Writing
This page contains the link to various short stories I have written that have either been published by online journals, or on my own blog. Most are fiction, some creative non-fiction, and some relate to my yoga practice. I’ve put some on this page, but there’s many more if you click the button below. There’s also a link to a series of 8 line poems I wrote in the autumn and winter of 2023/4.
Practice
It is a warm enough morning for him to practice outside today.
Taking his gaze upwards, he is reminded of a beautiful Van Gogh painting he saw once in Paris, or was it Spain? Maybe it was in London. He can’t recall exactly where, and anyway, that part of the memory is not so important after all.
The terrace has a dark chestnut stained pergola that in the summer months he used to cover with sailcloth to provide respite from the summer sun, but now the grapevine has claimed it for its own, weaving in and out of the timbers. He put the sailcloth away somewhere or other, now it sits in the back of his mind, along with other memories.
The grapevine is a maze of gnarly grey scrawny fingers at the moment, without bud as far as he can see, (well, it is only March after all), and he’s not certain it will flourish again after the two metres of snow that fell suddenly from nowhere, last month.
His wife has a postcard of the Van Gogh somewhere. He thinks it was a cherry, or perhaps an apple tree, with pink blossom set against the bluest of sky, quite Japanese in a way, and quite beautiful. It may not even been a Van Gogh, he muses.
Sometimes one in-breath can seem to last for ever.
He folds forward, inwards. The muscles of the back of his legs grumble their objection. He is used to their whining, tends to ignore them, and simply wait. They usually surrender before his will does.
Taking his gaze inwards he hears the name Hokusai. He is counting his breath for his mantra, and Hokusai departs.
He is taking his thoughts inwards, where he is nothing but everything. In this moment he can be neither the past nor the future.
His Guru was a man of few words, not in English anyway. He would say: ‘practice is all,' and so, all has become ‘practice.’
Until Tomorrow
The mother of the murdered child has been standing ankle-high in the sea for the last twenty minutes. I recall the summer two years before when the murdered child was on this very terrace with her murdering husband: sun-kissed and lost in love — whispering, dabbing disinterest at their food, dreaming of tomorrows.
I come to this same taverna every summer: the same metronomic beat of cicadas, the same surprise when an unexpected gust of wind makes kites of sunhats, prises unripe olives from their branch, topples toddlers in the sea. I stay late sometimes, watch the sky change from blue to red to black, wait for the fluttering stars, a remembrance of life long ago.
In the shallows an Italian lady I know from yoga is with her son, splish-splashing laughter and love at each other. What a blessing to have born a child, I muse, reminded that ‘if only’ never really leaves us.
To be distracted, I feed threadbare oval-eyed cats the heads and spines from my sardines. It brings a smile.
My gaze reverts to the mother of the murdered child. Does she want to be alone? We have always said hi when we meet, but I don’t know the mother of the murdered child well. I never really knew the murdered child, but in such a small community you kind of know everyone; smile as each flower blossoms, weep as they wither.
I decide to join her in the sea, and if the mother of the murdered child wants to speak, I will listen. If she doesn’t want to speak, we can stand together, and if she doesn’t want me there at all, I will leave.
I approach. She falls into my open arms.
Never have I felt a heart so broken — never such suffering and pain that no mother, no parent, should ever have to endure.
We hold each other still, and here we will stay — even until the sun sleeps behind the mountain, or longer if she wants — until the tomorrows that never come.
Evil, Hurt, Rage, Good, and Hope
ever told her that you loved her?
vicious, hissing tongue
invited ghosts, imprisoned thoughts
looking no further than before
heaven cries for what he sees
underneath the underneath
reminded in a sleepless dream
torn from loving arms
running away, I never
asked for this or you
gunning for destruction
everything confused
gather up the wishes
of summer, spring, and fall
offer them to every child
deliver winter’s hope
hear angels on the wing
on the page, and in the song
peace in every feathered step
easy on the mind
Eve
She walks at dawn, the first to scar sand smoothed by the ocean, the first to mark the canvas with scalloped toe-prints, the first to see the sky dissolve, and the first to hear the songs of the wind.
She is tired, and so very close now. Her hand smooths over the dome of her unborn’s refuge, whispering to him love in its purest form, from the purest of places. She feels a kick of anger from within, and asks him why.
Come now, she says, stroking her belly again, this world was made for all men, in all of their forms, she tells him. He kicks again, harder this time, and a tiny fracture bejewels her heart.
She lies upon the magic stone, burnished and cooled by the waves of the moon. The cave is dark beyond black, quiet beyond silence.
And here she sleeps, and here she dreams, and here she will wait.
Awakened by the howling of wolves, she knows it is time. Through the portal of the cave’s entrance, she sees the moon; milky and full and bathed in the diaphanous silk of clouds.
The wolves’ cries dance on the wind; the wind dances with the sea. Waves, rising and falling: waves of rage, of calm, of life, and of death.
And so he is born.
He emerges from the cave to take his place in this world, to kick, to fight and to struggle, and to carry with him forever a part of his mother.
I am…
Lauren can put her leg behind her head. She can only do this because she does it many times a week - many times a month - many times a year. And she has done this for many years. She does not truly know why she does this; it has never become an easy thing to do. She followed her guru’s instructions, though he spoke no English. She followed his directions, though at times he seems disinterested in her. She follows him still, though he is no longer of flesh. She still hears him in her head.
Some days her body is simple - her mind is complex. Some days her body is complex - her mind is simple. This is her journey. Every day she swims, sometimes with the tide, sometimes against the tide. This is her life. Her practice has become her gauge.
Lauren does not like the dark. She cannot see in the dark as those big-eyed fish in the deep oceans do. Sometimes Lauren is in the dark. She does not like the dark. Lauren can put her leg behind her head. It helps her escape the dark. Her Guru says life is simple - said; life is simple. Lauren had, has her doubts. Guru laughs, freely, like a child. Life was never simple, life is never simple, but she heads towards the light, and on some days she too laughs, though not as freely as her Guru.
Lauren can hold her breath, her breath in, and her breath out. Holding her breath in, or her breath out, brings stillness into her mind, calming the waves. It brings stillness to every single cell of her body. Life can be simple, and sometimes, even beautiful.
Lauren has been learning Greek. Her favourite verb is εἰμαι. Εἰμαι translates as ‘I am.’ Her favourite Sanskrit mantra is ‘So ham.’ It can be said to mean ‘I am that.’ She breathes out with the sound of ‘soooo’ in her mind, and she breathes in with the sound ‘hummm,’ also in her mind. These are also the natural sounds of the breath. When reversed, the mantra becomes ‘Ham sa,’ it is said to mean, ‘that I am.’ This is a helpful mantra for Lauren.
Even when she is in the darkest ocean, where only the fish with big eyes can see, she knows that light is sure to follow. She just has to be patient, put her leg behind her head, and breathe.