A bent pin,
rainbow thread,
burnt umber:
stitching today.
A fly bothering me.
Cleaning my whiskers.
Remembering that men can be kind.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Clouds hug the buildings above her head, oppressive in their proximity. Smoke permeates the air from a shop that has caught fire across the street.
Yesterday it rained hard enough for branches to fall from the trees and washing that had dried to become wet.
Today the sun is out and even though it hasn’t yet escaped the clouds, there is the promise of heat.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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It’s been a week and so far I have survived; done better, in fact, than I had imagined when staring at the space from the wrong side of the door. The ‘big bad’ that I had feared, trembling in front of like a child about to pee itself, an adult held close to the end of a gun, wasn’t nearly as aggressive or nasty in reality. And the thing that lived under the bed – that still (obviously) lives there – has become my friend, in a detached sort of way. Funny how that happens: the big and the bad, the aggressive and the nasty, becoming friends. It has been a learning curve, for which I am truly thankful, teaching me to be more patient and not to expect so much, to embrace everything, no matter the casing. Ribbons and bows are all very nice – and don’t get me wrong: I really like them, like really!!! – but they don’t actually prove anything; they don’t make what’s underneath better, nicer, brighter. And once you take them off – removing what is now, your eyes having taken their fill, redundant – what lies below is of far more importance, it’s worth extending, sometimes, if you are lucky, far further than the end of today.
In light of this, I have unpacked my boxes and hung up my clothes, taken out pictures and ornaments, vases and cards. And I have done my best to lay them out, attempting with a light and happy heart, a clear and proactive head, a head full of commitment to the future, the task, to do the best that I can. It’s not perfect by any means, but that’s the point. Perfect is impossible. Perfect is hard. Perfect sets you up for disappointment and failure, frustration and hate. Perfect lead me here, to writing this blog, to living this life, to the tangled mess it’s all in. And perfect – not the clinging to it and the attainment of it, but the realisation that it has to be let go – will be the very thing that sets me free. Tolerance, acceptance, viewing things from both sides, examining every angle, learning to let go and to embrace, to like and to love, to see the good in every situation and the beauty in each story: that’s the way now; at least, this is my plan.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 