In the nighttime

To wake in the night can be to wake in a foreign country, a distant past, an uncertain future, a disorienting universe that creaks and swirls like a mist.

To wake to 'I need a wee' is a jolt. There are times this feels like an attack, an invasion by an uninvited force tearing you from sleep, wrenching you from bed and forcing you to trek across dark plains, through the blinding torture of the bathroom light and into an abyss of captivity, now a prisoner of wakefulness for dull minutes and hours.

There are other times when your body simply takes over while your mind pleads ignorance, denies all knowledge of the child calling, nay whining, 'carry me' and you rise, astral projection now a practised skill, and float through the darkness.

Sometimes, just sometimes though, it's all ok. The voice in the night calling for 'mummy' simply slides into sleep and wakes you gently from the dream you probably shouldn't have been having anyway (tush, tush, married woman). You slide from bed, awake but calm, and scoop up the faint outline of your child, hush away the fear of the bright light, soothe away the fear of going back to bed and then slide once more under your own covers.

You're awake now but just sometimes that doesn't matter. There's no need for a grumpy Facebook status, the kicking of covers in frustration, the scrambling for batteries for the book light. Sometimes it's perfectly alright to be awake in the night, to finally have time for thought (though it's best not to be rerunning that dream again even if it is the third time you've had it that week). There's time now to plan, to sort and sift, to banish, to invite, to linger, to drift and spiral and then wake some time later, when it's morning and you haven't grappled with the urgent need to sleep.

And so you start the day just a little readier for the foreign country, the uncertainty, the off-kilter universe of the daylight hours.

Pin the tail on the dinosaur.

Just finished painting this for my friend's little boy's 3rd birthday party. Each of the tails has a different Cath Kidston sticker on it to identify the players without writing their names on ... so we can use the whole thing again another time. Hope to get it all laminated to last longer too.

Cards - a handmade bilingual gift

I made these as a birthday present for a French friend. The white tags are detachable and double sided - English greeting on one side and French on the other so she can use them for English OR French friends/family. The tags on the front wrapper can also be removed as spares in case she needs a different greeting.

Cookie surprise

Some time ago, our lovely friend moved from the flat next door which she is now renting out. We just hadn't made enough effort to welcome our newest neighbour so Pumpkin and I made some cookies and chocolate crispies, made up a little base from card and wrapped everything up in clear wrap. Then we added parcel tags with a greeting and with little explanations about the yummy treats. We hung the gift on his front door so he would find it as a surprise.

Being crafty

This blogspot was mostly meant to be somewhere I could share things that I have written.  Quite frankly, I don't write much!  My vague notions that writing is a part of who I am seem to get swallowed up by so many other things that make me who I am and the more I think about it, the more I am perfectly happy with that.  Eve's Bower should really be about any form of creativity that I happen to express myself through.  Since producing my most beautiful creation, Charlotte 'Pumpkin', any writing I have done has been for her and I'm not sure yet whether this is the place to share such writing - it is, as I said, for her.  But I have done lots of other things that are about keeping a creative side of me ticking so I am making a pledge to share more of those.  What makes us who we are is never just one thing - maybe there will some writing on here again but to be 'Eve' means filling the bower with all manner of beautiful things!

Apparently my Granddad would have been 100 today and the family have been sharing their stories and memories of him so here are mine:

I think my memory would have to be Granddad’s hands (apart from the incredible head of hair, of course, still black well into old(er) age!). I remember holding his hand when out on day trips and can picture just how tiny mine would be in his; big bear like paws which seemed rough and hard working but smooth at the same time. I think he even used to let me press the pads of each finger as if he really was a bear. Those fingers always looked so incongruous with the little china cups and saucers in which Nanny insisted the tea be served and I remember thinking Granddad would be much happier with a mug and wishing she would let him have one!

I, too, remember being taken trainspotting, although I wish I could remember details like my Uncle is able to recall. I do remember sitting in the car for long periods of time, parked up in the car park of Hayes station. And I certainly attribute my love of being on trains with Granddad. Travelling through Russia to Mongolia was all about the train journey for me and I would rather take the train to Penzance than be stuck in a car any day. I even chose to write one of my essays at university on Victorian train sheds – not a popular choice amongst my fellow students but no doubt down to that everlasting interest which Granddad had instilled in me.

My other snapshot memories would be ‘peppmint’ cordial, Granddad in the garage and one of my favourite presents ever – a little green torch, operated by a single AA battery, which he gave me. This was the first torch I ever owned – I loved that it wasn’t a typical ‘girl’s’ present - and, strange as it seems, could probably be said to have a lot to do with where I am today; for the first time, I could carry on reading books under the covers at bedtime when Mum and Dad had made me turn off the light! He must have known there was an English teacher in me somewhere!

We are Magpies

For our 13s who flew the nest today. Mrs Magpie and her mate are sad to see them go but proud.

We are Magpies, she said
And they scratched gently with still soft beaks,
Tapped at the surface of a lifetime’s words
Stretched out before them;
Tales of misanthropes and windswept trees; of withered heights
And wuthered dreams.
And still they kept their feathers dry.

We are Magpies, she said,
And swore blue murder
There’d be room enough for them
To fill the view with interrogatives
Honed to an owl’s sharp wit:
Why men cry “breake, blowe, burn”;
Why shadowed women hold their breath;
And they peered outwards and inwards through the slanting light.

We are Magpies, he said
And dragged them up the corridor of time.
They learned, Delio-like,
to call a spade a spade,
And avoid plaugue-trodden pigeons
Where possible.

We are Magpies, they said,
Collecting others’ treasures,
Coveting another’s gifts
But not the cuckoo’s life for us;
Stay wild though seeming tame,
And find a tongue, give true account
And go.

May 2009

Sunday mornings in January