing Day - join me?

This Thursday the 1st of November is the first ever Mindful Writing Day, organised by Kaspa & Fiona at Writing Our Way Home.

To join in simply slow down, pay attention to one thing and write it down (making a small stone). Read all about it here.

Small stones are easy to write, and they will help you connect to the world. Once you've started, you might not want to stop... You can read more about small stones and find out about Lorrie with pea-green eyes in Fiona's free ebook, Write Your Way Home.

If you visit Writing Our Way Home on Thursday you'll find out how to download your free kindle copy of the new anthology, 'A Blackbird Sings: a book of short poems'.

You can also submit your small stone and see it published on the blog, and be entered into a competition to win one of five paperback copies of the book.

There's a Facebook invite here if you'd like to invite your friends, and feel free to repost this blog on your own blog. You can tweet this:

Connect with the world through mindful writing - join the first Mindful Writing Day on the 1st of November: bit.ly/VjzRKe #smallstone See you on the 1st!

My Most Beautiful Thing

This is a Blogsplash. Today, Tuesday April 24th, bloggers around the world are blogging about their ‘most beautiful thing’, to celebrate the birth of Fiona Robyn’s new novel, The Most Beautiful Thing.  On Tuesday 24th and Wednesday 25th April, you can download a copy free to your kindle, pc or phone, or win a free paperback. Click on the link for instructions. I know Fiona's writing and happily recommend it even though I have only just started reading this book. You can find everyone else's blog posts here.

And what is my most beautiful thing?

It is my relationship with my husband Andrew, my third-time-lucky marriage (his second) which we entered into in 1993, on the 13th and 14th of November. Yes, that's right. I wanted a quiet, intimate wedding in our own home, with just our respective (grown-up) children present. He wanted a great big shindig of celebration. So we had both. On the 13th, the day after my birthday, we had the very private legal ceremony with a civil celebrant in our own home; the day after we had the big party with a public affirming of our vows, conducted by our friend and spiritual mentor Jenette in a ceremony with no legal significance but much emotional charge, followed by feasting and dancing. 

I was married the first time for 3 years; the second time — during which I had my children — for 27.  I was 53 when my second marriage ended, and was certain I was far too old, fat and ugly ever to attract another man. When I was younger I had also had some important relationships which didn’t lead to marriage, that ended sadly. I put out a strong request to the Universe: 'Next time around I want a happy one — a  lasting, happy one!’ I was thinking of my next incarnation, not this lifetime. One day my Reiki Master, Ann Adcock, who was also a powerful psychic, suddenly said, ‘Ooh! Nice man coming for Rosemary. I just got told.’ And a nice man he was, and is. 

He had had one marriage, in which he had his children, which ended acrimoniously at the time (though they became amicable enough later). One of his subsequent relationships which was very important to him had also ended badly. He told me that, some years before we met, he had a reading in which he was told there would be another love for him. The reader said, ‘Work will be very important in this relationship; I see you working together.’ He asked her rather plaintively, ‘Won’t there be love?’ She just smiled and said, ‘Oh yes, there’ll be love.’

When we were first together, my main income-earning work was teaching Reiki. He supported me wonderfully in presenting my seminars. We also worked at the Sunday Markets for many years, and that gradually became the main focus. At our stall I did psychic readings, he gave Reiki treatments and head massages. 

Even more important than that was the fact that we were both writers. I’m a poet, he was an ex-journalist who turned to fiction, particularly children’s stories. We never wrote any best-sellers, but we believed in and supported each other’s work and had some modest success.

Spiritually we were aligned too, going from New Agey to Pagan — still with a love of Jesus, though hardly an orthodox attitude.

We travelled the world in 1998, on my inheritance from my mother, and had many wonderful experiences. It turned out to be a sort of spiritual pilgrimage to places that had huge past life significance for us, though we had not known or expected that. 

We had already uncovered two lifetimes we had shared. In the first, we were merely acquainted, but in the second we had a brief and tragic love. On the advice of a wise friend, instead of getting excited about that we cleared it so as not to have to repeat it. And so, this time around, we have had a long and happy love.

Not, however, a ‘never a cross word’ kind of marriage. We are both too stubborn and too volatile for that. There have been some power struggles, some screaming matches and some sulks, but always the love and commitment to each other were stronger. 

We acquired two cats when their owner couldn’t keep them. They were seven months old then; they are 14 years old now (and still behave like youngsters). They became ‘the children’ of course, and have brought us much joy.

Soon after we married we moved from a capital city to a small town in another State, with a sub-tropical climate and beautiful scenery. We have made many good friends here and had a wonderful life. There was never much money. When we met, I was an undischarged bankrupt, a legacy of my previous marriage, and he had just finished paying off huge debts incurred by a business partner who scarpered and left him holding the baby. So we didn’t have much — and eventually we went on the age pension, one at a time. (He is ten and a half years older than me.) But we have been very rich in other ways.

Since the beginning of 2010 we have been living in a Housing Department unit in a lovely location, which we have very much enjoyed. It is exactly the home which he, in particular, dreamed of.  Because of some deteriorating health conditions, he gradually became somewhat housebound, and I too have been more of a homebody. Despite the problems, this has been in many ways a particularly lovely period of our lives together. Simple things like playing with the cats, watching our favourite TV shows, sharing books, writing, spending time with friends, and talking to our children on phone, email or facebook ....

I have had to do more for him, and he has been very loving and appreciative. We have laughed together a lot, cuddled a lot, enjoyed our meals, our music, our home. I have felt that this elderly love — I am 72, he is 83 — has had a particular sweetness. That is built on all that has gone before, of course, in the years we have been together; still it is very special in its own right.

Have you noticed that I am tending to speak in the past tense? We have just entered a new phase, and I am still in mourning for the one we have just left. 

It is ironic that a man who has helped many people over the years with Reiki, to their lasting and vocal gratitude, has succumbed himself to illnesses which have been hard to alleviate, let alone cure. 

He had a triple bypass and heart valve replacement in 1995 and a small heart attack in 2008. His annual checks, though, have always shown him to have excellent heart health. He has had more of a problem with diabetes, which was diagnosed in 1998. (Last year he finally went on to insulin instead of tablets.) The diabetes led to an excruciatingly painful nerve condition of the legs, called peripheral neuropathy. He has dealt with this pain for years, with great courage and patience. For the last 12 months he has become more and more dependent on a wheely walker to get around. 

This last week he has had some falls, where his legs just collapsed beneath him. No dizziness or losing consciousness, and luckily he didn’t injure himself. But he ended up in hospital. It is not really safe for him to come home any more; he could injure himself next time, or I could hurt myself trying to help him. 

And then there’s his mental state. Last December he was diagnosed with ‘mild to moderate’ Alzheimer’s. The medication to slow it down has not proved very successful in his case. He now doesn’t always know what time of day it is, and sometimes is living in the far past. He does still know who I am, and tells me often that he loves me.

His children and I are looking at all the options, but it seems clear enough which way it’s going to go. I realise I have been doing pretty much everything for him of late, looking after him like a small child. Not that I minded, or even noticed all that much — but I have become busier and busier, and have come close to exhaustion. (Even with respite care and domestic help in place.)

The thought of not bringing him back home is unbearable, and right now my heart is breaking, but I am trying to look ahead and see that there may be good things in the new phase too. I think it is all about quality of life, and I have lately realised that what that means for him is no longer the same as what it means for me. Rest and comfort are his priorities now.

When we first started getting serious, I read his palm and saw that he would have a lot of illness late in life. I married him anyway and I’m glad I did. I’m glad I didn’t miss out on my most beautiful thing.

Writng 'Small Stones'

Would you like a 2012 with more colour, more juice, more clarity, more deliciousness?

During January, Kaspa and Fiona Robyn from ‘Writing Our Way Home’ will be encouraging you to pay attention to one thing every day and write it down.

You don’t have to be a writer to take part. You just need to have three minutes spare a day, and a notebook or a blog, and the desire to slow down and fall in love with the world a day at a time.

Do jump here to find out more, and Kaspa and Fiona hope to see you in the river. Here’s how last year’s small-stoners found the experience:

“I have to tell you, readers, I have loved writing a small stone every day for the last 31 days. It’s the most glorious exercise in mindfulness, in pulling yourself into this moment, and if you haven’t tried it yet please give it a go, if only for a week.”
~Rachel Hawes, writer of small stones

“My father was recently put into Hospice care and dealing with the imminent loss and pain and joy of his journey has become sweeter for me because I am paying attention. That is no small thing.”
~Lisa Haight, writer of small stones

“…I keep finding that [writing a small stone] doesn’t eat up time or mental space; on the contrary, time stops and a new space is created.”
~Jean Morris, writer of small stones

“Writing small observations daily was like a spiritual experience for me. I felt happy, joyous and free. I looked forward to my daily meditation. As a result, I feel awakened and alive; and I am truly thankful.”
~Laurie Kolp, writer of small stones

As for me, I've done this before, loved it like mad, and will be doing it again this January, at my Stones for the River blog. You're all invited to read and comment.

A River of Stones

You've heard of NaMoWriMo. Introducing (drumroll.....) NaSmaStoMo!

For the month of January, Fiona Robyn asks people to join her in writing a short piece of writing each day for the whole month, and blogging it either on their usual blog or a new one (or in a notebook if they're shy).

Find out more at her new blog,  A River of Stones, and please help spread the word by tweeting and sharing the link on Facebook and emailing your might-be-up-for-it friends.

Fiona says: Don't worry about whether you're a 'writer' or not - this project will help you to connect with the world, and we could all do with a bit more of that. Start the year as you mean to go on.

So are you in?

I am, and will be posting at my new blog (yet another!): Stones for the River.

Thaw

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.
Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.
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These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.
I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.
So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?
Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.
Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.
I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.
Continue reading tomorrow here...