His part in the affair

Posted on October 17, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

The 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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Footprints more durable than memory

Posted on October 16, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Standing too close to the edge, time was running out, each new day crossing one of those remaining out. Soon there would be more trailing behind than leading ahead. And in saying goodbye to right now, she would be colliding with a back then she had fled: a space without warmth, security or comfort. In looking to escape, she had become trapped, and the noose about her neck rubbed.

It was a cruel quirk, an uncanny twist, an uncalled for punch, one of those things that just seemed to happen… only mostly to her. Other people sped past: collecting points, accumulating assets, building solid lives filled with substance, stability and structure. While she, on the otherhand, remained stuck, struggling to get her knee to accommodate the slightest incline.

The clock on the wall ticked. The rafters grew cobwebs. Time sped, leaving footprints more durable than memory. Summer faded and autumn arrived, laced with the unpleasant threat of a lonely winter. People packed up. Birds migrated. Animals collected food and disappeared below. The sky darkened. The clouds gathered. The moon wept and the stars fled. It rained and didn’t stop, and the field on which her house sat became a swamp. A beast with nine toes moved in, its cries keeping her up. Aware that it suffered a similar plight, she went to visit it daily, feeding it scraps from the table.

While those in front dwindled and those behind grew, it gradually dawned on her that it was necessary to make a plan. To continue to wander was irresponsible and dangerous. To arrive without a template, worse. Regardless of the motivation that initially inspired it, she needed a place to accommodate the boxes that had come into her possession along the way.

Dragging a large rock from the garden out back, she scratched her ideas into its stony surface, carving out cavities inside of which her secrets could fall asleep safe. She spoke to it, sang to it, wept over it and embraced it, decorating it with leaves, moss and the petals of dying flowers. She kept it warm, watered and dry. Somewhere along the line, she fell in love. And somehow, the deeper she fell, the darker it got, the more excited she herself became, until one day she found that she could face the straight line without buckling or crumpling.

The rock had strengthened her resolve in ways that the monster had not – stirring her spirit, moving her soul, mending the pieces that had broken or cracked. With those she could count on in short supply, their location scattered, she thanked the Universe for sensing her need and seeing fit to send it her way.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The strip of sticky happiness

Posted on October 12, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

“All too often, we know we are happy only when we no longer are.” ~ Robert Zaretsky

Happiness is like having a plaster over a wound: it protects it from incurring further damage, it stops it from hurting any more, and (if we are lucky) it also lets it heal. Papering over the cracks, it – the plaster, the strip of sticky happiness – allows us to forget, temporarily escaping what had become our reality before it showed up. Filled with renewed energy, partially restored, our spirits rise and we are filled with the desire to externalise ourselves again. Motivated, inspired, we are more productive, doing and achieving where previously, recently, in the interlude of damage, of detriment, we failed. In this enlightened period, we crave interaction and we seek out company, enjoying mixing with the public and meeting with friends. People seem nice, where we live friendly, our work less of a chore. Even our problems seem less distressing than they did. So what about our bad back, our bruised foot, our estranged friend and our sick relative? So what about the job we hate, our financial worries and the debt we have somehow incurred? So what about the darkness in our heads, the sadness in our hearts, the anxiety in our shoulders and the anger in our stomachs? So what about the fact that daily, hourly, minute-by-minute, we are barely functioning, literally clinging on to the edge of a cliff face that has become increasingly hard to see of late? None of this matters, at least not half so much. The sun is shining, the temperature is favourable, we have just had coffee with a friend, and this afternoon we plan take a leisurely lunch, swim, then read and meditate. Before all but forgotten, we embrace this respite, only realising too late how temporary it was.

At least I do, because this is the story of my life. And it is only in the down times – times like these; times when I can’t think, can’t do, can’t even speak without stumbling and falling – that I realise how doing and having are not something that I own but gifts I intermittently borrow from a far off place, somewhere I once knew but now only glimpse at.

What is happiness and where does it come from? And how does one, once one figures that out, pin it down?

Like stones flung into a pond, these questions are wishes lost in the darkness of weed and scale. Happiness is sporadic, unpredictable and rare. It comes from nowhere and disappears just as completely, leaving one drowning in space. My life is devoted to its pursuit. My every effort, every attempt, every motivation, action, dictated by my desire to hold it for longer and tighter the next time around.

If I am to succeeded in finding the answer to the problem that plagues me, I must learn to receive graciously and give back without complaint. If I could study and explore it, entering into in order to remain; maybe then I could achieve more and better like the results?

In the meantime, the road is full of potholes and there are obstacles to navigate; the mountain is looming and the steps too steep to contemplate. In other words, in spite of what they say: the future is not bright or orange, but rather rather dark and black.

This is the birth of a new chapter, an unforeseen fork in the meandering journey of my life, a narrative spanning from a to b, with a being the beginning place that didn’t work out, that constantly disappointed and injured despite my best efforts, and b being the place where I am supposed to end up, the place I would have begun in had something not become tangled right near the start, diverting me and everything about me to an entirely different somewhere else.

I feel like I am standing on yet another threshold, contemplating a beginning I didn’t anticipate, and, like a rabbit in headlights, there is nothing I can do about it. The car is coming towards me, I am central to the road, we are going to interact. The question is: what will result? A bloody mess and a trip down under? Or an enlightened sojourn in which much is done? I am aiming for the latter, conscious that to fall apart now would be both dangerous and damaging. But what if I can’t? What if, instead, I trip or sink?

I am trying to plot the next step, attempting to put things into action to accommodate me when I arrive: searching for groups, looking for classes, signing up for lectures and talks, picking out workshops and courses I might take if they are affordable, of brief duration and at a suitable time. But it’s hard to find the right mixture: the things that are inspiring, the ones with respectable looking leaders and teachers, the events and gatherings that occur during the day. I’ve spent a long time researching and yet my efforts do not amount to a whole lot. I feel defeated and this sense of failure, or not getting very far, is sapping my energy and motivation for everything else. Mornings are painful and progress is slow. I look at what I have achieved and uniformly hate it. Afternoons, I burn out, mostly sleeping. I feel hopeless and useless and I am annoyed with myself. Where is the me of yesterday who had so much to do and not enough time to get it done, the me who wanted the day to be longer so that I might be more prolific? I’ve gone from working effortlessly and joyfully to dragging myself along and I am miserable and grumpy.

I miss my old self and I want her back. I need her courage and her determination. If I am to survive this next leap, this unforeseen interlude into a grey and open space, this cold and dark place I sought to escape, I must have a bag of resources and all of me must be my friend.

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Empty cups

Posted on September 22, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Uncertainty wakes, rises, puts on a dress, washes her face and administers makeup; moves from the bathroom into the hallway, on to the kitchen, where she is blinded by light. Last night’s dinner sits in the sink, stale and menacing, covered in ants: creatures that smell a meal on washed-up plates, dine for hours on empty cups.

Indecision joins her, filling the kettle with tepid water, placing it on the hob to boil, taking four slices of factory bread from the artificial sheath that contains them, slipping them – slowly, carefully, ever so securely – into the metal contraption that cooks, painting their surfaces caramel brown and various shades of black.

The light flickers, the kettle whistles, the toaster clicks. There is comfort in action, reassurance in order.

Anxiety enters on impatient feet, circling, pacing, crying out in tones are far from dulcet, bereft of endearing; although her mother might love them, perhaps?

Uncertainty sighs and moves to the cupboard, extracting a plate and a bowl; taking a packet of something vaguely meaty, pouring it in; filling the empty hollow with dried-up balls that chime as they connect.

Setting it down with a tap like the rapping of fingers, the patter of rain, she begs a window of space from the creature that hounds her. The air, however, has other ideas. It hisses and cracks.

As she searches for purpose and meaning inside a present that is deceptively labelled, longing for a destination which manages to be both familiar and exciting at the same time; Indecision deliberates the tangle of life, feeling bitter and cheated, freshly abandoned.

Meanwhile, Anxiety circles, carving rivers of worry into the floor.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A creature of habit

Posted on September 14, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

I suffer from chronic anxiety. I’m not sure when it started, if I have always had it, or if it is only recently that I have become affected, like in the last 15 years. I do know that it plays an influential role in my day-to-day life and that it occurs with enough regularity to have become frustrating and annoying.

When I was at university I had a boyfriend who experienced panic attacks. They were a mystery to both of us, neither one of us understanding the shortness of breath, the hot flushes, the dizziness, the nausea, the blacking out, the vomiting and the lack of consciousness. He lived in fear of a repeat attack and this fear dominated our evenings. With the understanding I have now, I look back and feel guilty: I could have been a lot more compassionate and helpful if I had known what it was he was going through, if I had understood it. As it was, a part of me thought he was doing it to sabotage our evenings (it only ever happened when we were out with my friends). If we had kept in touch, I would have phoned him long ago to apologise. I would have also explained to him what they were, if he hadn’t already arrived at his own discovery, and recommended possible avenues of treatment. A rough analysis attributes them to the state of flux he was experiencing as a result of his recent uncertainty about the future and the pressures from his family. Several months later, he dropped out of a law placement and switched to teacher training. A dramatic shift in direction (provoking disappointment and anger from his parents) which helped him profoundly.

Anyway, regardless of when my attacks started (at a guess, I would place them at 8 years), the reasons were similar and the results pretty much the same. And ever since, each time there is a significant shift in circumstance: a sudden change, an enforced situation, a necessary transition from A (where I am comfortable) to B (where I have no idea), an extended journey resulting in a separation from everything known, etc., I start to unravel, my inner peace disappearing. If I fail to act, attempting to ignore the emotions and run from the reasons, the anxiety escalates until it reaches a level that incapacitates me. And even then – housebound, bedridden – there is no relief. The only solution is to turn around and face and to attempt to address.

Over the years, I have learnt that there are things that I can do. And they are things that, on the whole, are fairly successful. The challenge is becoming aware of the spike before it is too late and getting my mind to agree to accompany me on the necessary journey to solution and recovery.

Things that work are:

• self-hypnosis for anxiety, worry and stress
• meditation, ideally with a mantra
• gentle exercise (yoga or a walk with music)
• verbal expression (either by talking to someone I trust or writing in my diary)
• a solid daily routine
• safe places where I can go to relax or work
• an emergency plan (i.e. someone who can talk me down or come and collect me should the need arise)

Practiced regularly, I can keep the anxiety to a minimum and the attacks at bay. There are periods of time when I forget about them completely. It is only when the circumstances are such that I have no power to affect them that I struggle to arrive upon a cure. In these times the above list is key to my survival and, while it might not remove or solve, it does deliver a situation that is manageable.

These days I am a creature of habit. I have a routine, essentially a timetable, which I follow without complaint. At a certain time I will always be in a set type of place going about a specific activity. And, while it could be viewed as small and limiting and perhaps a little sad, sequestering my life and its experiences to the confines of a box: for me, it has actually been the opposite, allowing me to travel the world, live in different places, experiment with different things.

• more information on panic and anxiety
• Broken Light: photography for mental health
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The Frog Prince and the Fairy Princess

Posted on September 8, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

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 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

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 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 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

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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Cure for anxiety

Posted on September 8, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Focusing on the present;
I deal with the future,
one day at a time.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The creative benefits of keeping a diary

Posted on September 6, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

I would hazard a guess that the majority of writers keep a journal and that they have kept a journal from the moment they could write. If writing is in your soul, there is a fundamental need: to express, to expose, to exorcise… freely and often, across all forms.

Throughout my writing life – which starts when I got my first pencil and learned (painfully) how to trace; and has since religiously continued – I have kept a journal, putting pen to paper as often or as rarely as circumstances, events, situations and emotions dictated. My notebooks are amongst my closest friends and I treasure each of them dearly. In fact, when I relocated – first to Mallorca, then to Sydney, and then back to Mallorca again (where I am now, but only, I think, temporarily) – such was my fear of being separated: of suffering loss, theft, damage, I consigned my journals to several boxes in storage, where they have since stayed, safe within the embrace of a controlled environment. All I have on me now are those I have written in the interim, which, incidentally, now fill a box of their own.

Journaling is important to me because it creates a space amidst the general chaos and clutter from which to pause, collect, organise and untangle. Journaling enables me to set things down, sort through them, unpick them, understand them and heal them. I’m like a bottle of fizzy water. Life shakes me up, agitating my contents, provoking, over time, the need to decant. If I ignore this need or fail to address it often enough: eventually, I explode. It is necessary in a way that is both urgent and vital to tend to the contents: airing, sharing and reducing – simply by way of unscrewing the cap, allowing whatever has manifested, festered or become trapped the chance to escape.

In addition, journaling also presents the opportunity to reflect, dissect, analyse, learn, understand and future-proof against detrimental repetition. My entries highlight my mistakes, trials, triumphs and progress more accurately and honestly than I, asked, could ever hope to.

I believe that keeping a diary is one of the healthiest things that you can do, fundamental to emotional wellbeing and on a par with regular exercise, a sensible diet, a healthy social life and plenty of sleep. Neglecting to honour this practice has, for me, been a costly mistake, one I try not to but will no doubt repeat for, frustratingly, it is usually when we most need it that we deny, the wall ahead appearing too solid, tall and daunting to successfully dismantle or scale.

In my recent travels I came across an article entitled: famous writers on the creative benefits of keeping a diary. I thought you might also like to read it.

In addition, if you would like to learn more about the practice of journaling and its many benefits, here are some links to get you started:

• why you should keep a journal
• the health benefits of journaling
• 100 benefits of journaling
• emotional and physical health benefits of expressive writing

I wish you fun, freedom and adventure. Given permission, your pen or keyboard can work wondrous things upon your mind.
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Spun gold to my inner magpie, artesian chocolate to my inner child

Posted on September 4, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Ok, so I’m a sucker for a descent newsletter and a sap for an intriguing ad. Send me a newsletter containing soft or shiny products and I’m like a kid in a sweetshop, especially when that newsletter is knitting-related and it’s products happen to be wool.

This morning Deramores delivered their monthly instalment, waxing lyrical about their autumn offer – 20% off chunky wool: spun gold to my inner magpie, artesian chocolate to my inner child. I practically flew there.

Diving in, I attempted to explore the Clearance Bin in search of a desirable bargain. But, alas, the link was corrupt, leading to nowhere remotely useful. So I ended up on the adjacent page, which just so happened to be the ‘New’ Section. Hmmmmm…… Was this their cunning plan all along? For, sure enough, I got sucked straight in, spotting a run of alpaca spun lace. How could I resist.Three shades later, I am suitably satisfied and a little remorseful. I must stop buying so much wool, it doesn’t suit my sitting room shelves and my hands can’t keep up. I would be better served attempting to finish before launching into over and over again. It would reduce the anxiety and overwhelm accumulating evokes.

I did it previously with books, in the days before my Kindle, collecting from bookshops, supermarkets, car boot sales, flea markets, bargain bins, families and friends, acquiring more pages than I could ever hope to read. When it came to moving abroad, packing up in England and putting into storage for the time being, I was struck by how much I possessed and how much of it I had never had cause to use. Suitably traumatised (anyone who has packed up a residence will be able to relate to this, especially if the time they spent there was long) I vowed never to do it again. And I kept that vow for over two years, proudly.

And then this winter I started nesting, thinking we might stay, and slowly but surely I am the owner of stuff again, stuff that will need packing and shipping and worrying about at some point, stuff that will also require extra cases, extra room. It makes me anxious just to think about it.There’s a part of me that’s tempted to throw it all away. It sounds extreme, like a joke, but I actually did this several months ago, back in May, binning everything that wasn’t vital: jewelery, clothes, cosmetics, books, wool, ribbon, thread…. It felt amazing, liberating. Especially as I re-homed those pieces I deemed worthy: to friends, family and charity.

But then, slowly, I realised I missed some of the things I had shunned and needed others back. It was a lesson in caution and stealth and also in patience, teaching me to look more closely before I leap, think longer before I react, take to bed and sleep on, for a month if needs be. Anything. Many things, so long as I don’t run.
Today, I am a little more cautious. I can clear and throw when it comes to the removing. There is no need to act in advance. And in the meantime, it may be a good idea to invest with a little more care and caution: after all, it’s not like the wool is going to go away. Thanks to the internet, one can find most things most of the time, no matter the length of the delay. More sensible to create a Wish List to act as a memory, like I did with my books. My Amazon list is of epic proportions. I doubt I will ever exhaust it, even from here, even without continuing to add to it. I don’t even remember what the most are, so long ago was my initial interest in their insides.

Anyway, this is what I bought this morning when advertising lured me and temptation suckered me and several balls of delightfully delectable wool wrapped my fragile resistance around their rainbow lengths.