Category Archives: shorts

The adult who is old

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The room is smaller than she had anticipated and more full up, the large machine in the centre purring like a cat, its cavernous belly open and looming, just the right size to swallow a person up. There are several trolleys to one side: cluttered, laden; sporting plastic tubing, oversized headphones, pale blue gowns and disposable shower caps. She has never seen so many strange things together in one place and wonders at their employment, knowing in only a short while she will find out.

She notices there are no blankets, and that the belly of the machine looks cold. She hopes she will not have to strip, removing layers that hide what she no longer likes. Age having denied her body of beauty, she finds shedding her clothes humiliating, everything spilling out. She wishes they provided different gowns for different things – some thicker, some thinner; some longer, some shorter – to bestow dignity and concealment where such generosity could be afforded. She wishes too that she hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, so that her stomach was flatter and her breasts less pronounced. She knows she is worrying about stupid things; focusing on the minutiae for fear of what the matter at hand entails, placing all of her anger and all of her fear onto what sits above in order to avoid what lies beneath: futile attempts at self-management, personal therapy gone array.

She spins the ring on her finger: a shining star she bought for luck; thumbs the bulb of carnelian balled in her fist, drawing upon its power to balance her energy and ground her feet. She imagines roots growing downwards into the earth, straightening her spine to better resemble a trunk. She tells herself she is strong, resilient, capable of weathering worse than this, drawing her attention back to why she is here, remembering how far she has come. She can do this; get through and rise above. Other people she knows have done so; some who are weaker. It is not a big deal, a complicated procedure. There is nothing to be scared of, nothing to fear. She is not going to die or disappear. Everything she is fighting is in her head: false, imagined, etc. It’s just anxiety and fear. It isn’t real. It cannot kill her. She fights it everyday, and everyday she survives.

“ARE YOU READY?”

The physicians voice breaks into her trance – lifting her out of her reverie, forcing her body to land. She shuffles her feet, moving a bit to steady herself.

“Yes,” she lies: false positive. “All set.”

She forces a smile, wishing she had the courage to tell the truth, to explain that she is terrified of tight spaces, hospitals, loud noises, machines, large metal objects and not being in complete control. But she doesn’t and she can’t because just behind her eyes there are tears: inopportune and inconvenient; her inner child clamouring to come out. As ever, her timing is perfect. She wonders why she doesn’t better-pick her moments: like when she is walking on the beach, swimming in the sea, listening to music, sitting and reading… Times when she is peaceful, centred, happy and resilient. She battles love and hate, fight and flight, strength and weakness: trapped between polarities, wondering what her therapist would say; failing to arrive at a conclusion. Each of her answers addressing different needs, reaching out to protect different parts: she is pulled – this way, that way; up, down… until she feels that she is broken, attached to a million separate pieces of the same single shell.

The adult who is old and wise puts her foot down. The mother who is emotionally unavailable tells her: “grow up!”. The child who is small and vulnerable retreats taking the tears and the pieces with her, pushing them back into the bag on her back already overflowing with things she has been advised to forget.

She stops herself, aware that she is being carried away by her inner world and that her projecture isn’t helping. She will be the mother: capable, distant, cold and strong; a woman who can survive anything. She doesn’t have emotions and fears, like everyone else. Frozen, a damsel in distress: she never woke up.

Feeling better, she addresses the physician with a smile – resolved and confident, ready to face whatever life throws up – and receives a gown and cap, along with directions to a screened-off space. Walking towards it, her body erect, she is acutely aware that the next thirty minutes could change her life and that with knowledge there is no turning back. For just as with actions: what’s done is done; with revelations: what’s revealed is forever more glaringly evident and impossible to push back. Pondering whether ignorance is better than truth, she ties the gown at the back, a final gesture to seal her fate.

Rebecca L. Atherton

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Quiet, small and full of grace

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My heart feels fragile and my emotions are like glass. I ache everywhere… from head to foot. Strange! I don’t know why.

Maybe I’m just tired? Every time I think I’m out of it: home free, laughing on the other side of what has been a long lonely eviction from all that’s warm and sweet; it comes crashing back, knocking until I fall to my feet. Not that I was ever arrogant about standing upright anyway: it has always been a challenge. 

Born into a mould that was different; teased about this and that; poked and prodded until my paper-thin broke: I have learned to hide rather than shout. Like the church mouse, I creep and sneak. Like her sister Cinderella, I pick up and dust. I often think I was born to serve. I do it so well. 

Perhaps my role is not to stand out, not to change in any overt external way, but, instead: to lend, lever and prop up? Maybe I am just the wingman: fixing what is broken in others; healing what hearts, bellies, minds cannot stomach, see or tolerate? Not a bad task. A task I actually rather like. After all: what comes easily and cleanly; what feels natural, an extension of self; what reaches out and into one’s own heart, bringing one into presence, demanding one turn up… is hard not to like. 

I’ve always had this desire to help others; this calling to protect, shield and heal. It’s something I’ve done ever since I grew up. Something I endeavoured to do even in childhood. I used to think: if I can’t fix me, if I can’t protect my own damaged and broken self: then at least I can apply the knowledge, the learning, the ‘advice too-hard-to-take’, to those around me.

And yet…

there’s this yearning now: to be whole, to be healed, to be Holy.

Tripping over my own misguided self; falling flat on my long-ago disowned face; finding myself alone with my mind and my body – things I hated, things I feared; nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no anything to take me: the all that I had been avoiding, the everything that I had fled, the darkness and dirt disowned… caught up. And somehow – in the eye of that nightmare, in the vortex of that storm, in the deafening noise of that aloneness, that isolation from friends and family, world and self… I found myself a miracle: quiet, small and full of grace. 

Slowly, I learn. Slowly, I see. The road is long; the horizon unclear. It is often dark and it is often wet. But there are stars 🌟 and rainbows 🍭 too. And the sunsets 🌞, when I manage to see them, are incredible. 

I live according to a routine, keeping it simple. I don’t overly tax myself. I keep interaction to a minimum and travel to where I can get to outside of rush hour on foot. I don’t expect. I don’t demand. I listen to my body and do what she wants. We draw a lot. We make things out of paper, silk, clay and wool. We listen to the radio and we read, educating ourself, ourselves, in all things spiritual, metaphysical, holistic, helpful and healthy. We sing 🎤 and we dance 💃🏼. We do yoga. We meditate – with essential oils, with crystals – hands on heart, on abdomen, on head… addressing each injured part, each softly screaming object, each rejected bit of once-upon-a-time integrated ingredient, bit by painful bit.

I begin my day in front of the mirror, greeting myself with love 💋. It is hard work and it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to do it; I want to run away 🏃🏼 and pretend like everything’s ok, like everything’s usual. But I can see how it affects my life and I am encouraged by the results.

I work on releasing anger 💥: forgiving, accepting, letting go🎈of things I have too-long been holding onto. 

I am learning to say “no” and not to beat myself up for having done so. I am not a bad person and I deserve to be loved.

I am starting to listen to myself and act from the silence and in doing so I am learning peace .

I am shining my light and allowing others to shine with me. This is incredible: I had forgotten how much, when in alignment, when balanced and grounded, when in sync with authentic self, I glow.

I am welcoming abundance and paying attention to the guidance 🔮 that I receive. I am practicing accepting 🎂 along with giving 🎁, allowing an even exchange. This really has been difficult. 

Slowly, I am letting go and learning how to surrender.

I see the shadow that stands behind me, the pain on her face and the suitcase 👜 she holds in her hand. I sit with her on quiet mornings and together we go through the contents: sifting through old clothes 👗👘👚👕, forgotten garments 👙, things I have not seen or thought about for many years. 

My wardrobe grows, accommodating things I now wear instead of hiding deep inside me. I wear my shame with pride and slowly she glows 🏮. Life is richer, brighter, more intense. I don’t dance around the permimeter of the person I want to be. I step in fully and completely. 

It’s a long journey, but daily we are getting there. Happiness 😊 is a choice I make and I am making that choice upon rising ⛅️ every day. 

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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The question she was chewing on these days

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imageTrying to keep the peace in a turbulent household is a full-time job, especially when surrounded by eggshells. One forgets how many landmines can be hidden beneath the floors, knives concealed underneath the smooth veneer of carpets and rugs; how much, in treading onto and then later exploding (albeit, by accident), they hurt. Having navigated a relatively uneventful path for a hand-span of days – commendable, given the circumstances – it was inevitable she would eventually slip up. That it had taken so long and gone so smoothly up until this point was what surprised her. At the end of the day, it all came down to leopards and dogs. You couldn’t repaint the sitting room, just because you didn’t like the colour. Nor could you rearrange the make-up of the stew, just because you were now a vegetarian. People were who they were. They looked and acted a certain way. After a lifetime of operating as such, they weren’t about to change for you or anyone else. And besides… life was a series of challenges, most irksome when you were already struggling. It stood to reason that there were additional bumps.

It had been a difficult summer: hard on the body, worse on the mind. There had been decisions, sacrifices, tests… They had had to prove they wanted it, and how much. Cross bridges. Climb mountains. There was loss, and cost. And it carried on costing. Even now – here, on the other side; standing, walking, running; somewhere in the middle of where they used to be and where they wanted to be eventually, where they were trying to get to when they figured it all out – they were hitting walls and coming up against barriers. If there was a God – a matter that, lately, had come up for dispute – he had a wicked sense of humour. Each morning as she walked across the bridge, the one just shy of Charring Cross, the one on the Embankment; passing the bible bashers with their books on Christianity and their poster asking: “does Satan exist?”, she had to wonder. Either she was being tested for something bigger, better, beautiful… that would eventually become clear – like daylight, sunshine; something she suddenly didn’t have much of. Or she was being sabotaged and thwarted by a tyrant. For now, she had no alternative but to go with the punches. But that didn’t mean she had to like it or pretend that it didn’t hurt. Her back ached, her feet throbbed, her shoulders screamed continuously. And as for her head and stomach… it was best not to go there. She was managing in much the same way as she always did: reverting to the tried and tested, resorting to medicating in imaginative and stereotypical ways. But it was a short-term fix. Sooner or later the facade would crack, causing her to crumble. There was only so long things like thoughts and feelings could be suppressed. Her backpack was heavy. Her suitcase dragged. It was high-time she unpacked.

A wet November morning, the edge of winter. A small cafe in a suburban town. Having been soaked by the rain as she attempted to save her dignity from foul things in the kitchen, she was hunched over and shivering, cursing her mediterranean excuse of a coat. While it might serve adequately in climates used to providing: it offered little by way of protection from the elements right now. Once it dropped below 18 degrees, it was basically useless: more frivolous accessory than practical attire. Why she had brought it in the first place, escaped her. Something to do with a cute shop, a bad day and someone owing her a gift. In that sense, it had served its purpose, removing a thorn that might otherwise have festered, dragging out the matter, causing yet more pain.

But what about the coat of now? How was she supposed to navigate the mean-time: the time in the middle, the time with its own agenda?

As she bit back the tears, cursing her skin for being so thin, her heart so pathetically fragile, she was involuntarily rewound, returning kicking and screaming to where it had all begun, the reasons for the adventure rising from the grave to press against her eyelids. She had fled, running away from it all, taking her almost entirely broken and still breaking as far away as she could. It had been an act of self-preservation. That it hadn’t entirely worked out, that it had tested her in new and unanticipated ways, was something she had then had to accommodate. But she had borne it all without complaint or hesitation, resuming vertical, relocating upright, glueing back together and replacing her cracked and chipped. Was there no end to the assault? Everywhere she went, every path she took, there seemed to be a new monster. What was that all about? And did it happen to everyone or just to her? That was the question she was chewing on these days.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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His part in the affair

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imageThe robin was reluctant to admit to his part in the affair: the things he had done, the words he had said, the actions he had taken and the others he had withheld; things which, collectively, had led to the arrival of the blue bud – a despondent bloom who did nothing but weep, crying over today as if it were the last day on which it were possible for such things to be shed. Such was the weight of his woe, he had quite saturated the garden, coming very close to drowning an earthworm and several small slugs. The robin sighed. How did one deal with such a creature? Should he approach with a handkerchief and attempt to wipe the stain from his nose? Or should he prepare a pot and serve hot tea instead? Whatever, whichever… he had to do something: the pathetic plant was driving him mad. Besides, he didn’t have time to indulge the dramatics of others, not when he still housed so many of his own. In addition, to future complicate, he had been raised to see all forms of weeping as weakness and displays of emotion as frail. Tears were for the faint-hearted, those who couldn’t function adequately or competently cope, the type who were afraid to go far and who would be fated to fail if ever they should. To show oneself in the company of strangers (most of whom would likely always stay that way) was both unadvisable and unwise. They might haul you in, examine your head, ply you with medication, lock you up… The bud was obviously unstable, in need of help. Anyone could see that. But he wasn’t about to be the one to give it, not now, not after so long… and he resented the feeling that was trying to make him believe he should.

The sun rose slowly, breaking through the blanket of white, weak rays caressing the darker, still shadowed landscape. It woke the robin, its glare gently tickling his eyelids. It roused the bud too, evicting it from its temporary respite, causing it to shudder and twitch as, with reluctance, it awoke. Lifting its head, it turned its face to its only companion, attempting a smile. Then, failing, as entirely as one might manage to fail when attempting a venture whose outcome they had vested an amount of energy and interest in, it looked sadly away. It knew it had to do better, figure something out, but how did one attempt to wrestle the weight of the world, placate the paralysis of problems? Did one? Could one? It wasn’t sure. Uncharacteristically moved, the robin asked if it was hungry and offered to get breakfast in.

While he was away, most likely foraging in another farmer’s field, the bud decided to confront the intruders, attempting to deconstruct the darkness in order to remove it from his life. Lifting a leaf, he poked and prodded in the space around his head, believing the problem to be in his stamen. But when he brought it back out, it was empty of defect and blight. Refusing to give up, he tried his roots, pushing another leaf down into the soil. Jackpot, immediate resistance; a creeping, crawling, carpet-skinned thing that felt like it was made up of hundreds and thousands of creatures. Ants? Beetles? Bugs? How undignified. And how horrific to have the source of his pain situated there, somewhere so far from his immediate person and in a region he couldn’t ever hope to visually reach?

The robin returned, presenting a slug. The bud faked grateful, forcing a smile, surreptitiously sliding the odious thing away. Didn’t the robin know that slugs were poison to buds, likely to remove whole chunks from leaves and half bites from heads? To eat it would lead to his destruction, a slow crunching and chomping from the inside out, him disappearing – bit by bit, cell by cell – until he was dry, brown and brittle, a hollow shell. Or maybe that was the plan? And if it wasn’t, then maybe he should adopt it as such? At least then he would have a choice. And being eaten by a slug was less intimidating and worrying then being possessed by beetles and ants. At least it would move on once he went away. The ants, on the otherhand, wishing only to torment, would stay, hanging around to forage and bring back to, running up and down, in and out, hiding, holding, until he found another conclusion to escape the confines of his life.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The Frog Prince and the Fairy Princess

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Once upon a time…

A long time ago, before either you or I were born; before, even, most of us can remember – not our mothers or our grandmothers, or their mothers and their grandmothers – there was a handsome prince. And, like many far-off fabled princes, he was spoilt and mean. He teased his sister, chased his maid, terrorised the kitchen staff, shouted at both of his parents; refused to attend school, whether home or otherwise, and spent most of his spare time (which, considering he rejected investing in anything that wasn’t directly relevant to him, was a lot) catching moths, dissecting butterflies, tormenting little kittens and stealing baby birds.

The prince who favoured the beast

The handsome prince

His family, being good God-fearing people, suffered his behaviour to the best of their ability, attempting to instil their beliefs and values into him in the hope that, eventually, he would change. And for a while, they genuinely believed that he would.

But as the years passed and he grew from a boy into a man, drawing ever closer to the time when he would, traditionally, inherit the kingdom: their concern grew, it’s toes extending into every corner.

Fearing the destruction of everything they held dear: the community they had built, the people they worked hard to protect, the landscape that not only inspired artists but attracted writers from miles around, they called in external help, turning to the one person they knew they could rely on. And while her ways were initially painful, often confusing and unusually harsh, they accepted that they were also always right.

The one person they knew they could rely on

The one person they knew they could rely on

So began a time of mourning, in which the kingdom wept a thousand tears and all who lived there learnt to pray for compassion and forgiveness.

Years passed and nothing much happened: the king turned grey, the queen grew plump, the staff became less vigilant and the townsfolk gradually withdrew, for, although they knew it wasn’t their fault, they couldn’t help feeling responsible for the way that things had turned out.

The frog prince

The prince, and what befell him

As for the prince: he grew into a man – bitter, twisted and resentful, all the worse for the feelings his punishment had evoked in him.

Hiding inside the palace walls, he survived the comments, whispers, stares and judgement by keeping to himself.

And then, one day, the king of Mercy arrived with his daughter, Grace, and the prince, who was now a frog, awoke, the beast inside him dissolving in an instant.

The fairy princess

The beautiful princess

Determined to win the hand of the beautiful princess, the not-quite-so-beautiful prince set about improving, first attending to his own (up until now) wicked ways, and then extending his efforts further into every attainable interior of the kingdom.

Slowly, the chill began to melt. Life returned, laughter resumed and, once again, love remembered.

And then a question was asked and a hole was created – inside of which, there existed everything.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

Wings and Webbed Feet

The straight and narrow

Wings and Webbed Feet

This piece was written to compliment a textile I have just finished working on. Click here to see how it was made and to find out more about it.

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A tale of two halves…

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image…all beginning and middle but with no discernible ending

The man didn’t understand why the bird wouldn’t fly, why it refused to even try to.

He had taken it in, having found it lying on a damp patch of pavement directly below the tree out of which it had slipped. He had bound its wing, wrapping it gently so that the bones might set. He had fed it and cleaned it and given it a cage: gilt, shiny and expensive. He even left the door open during the day so that it might wander about, familiarising itself with its surroundings. But its wing remained limp, its spirits low. It ignored the food and water and avoided the cage wherever possible. It simply sat and stared out of the window, its gaze fixed resolutely on the tree that inhabited the lawn at the bottom of his neighbour’s garden.

He had tried talking to it countless times. He had played it music on occasion. He had encouraged it to listen to the radio and to watch television in his absence. And he had given it several books to read on the off chance that it would be able to decipher what was written on the pages they contained. But each separate effort had met with similar failure, and repeated attempts only seemed to upset it further.

Eventually, unable to get to the bottom of what it was all about, he gave up, leaving it to its own devices.

Over time, it lost what little flesh it had previously owned, until finally, little more than a silhouette, it could slip easily between the bars of the cage and the man found that he was no longer able to contain it.

One day, while he was out at work, it vanished entirely, and although he searched for it high and low, in every room, shelf, drawer and tight corner he could think of, he failed to shed any light on the matter of where it might have gone.

Years passed. He waited patiently, but it never materialised.

Research reveals that it took up residence in a nearby garden, partnering up with a white dove to have and to raise a family. This cannot, however, be confirmed. In fact, the only evidence that it existed at all is the strange note that it left, more metaphor than story, more riddle than answer. The note baffled the man but made sense enough to all those who heard it who had also known the bird.

Dear Sir,

I am leaving because I have received far too much and simultaneously been given so very little.

I have had more than I can possibly bear of that for which I have expressed no desire and nowhere near enough of that for which I am surely owed but for which I have never dared openly ask for.

Yours respectfully,
The Bird.

Baffled, the man sought help from his environment, visiting three individuals with skills far outweighing his own.

The first, a priest, told him that he had sinned openly and suggested that he pray for his salvation.

The second, a medium, told him that the bird was still alive but would not reveal its location.

And the third, a hypnotist, told him that he had reaped that which he had sown and to think long and hard before requesting the finer details. “Some things,” he advised, “are better off left alone and this might easily be one of them. Be careful what you wish for, for that which you cannot easily swallow, you might find impossible to digest.”

And so, forewarned, the man gave up trying, escaping the full weight of responsibility for his sins. But his life was less satisfying without the bird and he never stopped wanting for its company. If he could have started over, he would have asked it what he had done, but second chances are largely fictional and he wasn’t the reading or the writing kind, so lacked the ability to find one.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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