Writing 101 DAY 16 – A Character Building Exercise – The Friend I Met I’ve Yet to Meet

The most interesting person I have met in the last year, I haven’t actually met in person. We both joined the same course where the classes were carried out over the telephone. As soon as he made his introduction, I felt a warmth of joy ooze from his character.

As we practiced the work in class, I was able to build on this first impression. I sensed a kinship with him; some part of me felt I already knew him. As I watched, that is, watched with my inner eye (I have always watched with my inner eye), I noticed that around that expression of inner joy that felt its way toward me, there was a mild stiltedness, as if he was needing on some level to accentuate that expression of joy.

With my inner eye I saw him as medium height and build, a jolly, cheerful looking person with light coloured hair. There was a sense of ‘performer’ about him, in a good way. Someone who desired everyone to be happy and was prepared to put in some effort, if at first his presence did not bring this about.

We decided to practice together between classes and my picture of him continued to build. Some days he would appear slimmer and taller, the lightness of the hair was heading toward white, not blonde as I had first envisioned and he even appeared a little older. On occasion he wore large glasses and sat a little awkwardly. His personality oozed compassion and acceptance of almost everyone. He inspired me to reach deeper into myself to appreciate me the way he appreciated me. He didn’t know me, but I knew he knew me. As we talked I could hear in the tone of his voice, the nurturing person within. It flowed so naturally as it permeated my whole being into a state of loving self-acceptance. This wasn’t contrived, this is who he is. There was a deep stillness about him.

As we practiced and our chatting became more open, I came to notice the nuances of his personality traits as they shifted. One minute the voice would lose its soft timbre, replaced with a tone that was slightly flatter, a sound that didn’t travel as far, as if it lacked the endless gentle power it usually had. This I discovered was when he was lost in the mind of thoughtful analysis, it stilted his natural flow.

Right from the beginning, we had been comfortable in each other’s company. And as we came to know each other on a deeper level, we discussed the values of not being able to see each other. We both felt that seeing a person, even via a webcam could detract from really getting to know someone. Bombarding the mind with lots of additional information for us, would have been a distraction from who we really were.

From the information about himself that he has offered me, my vision of him is pretty close to what I have seen with my inner eye and my perception of his personality traits I am told, are very accurate. Likewise his perception of me is also pretty close to who I am.

It will be interesting to quite literally see what will happen and how things will change when we decide to bring in the visual dimension. Some part of both of us is reluctant to do that just now. We both know, that despite our deep connection, it will change how we experience each other. But in the interests of our own personal growth and expansion we also know, that one day we will choose to take the plunge.

One day we will meet. Hopefully, if our friendship is to continue, we will just be adding to the increasing beauty and joy of what we currently experience.

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Writing 101 DAY 15 – Your Voice Will Find You – The Community that Once Was

I live in a quiet rural area. A place that used to have a wonderful sense of community about it.

That is, before they closed the local post office. A place where local folk met most days for a chat. It doubled as a store, stocking only the basic provisions but it was a valuable asset to our community. Especially as it was over 5 miles to the nearest similar store. If you didn’t have access to a car, if weren’t fit enough to cycle the hilly roads to the next village, your best hope was to catch the school bus, wait for half the day, to catch one of only two buses back home again.

As if the loss of the store was not enough to break the spirits of the local folk, who now had to catch a bus and ride for an hour into the main village for their groceries. They provided a minibus once a week for the elderly folk but it hasn’t replaced the camaraderie so prevalent the local store provided. There is no longer any sharing of old tales or the imparting of valuable ancient knowledge to the younger generation. No one goes out any more. No point. They sit inside glued to their television sets or computers.

Rarely is anyone seen walking along the roads. There is no longer anywhere to walk ‘to’. Yes, you could go for just a walk but it has always been much more of an incentive to walk ‘to’ something, and then back again. That’s why people like to go out for a paper, or a pint of milk. It is a reason to go out, a focus, a purpose, a reason to be.

And now, the final nail in the coffin. The only event in the year that united everyone in the whole area and from miles around. Our Annual Agricultural Show. So dedicated were the folk who diligently planned it. Arduously toiled for hours to set it up and clear away afterwards. Now even that has gone. Gone forever? Probably. These things are very difficult to resurrect. It was the Foot and Mouth Disease outbreak over 10 years ago that put paid to that. The new stringent rules meant that small communities could no longer afford the costs incurred in running such events.

I am not a sceptic. If I were the implications would be mind boggling. I believe in change but I am struggling to see a positive outcome on the horizon.

Writing 101 DAY 14 – To Whom It May Concern – Heaven

Dearest Heaven

I opened one of my books today, and there you stood, with only 2 other words on the page,  ‘Heaven’.

The moment I read your name I felt your presence. Such joy. I thank you for the reminder – that you are always there, as much within me as outside of me, all ways and at all times. You are so much more than a place to aspire to, at an unknown time my mind calls ‘future’. How easy it is for me to still forget this. You are so accepting, so unconditionally loving despite the absentmindedness I had slipped into.

So now, I shall experience your presence, remembering again you are a part of me and together we shall fully indulge in the joy of just being.

With so much love and appreciation.

Angelica

PS the other 2 words that followed you were ‘Rushing In’ and you certainly did!

Writing 101 DAY 13 – Serially Found – My Dad is Back

On day four, you wrote a post about losing something. Today’s Prompt: write about finding something.

Tell us about the time you retrieved your favorite t-shirt from your ex. Or when you accidentally stumbled upon your fifth-grade journal in your parents’ attic. Or how about the moment you found out the truth about a person whose history or real nature you thought you’d figured out. Interpret this theme of “finding something” however you see fit.

Today’s twist: if you wrote day four’s post as the first in a series, use this one as the second installment — loosely defined.

There were moments over the next 20 years when I glimpsed the dad I adored as a young child. Moments when shared interests collided with a time created opportunity.

He was always helping someone else. But on occasion I would tag along. I got involved in building a shed for a friend of his, a greenhouse for an uncle, church hall renovations and the one I loved most – helping out, with my dad, on the veg stall at the Annual Christmas Fair. I can smell the old wooden hall now, just thinking about it. A smell of old dry, warm wood, mingled with a hint of musty old fabric.

Funny how those old wooden buildings had such a nurturing atmosphere. The original wooden building has now been replaced with a brick one and fewer people use it. Where I live now, we still have an ancient wooden village hall; they call it a community hall here. It smells very similar to the ones of childhood. Everyone appreciates it and its unique aromas create an ambiance that seems to attract a list of regular events going on there.

Other times I would help with watering the plants. This meant filling up a large bucket and a metal watering can with water from the kitchen sink tap and staggering down the garden one in each hand, trying not to spill any. He used to do this twice a day in the summer months.

If there was a drought we would save all the washing up water and whenever anyone had a bath, we had to scoop out as much water as possible to water to fill the buckets and stagger gingerly down the stairs, through the house and down the garden path to water the thirsty plants.

I learned how to take cuttings, dibble out young seedlings and look after the growing crops. These moments of joy, cherished memories, I have come to appreciate more as I have shared them with my own son.

But it took over 20 years before I felt the unconditional love of my dad again.

It took the death of my mother.

I never got on with her, she was a narcissist through and through. It wasn’t long after she died that my dad seemed more open – as if a barrier had been removed, or a veil been lifted.

I could see him, really see him again. I could feel love pour from him. Even his eyes were more alive. He was much more fun and loved to play with my young son. His sense of humour was priceless.

Up until then I had not realised just how much my mother’s presence had supressed my dad. She was so devious and manipulating he must have been under an immense pressure most of the time. No wonder he spent his spare time down the garden, out of sight, involved in an important project or helping out other folk. He missed her of course. Who wouldn’t, they had been together over 30 years.

But the change in my dad was remarkable. We spent more time together, he shared memories of his past, little snippets of his life I wasn’t aware existed before. He actively encouraged family get-togethers, times when we all reminisced indulgently.

As I watched his loving actions and sense of fun during the times spent with my son, it triggered the odd happy memory of early childhood. This was the dad that had been missing all these years and I indulged in the joy of having my dad back again, for now, and being able to share him with my son.

Writing 101 Day 12 – Dark Clouds on the (Virtual) Horizon – Conversations at the Car Garage

Today’s Prompt: Write a post inspired by a real-world conversation.

We don’t write in a bubble — we write in the world, and what we say is influenced by our experiences. Today, take a cue from something you’ve overheard and write a post inspired by a real-life conversation. Revisit a time when you wish you’d spoken up, reminisce about an important conversation that will always stick with you, or tune in to a conversation happening around you right now and write your reaction.

Take time to listen — to what you hear around you, or what your memories stir up.

Today’s twist: include an element of foreshadowing in the beginning of your post.

“Oh no, she’s back again!” I can imagine hearing them say. Their faces confirmed my thoughts.

As I approached the counter one of the staff took a deep breath, composed herself, getting into the role of ‘I am a nice helpful service assistant mode’. Tweaking her smile as she pulled her shoulders back, her chin raised slightly. “Good morning, how can I help you?”

“I have my car booked in again today,” I offered in the friendliest manner I could muster.

She took a quick sideways glance at her associate service assistant sitting to her left. The eyes said it all! ‘Here we go, good luck, glad it’s not me!’ as she breathed out her tension.

“And what’s it in for?” she enquired in a slightly high pitched over the top friendly voice.

I kept it short. The previous time I had been in to explain the catalogue of issues I had with the car, only the mechanic had fully understood me. But I still hadn’t had any joy with most of the faults.

Then came the bombshell!

“I am really sorry, but your car’s warranty has elapsed. It will cost you ….”

“Hang on a minute,” I interjected. “It was in only in last week and you were happy to work on it then.”

“Well I am sorry, we must have been mistaken…” she speeded through wordy company blurb, but I was having none of it.

“Well I am sorry too,” I broke into her flow. “I bought this car because it had a 7 year warranty and I have had nothing but problems with it. I am told you cannot find them, yet I have had the car independently investigated and advised to bring it back as the faults are not in my imagination.”

I made it quite plain that I wasn’t going anywhere. Many discussions with various members of staff followed and after asking me to move my seat to a ’cooling off area’, disguised as a coffee lounge, they left me the allotted time. When they could probably see that the steam from my ears and top of my head had subsided somewhat, the service assistant was sent to inform me that they would carry out the work they had scheduled and re-investigate the suggested faults. No explanation was given and no apology for the misunderstanding nor time I’d been left cooling off.

When I returned later that day, the major job had been completed. However, the remaining faults with the vehicle were still outstanding.

“We’re sorry, we still cannot find any fault with your steering, or the suspension, or the rest of the faults you mentioned. Whilst we appreciate you may be experiencing them, if we cannot find them we cannot fix them.”

(I could appreciate where they were coming from. However, it still amazes me that more than one independent mechanic can find them yet a main dealer cannot.)

“I can appreciate your perspective but it doesn’t solve my problem. You know, I have previously bought Japanese cars and over the decades have had fewer problems with all of them put together than I have had with this one.”

Her head tilted slightly to one side, the muscles on her face around her mouth tightened stretching the mouth out sideways. Not a smile, not a grimace but it clearly expressed with the raising of her right shoulder, as much to say ‘well, there you go’.

With a quick change of pace and a lighter tone, she dangled my keys in front of me and said, “Your car has been cleaned for you and you will find it on the parking lot just outside. If there is anything else we can help you with please just ask.”

I wondered humorously what she would do if I said ‘yes’!

The greater part of me said, “No, thank you.”

I took my keys and vowed never to be tempted into buying a cheaper vehicle ever again.

Writing 101 Day 11 – Size Matters – My Garden Home

Today’s Prompt: Where did you live when you were 12 years old? Which town, city, and country? Was it a house or an apartment? A boarding school or foster home? An airstream or an RV? Who lived there with you?

Today’s twist: pay attention to your sentence lengths and use short, medium, and long sentences as you compose your response about the home you lived in when you were twelve.

When I was 12 years old we lived on a quiet country lane, in a typically English 1940s accrington brick faced semi with rectangular bay windows and a red tiled roof. It was set in a quarter of an acre of delightful garden.

The people who had lived there before us were an artist and his wife. He had painted the back of the old wooden garage pale pink and emblazoned right in the middle of it, a witch, all in black, on a broomstick flying among the stars. Oh how I wished that I could do that. I used to throw myself off the garage roof in an attempt to fly and had been making these attempts for as long as I could remember, but I was getting a bit bigger and landing wasn’t quite as trouble free as it had been.

My grandma, who had lived with us since I was about 8 years old, one day caught me launching myself off the stairs (in my indoor attempts at flying) and had given me a severe ear bashing about how bad my knees would be when I got older.

The artist had also designed the garden with an intriguing shrubbery and a quaint latch gate within it, which took you down to another part of the garden via a fish pond and a weeping willow. I loved it. I could escape the rest of the family and hide up a tree in the remains of an orchard at the very bottom of the garden.

My father was a keen gardener. Well actually, he was more obsessive than keen. When we moved in he dug up the whole far back garden, which was a beautifully designed miniature golf course, rolled it flat and reseeded half of it as a flat, boring lawn.

The other half was dug over for vegetables, a greenhouse and a cold frame. We had all sort of vegetables and fruits. My favourite was the garden pea. Delicious, straight from the plant. Only thing was we, that is my brother and I, were forbidden to pick any.

Needless to say that was the worst thing you could say to us! My brother was caught hiding the evidential shell under the plants. Me on the other hand had a few years more experience than him and had learned only to take a few, too many and my dad would notice, and bury the shells deep in the grass of the field next door.

I always preferred to help my dad in the garden rather than my mother in the housed. It was far more interesting outside with nature, the wildlife and the elements.

Writing 101 Day 10 – Happy Wednesdays with Grandma

Today’s Prompt: Tell us something about your favorite childhood meal — the one that was always a treat, that meant “celebration,” or that comforted you and has deep roots in your memory.

Free free to focus on any aspect of the meal, from the food you ate to the people who were there to the event it marked.

Today’s twist: Tell the story in your own distinct voice.

Instantly I read today’s challenge, 2 dishes leapt to mind. The first was Lancashire Hot Pot, made by my loving grandma. But a much simpler dish that brought back more than just the feelings and the smells but almost the whole room. As I noticed this, it became pretty apparent which was my most favourite meal as a child, poached egg and chips.

Grandma would bring out the low table from the front room. I can picture it now … it seemed so big, like about four feet long and over a foot wide. It stood about eighteen inches high on its slanted black turned legs and had a brass disc on each foot. I remember the legs screwed in at each of its four corners, I got told off one day for dismantling it. I chuckled at the thought.

The top had rounded corners, was covered in cold, clean glass under which was a painting of red roses. It was all edged in a black band which if it moved too quickly stopped my plate from landing on the floor.

She would place it on the bright red patterned carpet, wedged close up to the luxuriously thick red hearth rug and close to the open fire so I could keep warm. The fireplace was a creamy beige colour, small chips and cracks on the hearth from years of dropping things on it. At one side, an almost full coal bucket, distinctly battered and black from years of use. On the side other a small dull copper pot the size of a small mug, filled to bursting with paper spills. I loved to help make them – bits of rolled up newspaper slightly longer than a pencil with a twist on the end. These were used to light the fire in the morning save burning fingers with short matches. They were also a carryover from the time when Grandad was alive, he used to light his Senior Service cigarettes with them. On the mantelpiece an array of brass ornaments propping up notes, or opened letters. Apart from the old wooden carved clock ticking soothingly on the wall behind me, all I could hear was the pfut, pfut of the small flames as they flickered and the occasional crack or ting of the burning coals and rubbish she had recently thrown on the fire. I could always lose myself in that fire, it fascinated me.

I was always brought back from my reverie with strange creak of the door opening. A deep red- coloured velvet curtain hung on the sitting room side of the door, suspended with a strange contraption of angled metal rods. As the door was opened the curtain lifted slightly, preventing being dragged under the door as it opened, pure genius, could do with one of those now. In wafted the smell of homemade chips, delicious. Ooh my mind shot to the kitchen, gosh I can remember that in detail too. “There you go,” she would say in a loving way, “that’ll make you grow big and strong.”

Beautifully crisp chips and fluffy insides, cooked on a gas stove in a pan two inches deep in lard, a real treat. Chips were a rarity in our household but if I visited Grandma on a Wednesday, this was what she always treated me to. And, I was allowed an egg. I wasn’t allowed an egg at home because I point blank refused to eat the white. I just couldn’t stand the taste nor the texture, it just used to make me gag. So I was not allowed eggs at home, but Grandma allowed me to leave the egg white. I would pull my little basket chair up to the table, pick up the big knife and fork, stab a chip with my fork, cut it in half to let the steam out and create a better surface for the yummy yolk to stick to. I loved its creamy runniness, dipping the chip into it and savouring every mouthful.

Hhmm think I might just treat myself one day to some ‘proper’ chips.