These are my musings and observations on my daily life, loves and the laughter that are all a part of my experience of living now in the shires of England.

Thursday, 18 April 2013

Silence - poetry by Marjorie H Morgan


Silence

In the day,
And in the night
Twinned thoughts and
Feelings are exposed -
Raw like a fresh wound
They are tangled
Through my heart
They affect my breathing.
I see them everywhere I look.
Sleep can be quiet and
Sometimes silence is the only solace.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2013 

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Sleep massage


When things threaten to overwhelm you do you ever get the urge to retreat away from everybody and everything? I do. That’s when I like to go to sleep.

Finding my most comfortable position to lie in I’ll pull my duvet closely around me, try to clear my mind and then, hopefully, sink into slumber.

Like a reflexology session for the feet,  a good sleep is a massage that affects the whole body.

Sleep can sometimes remove all those rushing thoughts from my head. Like using a pencil eraser they are removed from my conscious mind as sleep floats me gently away from my waking cares. If I do manage to be cradled by a deep sleep I invariably wake up feeling differently about the situation I was retreating from.

My mind is clearer. I can think again.

Sleep can straighten things up - from the inside out.

Zzzzzzzz


Friday, 12 April 2013

Success at failing


Today I had cause to think about disappointments and failings and immediately someone came to mind who has been a success at failing.

You see, this person has wonderfully and consistently failed  ... to disappoint me. They have been successful at failing. To me that counts as a sign of a successful friendship.

I just hope that others see me in the same way at some time: a victorious failure.


Tuesday, 9 April 2013

I am not my hair

I am not my hair ...

My hair – 9th April 2013 
... but what will it be like tomorrow? 
© Marjorie H Morgan (2013) 


“You have good hair”
“Is it real?”
“Can I touch it?”
“Have you got any weed?”
“Ha! Jackson 5 hair.”
“Is it all yours?”
“It feels like a carpet.”
“Can I use it for a weave?”
“How do you do it like that?”
“Do you have bad hair?”
“I like it when you wear your hair down.”
“I like it when you wear your hair up.”
“Can I play with it?”
“Is it hard?”
“Is it soft?”
“Does it hurt?”
“It suits you.”
“I don’t like your hair like that.”
“How often do you wash it?”
“Can you comb it?”
“Does it feel like a Brillo pad? It looks like one.”
“Your hair is so soft.”
“You have tough hair.”
“Have you ever cut it?”
“Don’t cut it.”
“Cut it, it’s too long.”

I am not my hair. My hair is part of my identity. Or so it seems. People always have a lot to say about other people’s hair. I have been no exception. I have shared a few of the comments I have heard over the years. These are all fresh in my mind now because I am thinking about cutting my hair – much shorter.

I have no idea why this thought process has taken so long to come to any sort of firm conclusion so I’m releasing them here to find some clarity.

For years as a child I was told that I had “good hair”. What is that exactly? What makes hair good or bad? It’s ability to grow faster than other hair? I guess so because mine did (and still does) just that.

I am on my second lot of locs. The first set I cut off completely about 9 years ago. Back then I grew them down my back, pretty much the same as I have now; this lot is longer – I can almost sit on them now. My history of locs seem to be a cycle of letting them grow and then cutting them off, but the cutting time also appears to have been delayed by me right now. I’ve been musing on a quick trim, a medium cut, or a totally new start for a while but still I hesitate and the scissors stay sheathed. Why is it such a big issue to cut my hair right now – I think it’s starting to become a big thing so I’ve been reflecting on the history of my hair and hair as part of identity.

I’ve looked back at my photographs and remembered what I was doing when I had different hair styles. My hair really does tell a journey of my growth and change in different circumstances. But surely that was my hair changing and not me? Different hair styles show a difference but they don’t show all of me. I am not my hair.

However, I do like having some hair. You see, I’ve been thinking about the loss of hair – through accident, illness, age, or choice. Each situation has a different affect on the person involved. Hair is more important that I first gave it credit for. It’s part of a uniform, a means of entry or exclusion from different groups; it is a badge of identity. Hair has a character all of its own. Hair is both political and social. How your hair is worn has links to gender divisions, theories about sexuality, images of beauty and power and concepts of ‘wrong’ or ‘right’ hair.

Hair speaks volumes whether a skinhead or locs-head. Hair, like eyes or clothes, is a window into a person’s identity.

This has led me back to thinking.

I am not my hair ... or am I?

To snip or not to snip? That is the question ...

India.Arie - I Am Not My Hair ft. Akon















Thursday, 4 April 2013

Good Friday?


Hot cross buns and Easter eggs were in abundance all around town. We didn’t have any in our house. Not because I’m mean, but because they don’t really have anything to do with my interpretation of the death and crucifixion of Jesus Christ. I may be wrong. I often am.


Good Friday (as recorded in the Bible) seemed to be a record of suffering. But also about hope. That’s what I seem to recall.

My recent Friday before Easter reminded me of sad times and how people suffer. It was a freezing cold day – the temperature here in the Shires was just nudging above zero for the first time since dawn, and I was sat in my warm car just after noon with the fan heater on high.

I was waiting for someone to return from the shop around the corner and they were taking ages. I called them on the phone but it went straight to voice mail. Ten or more minutes passed and I was getting agitated with the delay. Then it all changed. Thoughts of my discomfort were gone.

A car that had been parked opposite me moved off. The occupants had just left the supermarket and loaded up their car with bags of goodies – I’d guess chocolate eggs and hot cross buns could have been amongst their purchases. As they drove off I saw a man sat on the ground in a crossed-legged pose. His head was bowed and he was almost motionless. I watched. He sat. More minutes passed.

People on his side of the road passed him by. He didn’t move to look at them. They in turn didn’t look at him. He seemed invisible to them. My heart broke as I saw more flurries of snow start to fall. I tried the phone again. Still no reply and no sight of the person either.

Like a stalemate chess game I sat and looked at the man on the ground. He sat and kept his head towards the ground. Suddenly the car door opened and a blast of cold air entered the car with the two bags of steaming freshly cooked chips.

I sadly pointed to the man on the ground.

“I was calling you,” I said, “I wanted you to get another bag of chips for him.”

I took a bag and started to eat the delicious hot food.

It was quiet. I felt a stare.

And a question. “You were going to get one? What? Aren’t you still going to do it?”

I had hesitated. I think maybe I didn’t want to get out straightaway because it was cold and I was hungry. Those facts hit me in the warm silence of the car.

I was wrong. I knew I would never rest if I drove off without doing something. I handed my chips back and, somewhat shamefacedly I got out of the car.

“Tell him about the Hope Centre,” I was told as I closed the door and hurried across the road.

“Excuse me,” I said to him as I reached his side.

He looked up at me and my heart broke again.

“Would you like some food? Maybe some hot chips or something?”

His eyes smiled and there was more warmth in that connection that in the whole of the county.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he responded, “Yes, please. Thank you.”

“I won’t be a moment,” I assured him and rushed back to the shop that seemed to take forever to serve people. However, I was in and out within two minutes and back at his side with the food. He gratefully took the bag and thanking me again he bent his head and started to hungrily devour the contents.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he repeated as I walked away. I should have thanked him really.

By the time I had crossed the street to my car several other people seemed to notice him there and stopped to speak with him. He raised his head between mouthfuls and nodded to them as they asked him if he wanted anything.

I nearly neglected that opportunity to help someone suffering on that Good Friday, because I felt cold. But if I did stay in the warmth and comfort of my surroundings I would not have seen the ripple effect that kindness has on people all around.

It helps to step out of our comfort zone. I know this. It makes a little difference that may turn into a big difference as the motion of change continues.



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