~The slowed motions of crimson flair
and the deluge of butterflies
against the charcoal of our skies~

~Push through the fizz of explosions
and you might find
rolled under the anchor of time
the least expected connection~


~Mock oranges just blossoming
remind me of your lullaby
holding your hand through barricades~   

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Our Citroën 2CV grips the steep hills leading to school, a blatant hint to our origin: orange and adorned with Astérix and Obélix that papa painted on its sides.  The fifteen minutes drive is quite an ordeal for the old Adelaide, the pet name given to every one of papa's cars, both since and before. 
I quietly urge her to make it through the carousel of dips and slopes as they play havoc with my quiet vertigo.  At times I stop breathing, convinced that the car will never reach the top of the steepest of hills, reverse of its own accord, beaten by the superior tilt. I'm quite sure that gravity implies this cannot work.  Yet it does, every time, but the fear doesn't subside.  It lingers on, somewhere between my anxious mind and clumsy limbs.  Nighttime affords little respite. I often dream of it breaking down, despite papa's best efforts and my panicked attempts to push the driver's seat forward to give it the impetus it needs, but it rolls back, all the way down to the narrow snake of tarmac verging on the arid terrains bordering the cliff-like inclinations jaggedly, before the desert swallows us.

The squeaky green gate of the French School Of Jerusalem pushes open reluctantly and I timidly join a sea of deafening toddlers and older children waiting for kinder-garden to kick-start its short day.  I am three years old, and we just moved from southern France to Jerusalem.  

My parents belonged to a Christian charismatic community, La Théophanie, and we lived in an old monastery in Ein Karem, on the outskirts of Jerusalem.  We had no electricity nor running water; we shared meagre supplies with other families, monks, nuns, recovering drug users, all intent on spreading their truth in the densely spiritual morsels of the Holy Land.   
I vaguely remember watching them as they concocted their own version of mass, heavily inspired by the Byzantine rites; I witnessed, distant, their singing in tongues.  It sounded made-up and nowhere near as harmonious as the languages around us.  My brother is four years older than me, and together we mashed up English, Arabic and Hebrew to communicate with each other.  It was our language of unity; we needed no one else to converse.
Soon, mama was to break away from the life she convinced papa was their destiny, taking me with her back to France, leaving my brother behind.  Mama had found, in one of the monks, a soulmate who encouraged her spiritual quests; she was going to save the Holy Land, her destiny was beyond that of a mother and wife. It took a couple of years before Mama's recurring ill health became a driving force in needing to return to France since the local doctors couldn't fathom how to treat her.  And so I followed her to a gloomy Paris, where, very soon after our arrival, the monk came to visit.  Papa never believed his relentless claims he was just mama's spiritual father.  His fears had been rebuffed by the community's leader, who suggested he should instead work with his jealousy and pray further. Papa soon received divorce papers, and as his world collapsed, he also left the Théophanie, my brother in tow, for months of disarray, jobless and poverty-stricken.  They survived on a diet of harissa paste on pitta bread for several weeks. Once they left the community, there was no safety net. Papa spoke 10 words of English, Arabic and Hebrew.  All our belongings gifted to La Théophanie, our old house and papa's heart.
It was the mid seventies, and whilst their peers were seeking free love and hallucinogens, my parents wanted to save the planet and its lost souls.  We were vegetarians, eating organic produce, we wore clothes donated to the Red Cross and pushed back against the capitalist culture. 
My brother  was more interested in performing, singing at the top of his lungs and making up plays where I would become his toy, following his command and watching in awe as he created costumes and characters for me to rehearse. 
We held on to each other and played in the shade of the pine trees, cones full of pine nuts housed in their shiny black shells which we learnt to break open with stones to reveal the creamy edibles.  We sank our famished teeth into thick cuts of watermelons, the juice staining my face before mama would wipe it away with a wet soapy flannel, and I would religiously put my tongue out to taste the soap. That and salt, two of my favourite things.
Night-times were haunted by the screeching sounds of the jackals, the relentless mosquitoes and the salamanders, pale and musical, beady eyes locking into mine watching me upside down.  I never tried to stroke them, I just imagined they felt as they looked, faithful companions of bedtime.

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~Acid drenched oceans,
in slushy sarcophagus, 
raspberry motions~



~Vivid raspberry curse
within thirst matted coulis
pulls a sunset in reverse~



~Brittle sesame
snaps into corrosion
raspberry malice~



~Nautical motion
raspberry red rippling stain
swirling on cushions~




~Tangy mash-up
in velvet lullaby
tiny portions of powdered butterflies~




~Seedless potions in laminated skies
slow locomotion
as you welcome the tides~

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My footsteps, slow under the burning heat, shuffling along the solid slabs, the pink stones from Bethlehem
sliced into cubes turned into homes
with a cupola for a dome.
I hum, in a quiet whisper, alongside the languorous call to prayer, a sorrowful sound I love and long for, as it peppers each of my days 
alongside the church bells 
and the sun, 
the air heavy with particles of the red sand of nearby deserts. 
The twist of streets and la Via Dolorosa leading the pilgrims furrowed against me in their haste to reach the Holy Sepulchre.

It stands in its robust and Baroque build,
I see the guards and their weapons, in their fatigues, vying for shade.
I step inside the Holy site, touch the damp Stone of Anointing, then walk to the crucifixion: the word Golgotha strikes me as Gothic filled with incantations, 
And I ponder, 
was Jesus really crucified, 
buried and resurrected in this very site...
it has a tangible heartbeat. 
What would he make of the inside of this sanctuary 
split up into an unlikely holy bread, 
the tiny variety shared in Greek orthodox ceremonies.   

I like to quietly step into each of these dissident communities: the Armenians, the Ethiopians, Anglicans and Lutherans; the Greek Orthodox, Syriac and Coptic, I can't recall them all. It's been a tense cohabiting, they try to share the space and breathe in the short supply of oxygen within the cloying incense, 
the sweat,  
the air swollen with the tail end of burnt matches...where else are the same praying candles sold a dozen times, recycled to the very next lot of pilgrims as they're still in sight; each group of three ushered into the cramped cubicle housing relics, their freshly lit candles promptly blown out ready to resell to the next fervent three. Cloaked in monastic black habit, the clergymen walk furtively past me, their long greying beards part in the pious haste, the more shekels in their pocket, the better their longevity. 

I stroll around the heart of the temple turned church, then sepulchre, destroyed and rebuilt through the years.  Constantine, the Crusaders and Salah-Eddin, all that has happened here and all around me has left prints 
and scents 
and souls. I step up, or down into each micro-chapel, trying in vain to remember who's rite it represents.  Some are austere, other showcase a gilded glory, each one attracts a fervent crowd huddled and solemn, 
and I wonder how it feels to have faith.  

Instead I inhale this precious cocoon, and hold  on to the grounding it affords me. 
I know, I have always known how lucky I am to be growing up in this majestic town, this sliced up city of occupied eastern Jerusalem. I treasure each step, each stone sculpted within the same parameter as the one it rests against, its veins twirling into its pale pink fingerprint, melting into the milky whiteness of its chalk.  
I am preparing to leave, this will stretch out for years, locomoting months twining into the next, galloping time I cannot tame.  
I learn instead to inhale each frame.  
I watch how we step away from the scriptures to fan power, how we can't easily see our own darkness, 
but 
from where I stand,
it is all just the same beauty, 
we could live together, 
we could find a way to share without needing more.  We always seem to want more. 
 
I stand alone, watching the rush to piousness as it unfolds all around me.   I walk around a little more, absorbing the Rococo dampness and the blessed water, the heavy scent of rose petals, the delicate orange blossom. 
The heady spoors that will never leave me. My very own Madeleines.

By the corner of the Holy Sepulchre, stands the souk; at the entrance of the dark cobbled paths, the makeshift shop overflowing with lokums (cubes based on a gel of starch, sugar, mastic gum, bergamot orange and pistachios), canaries, and souvenirs from the Holy Land; the blown glass from Hebron, leather sandals, and the rainbow of printed t-shirts (I❤ Jerusalem).  
We just wanted the bird, skittish and bright yellow, he sang with all the grace of his booming heart and strident plumage.  We guarded him fiercely because we loved him, and because he was excessively pricey (as he spoke seven languages.) 

The burning tea in tiny glasses, too sweet, the freshly crushed mint, the food shared, the beaming smiles, the impossible kindness, and the gracious philosophy; things will be fine, God will provide, as I wish I too could believe.  I soak up what I can, the generous humanity, the recipes, the serenity and all the salted seeds.

I am alive and burning in this ancient City, 
I can still feel the dry sun rays and the blinding light;  
the hessian bags full of paprika, cumin, sumac, zahtar and cinnamon, 
the slow happiness of a soup full of languages mostly unknown to me.  
I revisit all of it, it is a vibrant memory, 
it is in here as I inhale, 
and I exhale, 
it holds my soul in a gentle headlock.  

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~Oval leaves and round cherries

tiny flecks of pepperish

cedars clawing on frontiers~

~Through the drone buzzing of faith

find a dome chanting atoms

a’cappella and sea foam~

~Surfing edges of the ice

with incisive claws

reveal flambéing disguise~

~Cardamon ground in its plume

Turkish coffee spice

and decipher its fortune~

~Bite an olive fresh from tree

it’s a thousands miles away

from the brine variety~

~Shaking trees to feel the breeze

underneath the biting sun

gorging on sticky fresh figs~

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~Smashed opened watermelons

green wax turns into venom

pickaxes to swollen sap~

~Feverish adolescence

no hunger for trespass

slow-baking effervescence~

~Lacquered pips in darkest ink

and a coral fleshy bloom

drumming into plumes of zinc~

~Flowers into reddish flesh

and a compass to nowhere;

as the earth oozes its rage~

~A thousand globes rolling

like fugitives sobbing

into the clay of Pompeii~

~Naked trees raking the skies

fishtailing the thirsty ground

once so green; yellow crumble~

~Yield a sword to lull all fear

cherish bruised watermelons

instead of cloying weapons~

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“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project that organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

Read the Collection

Pennsylvania, 1983.

Standing in the fields of freshly cut hay, the rubied sun still visible in its hazy horizon, I watched the hurried routine around me, and my heart was ready to burst. It had been another day of busied love, between my parents and I, between our horses and I, and the flavour of life on the ranch had a pace that suited my fresh energy.

I was just 12, back at school after a summer spent devouring books and riding my new horse, Picasso. I chose that name because he was so black he was nearly blue, and I only liked Picasso’s blue series, and it just made me smile.

Life was soft, my world was gentle, and although I enjoyed school, I was cocooned in the tender breeze of warmth my parents had created for us three. Days at home were my favourite; after a routine breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, we started the ritual feeding of chickens, geese, dogs and horses. We named every single one of them depending on their personalities, and I often thought I would end up working with animals if I couldn’t earn a crust as a writer.

My parents were teenage sweethearts, still so in love and tactile it was really embarrassing… They worked together all day long, and then they still wanted to go to the pictures and out for dinner together at least once a week, leaving me home with my grandpa, Hector. Grandma died before I was born, and Hector’s world dimmed out for a while.  Mama was dedicated to her parents and it made sense to have her dad move in on the farm so he would nestle in the annex next door to the main house.  He brought all his tools from his time as a woodturner, and made bird houses, salt and pepper mills, egg cups and a wooden rocking horse for me which I still have to this day. 

Grandpa also made the best pancakes, and we’d have a stack of them with zigzags of sticky maple syrup, a handful of crushed raspberries, and “a dusting of confectioner's sugar”, he always insisted. Grandpa shook a little more every summer, and any dusting turned into a puffed explosion that made me sneeze.

“ Bless you, Sissi…mm, are you sure you are well enough for pancakes…?!”

-”Yes, grandpa, always!”

I invariably felt a bit queasy afterwards, full of sugar and lulled in grandpa’s gentle attention. We’d then tidy the kitchen, “we always redecorate when you cook, grandpa…!” Snuggled with a book and a sleepy dog each, we then read until my eyelids burnt and I‘d give in. I would have to wait till morning to hear what mom and dad had for dinner, how they shared each other’s food, and the complicated desserts they discovered.

As soon as they got home, however late, they both creeped in quietly to whisper “Goodnight, Sissi, love you so much.”

Towards the end of summer, dad exceptionally went on a hunting trip without mama. It was just a long weekend away and he returned as promptly as he could to tell us all about what he ate, the colour of the sky, who he met.  Inside his battered old suitcase, he dug out ”something just for you, Sissi!”  I looked on excitedly at the indigo silk paper laced with a wide velvet ribbon loosely tied.  I carefully untied and revealed the most beautiful suede vest, adorned with delicate fringes, in a sunny tan tone that fitted me like a glove!  It contrasted with my long dark locks, and I felt so grown up wearing it, feminine in a bohemian way that fitted with my still tomboyish spirit. I loved the gentle swaying of the fringes against my blue jeans, tickling each step I took.  I hugged him  “thank you dad!”, so excited and overwhelmed that dad chose it for me on his own, and it was so perfect.  I decided to wear it to school too as the weather was ripe for it.  I worried I might outgrow it too soon, and mama agreed: “You mustn't keep growing any more, Sissi, or it won’t fit you by Christmas!”

And so I wore it to school, elated by this one item of clothing that swelled up with the love that we carefully concocted between us. I was excited as I could feel myself walking taller, catching my reflection I could see I almost looked grown-up as I made my way to school that morning.  When inner joy makes you grin almost uncontrollably, and nothing can touch you, or so it seems.  That’s how I felt that morning, until I walked past Tony and his friends, loitering outside the school’s entrance. Tony was the golden boy, a charmer who could bend the rules, push the boundaries and somehow find his way back on his feet, every single time.  He was a couple of years older than me, we didn’t hang out at all but I knew he was popular with all the girls; not with me though, I much preferred books and horses. 

As I walked past him, still grinning as the soft fringes swayed back and forth, he whistled mockingly and started chanting at the top of his voice:

”Horse woman!...Horse woman!” in what seemed like an endless loop, interrupted only by the loud cackles of his friends pointing at me as I walked away furtively, by that point no longer walking tall. Tears in my eyes, I rushed into my classroom, shocked by how quickly Tony’s nastiness had destroyed my joy. I had to dig deep to stop myself from crying, so angry at myself for not having kept my new vest for home; what possessed me to think it was a good idea to wear it for school? I looked around and noticed everyone else wearing the usual combo of jeans and t-shirts, the odd sweatshirt but no one else had anything remotely similar to a grown-up garment. I started to feel like such a fool, sitting alone with my unease. It felt like the longest school day ever, as I kept dipping in and out of focus, struggling to stay on task as I replayed Tony’s taunts, his friends' sniggers, over and over. I kept  wishing I could rewind to the morning and take off the stupid vest. I found myself striving to avoid bumping into Tony all day long. A couple of teachers asked if all was ok, I seemed miles away apparently. I lied it was nothing, and tried harder to conceal how upset I really was. I couldn’t wait to get home and take off this dreaded vest and never wear it again.  

At long last, the school day ended, I took my time to gather my stuff, knowing Tony usually couldn’t wait to leave so the slower I was, the better.  Stood by the school gate, dad waited for me, checking his watch and waved a huge grin when he saw me. A hug later, as we drove off home, dad asked me his favourite question: “What made you smile today?” frowning and disconcerted, I told him nothing, not today. A puzzled glance at his rear-view mirror, he  sighed: ”Oh, Poppet, why nothing?”

Silent tears rolling down my frowning face, dad knew something bad had occurred. “We’ll talk about it with mama, we’ll sort it, sweetheart.”  His right hand sought mine and he gently tapped it three times, quick taps so he could return to driving with both hands.

After a long hug with mama, another one with dad, and one from grandpa, we sat on the veranda and I told them what happened. I sobbed all my hurt and anger. How I was never going to be able to wear what I liked, how I hated school, and boys, all of them. Eventually, no more tears to shed, I heard a few words of reassurance as I went on my way to groom Picasso. Nuzzling into his softness, I quietly watched the earth swallow the giant yolk the sun had turn into. A pinch of fear as I thought of the next morning, how I dreaded walking into school. Would Tony be there again, what would he say this time? I suspected he would comment on my not wearing the vest this time, having finally seen sense or some other rubbish; I didn't know what to expect, what to say, how to behave. All these things I never had to worry about before, had suddenly morphed into my new reality: an anxious replay and then roleplaying ways to expect and prepare for everything. If only I could, I would never return to school. Could I be home-schooled? I started to imagine all kinds of ways to avoid having to relive the experience of the morning. My usually free and open mind suddenly preoccupied with all the hostile possibilities of my life now changed forever.

My parents were setting off for dinner out in town that evening, so grandad tried his best to cheer me up; alongside baking, his tried and tested method was to recite every single dad joke he could remember. I too knew them by heart, and they really were lame, but watching his delivery as his overgrown eyebrows seemed suddenly demented moving to punctuate important details and the punchline, I still laughed, that delicious laugh that follows tears. 

The following morning, my parents slept-in but I found a note on the breakfast table addressed to me. I unfolded it and in my father’s tidy handwriting stood this enigmatic message:

“If you think it is right, think of Blue Ice. We have it. It will be the answer." 

I had never heard of Blue Ice; what could it be, and, more pressingly, how on earth could it help me stop Tony being so mean? Grandpa didn’t know either, he said he would help me look for it but would need to talk to my dad first to understand where we stored it and how I could make use of it.

I thought about it all day long at school; Tony was loitering again when I first arrived at school, and feigning surprise, looked me up and down and asked :” What’s happened to horse woman…gone already?!” I ignored him and his stupid friends giggling their heads off, thinking well, at least I might be able to do something to stop them now.

But what exactly? I wished the day away, impatiently waiting for some good news and a bundle of instructions. I was so excited to get back home, hoping my favourite accomplice Hector might have gathered sufficient intel so we could locate the famous Blue Ice.

“Well?..” I asked optimistically.

“Nope, no joy my darling, mama and dad wouldn’t tell me anything. But they said we’ll talk it through over a glass of lemonade.”

In the warm afternoon sun, we settled on the patio, iced lemonade and my dad started to explain to me.

“When we grow in a loving place, with loving parents and grandparents, even siblings as I did, we don’t really know how to deal with other places and people who don’t know that very love and happiness.  They see what we have, and maybe they get jealous, maybe they're just clumsy, don’t know what to do with things you can’t see, can’t destroy. Instead they try to make you feel rubbish so they’re not alone anymore. They curse at you, they poke fun at you, they want to hurt you real bad, and it works because you’re not prepared for it. You are lucky you’re not used to it, but with that luck comes your vulnerable side. You cry, you hurt, maybe you even want to hurt them back, so they suffer as much as you do. But if that’s what you do, are you really any better than them? And it’ll leave you feeling wrong, like you’re mean and where does it all end? From what I’ve seen of the world, we can all become the one thing we hate the most. The thing is to know that danger, and to not get hooked into it.

But we have a secret weapon, our Blue Ice…you know the way ice is solid once it sets, how slowly it melts? Imagine being surrounded by the toughest ice sheet, as blue as the bluest sky of summer so you feel the warmth despite the ice? Picture yourself dipping into our never-ending ramparts of Blue Ice every time you step outside home, no longer alone, no longer fragile, yet still you. Whatever the Tony’s of this world try to throw at you to hurt you won’t get to you anymore, that inner protection will deflect the stuff that would usually hurt you and damage you. It may not be the only answer, but perhaps it is, it’s for you to decide, Sissi.”

There was a small part of me slightly disappointed that Blue ice wasn’t hiding in a secret compartment on the shelves of dad’s bureau. I had wondered how it might feel to the touch, how I might enjoy throwing it at those mean enough to mock me. And yet, I felt myself imperceptibly sitting taller as I received my dad’s vote of confidence that I too had been gifted the inner strength he gratified with getting our entire family through the ebbs and flows of life.  All the things I had been told through family anecdotes, the quiet, kind steel that armoured us enough to survive and thrive despite adversities, I had it too?  Did that mean I shouldn’t worry about being prepared with repartee, about being witty enough or tough enough: it was already in me! 

My father’s conviction that I too had my own precious bucketful of Blue ice was to prove life-affirming, as from then on I learnt to hold my nerve in times of uncertainty, in the face of aggression. I no longer felt alone and broken open by external aggressions.  The gift of confidence was a most transformative experience for me, and the emotional astuteness of my parents morphed into the backbone I needed.

In time, I shared it with close friends, and our precious Blue Ice became the gift that best defined my childhood. It travelled well through the younger generations too as I delighted in passing it on to my own children, who embraced the tradition and gifted it to their own.

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~Croissant de moon flex upon me

it is my playful duty

to stretch wide in the breeze~

~One Galette des Rois

is enough to convert me

to frangipane ouate~

~Rosaries on speed

carousels to nowhere else

plough into concrete~

~Polish that Joy before collapse

do not turn off the taps

swelled up with acid rain~

~Last scintilla of breath

thousand kites swallowed up in skies

not one stone left to crest~

White linens ripped in three halves,

one for death, two more for kites

frozen rubble tilting nights~

~Audacious sea lions spilt

the cadence of malaise,

urban foes to pestilence~

~There is no more sea

its goo thick like raspberries

hushing the skittish~

~Resistance is indigo

craft a crunch in solid scorch

in a trance of existence~

~Chasing for punctures

in liminal seas

all heartbeats succoured~

~Croissant de moon slicing open

linen Sisyphean of the seas

secateurs of calligraphy~

Galette des Rois: Traditional French puff pastry frangipane tart yielding a hidden charm.

Ouate: Soft and fluffy cotton wool wadding.

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~Into quietude

Devouring of zesty fields

One beatitude~

~Grey dust takes over

all wailing of zesty fields

in shallow prayers~

~Urban disarray

revolution sans access

zesty fields foray~

~Zesty fields of hay

enough to harpoon my heart

flaying acid rain~

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Share The Bite Of The Sun

~Percolated feuds

In orange blossom waters

shark infested snoods

bleeding into three quarters

fizzy altitudes~

~Blood orange used to blossom

in Galilea’s

fields of heavy pomelos

now just pips of pith

tipped angular dominoes~

~Pebbled pistachios

orange blossom and syrup

sorbet iced mangoes;

and petals from three roses~

~Fresh and frothy carrot juice

land of honeyed-milk-

blossom orange truce~

~Plumes in bleeding flow

blossom orange crystalised

bruised olives and foes~

~Orange blossom and flowers

dispersing inland

its now bloodied powers~

~There is no solace

if all we do is destroy

orange blossom cloy~

~Orange, the precious blossom

cascading into

crosses in chemical cloths~

~How long will this pause

infuse orange blossom back

into cloudless skies~

~What comes after this?

You decide; orange, blossom,

a glimpse into peace~

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Our late Tuxedo has left huge snow boots to fill. She’s also left our hearts wide open and ready to love more. I tend to overthink and procrastinate, whereas my husband will make things happen. And so Pocket happened!

A 6 months old rescued kitten who hissed and hid in the most unsavoury places (behind the dishwasher and then the boiler). We had forgotten how kittens will squeeze into the tiniest spots, and our kitchen wasn’t as kitten-proof as we’d thought.

After a couple of days of rescuing her and trying in vain to tempt her to eat, Pocket started to come round. She has lavished me with the most unexpected cuddles as she nestles in my lap and purrs endlessly, dreaming active pursuits and kneading the air. I expected weeks of gradual progress, and to see how quickly she has started to trust me and to blossom is a privilege. I explain things to her and she drinks it all in; I’m training her to walk alongside my chunky boots, not suicide-slalom when she excitedly follows me to get her nourishment. Pocket lived in a pen from the age of 1 month until we adopted her. Each room is gradually revealed, mirrors covered as she scared herself, and her personality is peering out.

I thought it was too soon, I’m so glad I was wrong. I feel a sense of deep relaxation and pure happiness when Pocket finds her best spot on my lap. Her legs are so long, she often miscalculates height and depth and collapses with the elegance of a feline bambi. As I type or read, Pocket jumps into my lap and positions her lithe ink black body so my heart turns into her pillow. I notice her limbs fishtailed across my thighs as she drops her head knowing I will catch her and maintain the pose patiently until she wakes. Pocket seeks my eyes and gently stretches her paw until it reaches my face; she points her velvety chin up towards me and tickles my cheeks with her whiskers.

Seven weeks between the death of our Tuxedo and finding Pocket. In their difference I feel a link. I am less shy about treating my treasured pets as beloved sentient beings. I thank Pocket for adopting me. Her big golden eyes locking into mine, she’s part owl, part seal.

I needed to be reminded of the joy and love in the world, and that’s exactly what’s happening.

I hope you too, friend, have joy that’s enough to sustain you.💚

I’ll leave you with a few haikus inspired (quite randomly) by liquorice ;

~Just like liquorice

your smooth ink flows indigo

scales on yellow fish~

~Just like liquorice

the dark velvet of your cloak

gentle feline niche~

~Monochrome sketchings

nestle their souls up my sleeves

just like liquorice~

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Through Jason McBride’s , I recently discovered haikus and the following exercises are the results. From Tricycle, I followed the prompt “autumn sun.” I decided to practice within the constraints of a 5/7/5 syllables haiku. I like succinct, but usually share poems I wrote years ago, often revised several times over and sometimes extensively re-written. The following I only wrote a few days ago. This is completely out of my comfort zone, yet it felt quite natural.

As I went through the exercise, I wondered about incorporating the phrases or words that I jot down as I read other newsletters and comments. Words I treasure because they make me smile, they are liquid kindness, they teach me something.

This then became a modest accolade and a giant thank you; I have italicised each word or idea so you may find yourself easily. 💚

1. The panther of fear

through her gilded autumn suns

blinks a hungry squeal~

2. Watch the autumn sun

As it gallops through the fields

Burning like kindling~

3. There is no more fear

hissed the swollen autumn sun,

through dishevelled tears~

4. Punctures in the sky

reveal seven autumn suns;

God is juggling now~

5. Please don’t drown alone,

May your oceans be gentle

and each autumn sun~

6. Arid or pluvial

in tender autumn suns:

hug a marsupial~

7. Soy hopeless, mon Dieu!

Babbling through the autumn suns,

Bambies and bead ferns~

8. Put the kettle on,

Enough of this persiflage:

Drink the autumn sun~

9. Such mess, such wastage…

the best cure for griffonage

is the autumn sun~

10. Thoughtful platypus

in liminal harmonies

vows the autumn sun~

11. Detonate or save

what is left of the planet,

autumn sun granite~

12. Como un bébé

crawling in the autumn sun

it makes my heart sway~

13. Within a haiku

hid a lune; autumn sunburn,

Mock orange for plumes~

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I had planned to start sharing the first chapter of my memoir but the events unfolding like a brutal nightmare in the heart of the Middle East have stopped me in my tracks.

I feel as though I am stuck on the edge of a precipice of tears as I watch and listen to the horrors being unleashed. That difference, of any kind, should still be utilised to destroy and torture another being, another nation, will never cease to fill me with pain that sticks like treacle and makes me wonder how do we manage to still get to this point.

I know there’s not much I can do, but like many of us I funnel my energy into what I can. I am full of words and images I can’t write nor draw; instead, this week, I baked. Florentines and their accidental landscapes of toasted chunks of almonds, caramelised fruity tarte tatin, Battenberg, and a decadent Banoffee pie. We shared them with a handful of our friends, here in our lush little village that, just within our street and over the last two years, has been hit with some of the worst life can unleash. And yet we are so protected. I drop in and out of survivor’s guilt, wondering how to make sense of the senseless.

I guess the act of feeding, of nurturing the only way I know works quite universally, might help bring a little momentary joy both around and within. And joy feeds more joy.

The irony is that I usually encourage healthy eating, but even I can see we need a little break from Buddha bowls and the rest.

Maybe it’s the only fragment of joy I can share at the moment, and creating instead of the overarching destruction we see in so many corners of the world is even more crucial right now. It sounds so trivial, it won’t change a thing, I just don’t know what else to do.

Battenberg with freeze-dried raspberries.

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My

Fear

Is

Blind;

I can’t help but

Suffocate.

One step

Each step

A struggle.

I walk

Down

Long

High streets:

Sweat pours from my fingertips.

Too much

Too soon

Alone in desolation.

Slippery thoughts

And a drum

In my heart.

What I see

Is what I feel:

Oppression.

The bitter taste of black

Coffee

The acrid grey of nicotine

Pinched

Skin

To

Feel alive

Under the

Stripped lights

So sore

Too

Bright

Too much

Too soon-cold isolation

Shaky limbs

And very little else

It’s like fainting

On

Spiky hills.

With my nails

I incrust

In

My

Flesh, reality.

In my thoughts

I infuse

Proper thinking.

It must be

Forceful

Extract myself from

Myself

Too much

Too soon-numb desolation.

Rooms are too square

Windows too far

Too little air

Can’t breathe

I

Can’t

Swallow

I know

I know

I’m so spiralled

In my own head

I need to stop and count to ten

And disconnect my restless mind

Replace each broken thoughts and fight.

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Talk to me, rusty water-lily,

Of the tender citharas that once lulled you…

“In the midst of silvery ponds, they fed off my gentleness,

Of them all I am so fond:

They fell on my laziness…

Under feverish skies of mischmetal clouds,

My nights were chilled in licorice.

I stretched in quiet incantations,

And sketched a template of

Contradictions,

An innate piece of

Friction between genesis and interdictions.

A recluse in my own boudoir,

I chewed on my long and laminated hair,

I lost my inspirational flair.

No longer able to notice avatars,

I inked instead in burnt velvet

The gilded leaves of gold petals.

I rested in quiet Temples and Mosques,

Lotused in Chapels and Synagogues,

Humming the Credo on a loop,

Chewing on a few fennel seeds,

Watching the crisp fire of joy burning its ember caramel

Against the holy citadel.”

Tell me, broken lily, how did you save yourself...?

The softest bumblebee, in my lovely neighbour’s garden

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My introduction to England established a gap between my expectation to meet Basil from Faulty Towers, Emma Peel from the Avengers, outlandish fashion underscored by vibrant music, and the actual Kentish reality I eventually fell in love with.

My lovely neighbour's cottagey garden

I spoke rigidly: “I beg your pardon?” I used that phrase many times until I realised that “Sorry luv?” was usually sufficient. People used “Ta” instead of “Thanks”: it sounded like an insult I hadn’t deserved… sigh…It took a while…

I remember watching an episode of Eastenders and, since I couldn’t fathom a single word they said, I decided it was probably a Scottish soap.

I wanted to keep an eye on world news and asked which newspaper was the most popular; and there it was, The Sun, which to me appeared more related to a comic than a digest of current events.

I gradually adjusted, but one thing has always and -I’m sorry to say- still does elude me: proper, robust English sayings. In the right order. Using the right words.

I just can’t do it.

Is it because I learnt them colloquially, and unless I see things written down, I struggle to remember them? Is it because I confuse left and right, and if I oscillate for a while between two options, once I query and am given the right answer, I still can’t remember which is the correct one out of the 2 original options?

I’m still not sure. Sometimes I know that tiredness can exacerbate my handle on words, even though I have been thinking and dreaming in English since my early twenties.

Whatever the cause, it has afforded me many misunderstandings and a few giggles. And giggles are why I am sharing this post; it’s been a tough summer and laughter helps most things become palatable.

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The first incident I recall happened whilst I was a very serious, conscientious full-time student, shopping for the first time for some hoover bags. I was very shy, quite self-conscious, and prepared myself, rehearsing my query in my head, several times over, as you do when using a familiar but still foreign language.

I don’t know what went wrong, I somehow blurted it all out before I could censor myself.

I walked in this empty shop, the shopkeeper standing at the counter and, unbeknown to me, a colleague of his in the back room, door wide-open, who heard it all.

Me: ”Good morning, could I please have some bags for a Dirty Devil?”

Him, trying-pretty feebly-to muffle a roaring laugh: ”Er… no sweetheart, I am a dirty devil and you need bags for a dirt devil!”

At that point the guy at the back exploded in chuckles, completely oblivious to my crimson embarrassment.

I never returned to that shop, forever mortified.

Not so long after, and this possibly feeds into the issue I have with left and right, I was a novice driver making my way home in torrential rain for the first time, all on my own. I didn’t appreciate the impact water can exercise on vehicles and direction, and was pretty shaken up when I arrived home. My boyfriend noticed my worry straight away and enquired:

“Are you ok? What’s happened?”

Now, I’m usually calm and fairly collected, but at that point, I had scared myself and so blurted out:

“That was so scary: I drove over a poodle and nearly lost control of the car!”

Poodle, puddle, I mean, easily done, right?

Then I forgot the humiliation and embarrassment as I gradually clocked up more and more years practising my trade. I became a little laidback, and I thought I could start to embellish my speech with some of the peculiar phrases I heard around me.

But, dear friend, I was a fool.

And a recidivist at that, so much so that my manager decided that he would start a list, in the reception area, of my faux-pas for all to rejoice over when times were tough.

I might have forgotten several, but these ones have stuck:

“Too many chefs, not enough onions;”

“They’re laughing at my expenses;”

“Dry as a kite…”

I would like to say you won’t catch me slaughtering this beautiful language any more, but I know I will still, at some point in the future, let myself down.

I am lucky though, I can now do so in both languages, my mother tongue (French) and English too. I also now have an accent in both, just not the right one.

What’s your experience of languages? I am fascinated by the differences in the few that I have learnt, and the temperament that seems to loosely emanate from each language. If you don’t speak other languages, I am curious to know what that’s like too; is there a link between having a musical ear and an affinity for languages? Let me know what you think.

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Share The Bite Of The Sun

Aged 7, I also loved this gigantic teddy!

One such magician was George Sand. I liked that she adjusted to the constraints of her time by using a male pen name, her scandalous choice of male clothing and public cigar smoking. Only much later did I learn that she was an immensely popular writer during her lifetime, an advocate of the poor and an unapologetic romantic.

I read several of her books; our tiny school library afforded me little choice and I got into the habit of reading alphabetically every single book by the same author, until each offering was exhausted. Just one of her novels seeped under my skin, when all the others I devoured far too quickly disappeared into a mosaic of impressions.

I read La Petite Fadette several times over, between the ages of 7 and 10. The pastoral novel left an indelible mark upon my little soul, and all I remembered was a rather slimmed down version of a complicated love story between well-off twin boys and poverty-stricken La petite Fadette. Orphaned, unloved, exploited by her grandmother she is marginalised and thought of as a witch within the landscape of the French Berry1. La Petite Fadette heals one of the twins by touching his forehead and praying to absorb his ailment so she suffers instead of him. I remember thinking that I wanted to be able to do the same; other people’s suffering seem to hurt much more than my own, and to be able to reduce theirs would be such a worthy achievement.

Some element of magical thinking and childlike hopes which I can see fitting well in my early world; my parents joined a Christian charismatic community when I was just a toddler, and so I was surrounded by marginal beliefs and beings. This was only exacerbated when we moved to Jerusalem to pioneer a commune which my parents eventually left, separately, splitting my brother and I for 2 long years. In fact, my mum withheld any communication from my dad and my brother. When we finally reunited, I had forgotten how they looked, the sound of their voices. My father brought me the giant teddy and that picture above was taken by him on the day we finally reunited, him, my brother and I.

Perhaps that’s why I became a therapist years later, hoping I could assuage other people’s pain, give them the space they needed and deserved. For 13 years, I worked relentlessly, hoping to foster respect, trust and the unique change that each client wanted to achieve. This was what I had wanted to do for so long, and to feel it being such a prefect fit for me was quite amazing. I felt privileged to be trusted, each session stretched me into adjusting to the flows of life and to be partaking in something so meaningful was the success I had dreamt of. It was also tough, battling with multi agencies and struggling with a terrible lack of facilities, often left to try and manage disappointment and frustration. I also often felt like a sponge, absorbing my clients’ distress and trying to help them hold on to (or discover ) their strengths.

Perhaps this was my version of La Petite Fadette. I had initially wanted to become a writer when I was 8. A year later, and perhaps inspired by the familiar refrain that writers starve, I decided I would also very much like to become a therapist. I cannot remember what inspired me, one of the many books or films I devoured? The reactions were even worse than those I got for wanting to be a writer, so in the end I stopped sharing but not dreaming. I had a few false starts. Until my mid-twenties when I started training as an integrative therapist and volunteered for the local Community Drug Agency. I was thinking of specializing in working with children or mental health, but placements were few and far between. Unexpectedly, I instead considered substance misuse, and after volunteering for 2 years, I graduated and then continued working in the same field for 13 years. It was a happy accident, and being open-minded rewarded me with a setting from which I learnt so much and within which I gave my all.

I eventually realised that I had to make a change as the systemic frustrations were gradually making it harder to do my job ethically and efficiently. I could no longer see clients for more than 8 sessions, hardly enough to establish an ethical and functioning therapeutic process when working with the often most deprived and under-privileged members of our society.

Leaving was so hard; the lack of understanding from my peers was quite puzzling to me. We, who advocate, nurture and facilitate change in others, are resisting change in our own field. I had possibly never fitted in with my peers, as I was younger than most at the time. I have mostly navigated around groups and made connections without ever feeling the pressure to blend in, not as a deliberate behaviour, mostly I think because my points of cultural reference are sometimes tricky to share.

I chose counselling over more rigorous disciplines because (I couldn’t do statistics or experiments on animals, but also)I recognised the philosophical tenets, the Christian influence too, and I enjoyed the person-centered and solution-focused slant as I didn’t look to be an expert but a facilitator. Eventually the lack of evidence-based accountability left me feeling as though I was a priest who had lost their faith. Perhaps I also had to eventually accept that sponging up distress and damage was also draining me and I had to leave before I burnt-out.

Re-visiting this defining book for this post has taken me down a memory lane I didn’t quite expect to visit nor share, but it seems to make sense to me at this point.

I wonder what book, or film, might define part of your life, and when revisiting it, have you grasped something you didn’t expect? If you would like to share, please hit the button below, I look forward to reading your thoughts.

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Share The Bite Of The Sun

Our favourite and only Tuxedo cat died last week. Along with the sorrows and tears, I wish to celebrate all that we shared and her imprint on us all.

I only recently posted Tuxedo, Ode to a Treasured Pet, having, at the time, no idea she would be gone so soon after.

Such a gorgeous kitten…!

At the very beginning, we rescued a 9 weeks old tiny bundle who was very ill with flu and a diet of roadkill. I found a persistent vet and tried different treatments, hoping she might find her way through. She did, she survived and whilst timid, went on to thrive a long life within which she bestowed upon all who met her her gentle and loving soul.

She became my most dedicated shadow, tripping me up until I learnt to dance with her. She was my faithful accomplice, tapping my arm with her elongated paw to signal breaktime from typing. She chirruped whenever we walked past her favourite armchair; we would all oblige and chirrup back. If we initiated the chirrup, she would invariably respond. Its original survival function (avoiding one of us sitting down on her inadvertently in the penumbra of the lounge) soon morphed into a tender ritual we now miss so much.

For years, I tried to keep her alive away from traffic or keep her safe from other thuggish cats encroaching her territory. My acute (read “neurotic”) sense of danger means that I have cherished every moment with her for so long, not taking much for granted. It still hasn’t protected me from the jagged, heaving hurt I feel. It does however mean that I was tuned in to any changes and adjusted to her as she did to us all.

Over the last year, her sense of time deteriorated. She could no longer wait until 6.00 am for her breakfast, and started to wake me twice nightly. I loved her purring loud in my ear as she would lick my face conscientiously until I woke. On dawns I struggled to wake up, incorporating her tenderness into my dreams instead of fulfilling my purpose as her chosen nurturer, she would eventually attack my shelves and anything on them that could generate sufficient noise to drag me from my slumber. She would then herd me downstairs for some attention and a few kibbles. After several maneuvers inspired by the vet didn’t bring any change to her behaviour, I continued to wake on demand, strangely looking forward to these nightly fervent glimpses of affection, as I thought at her rather old age, this might be a sign that time was running out.

And yet, despite all my attempts to be philosophical, to prepare myself and making each moment and exchange count and fill up my internal (enormous) memory box, this hurts so much.

My tuxedo suddenly failed to turn up for our early dawn cuddles; I spent the following 5 nights sleeping in the lounge with her, watching a slow deterioration I was unable to derail. Daily vet visits, oxygen and tests, waiting and hoping despite what we could all see unfolding. The rapid weight loss and weakness felt like a nightmarish transformation that nothing could thwart. She was stoic, but she was gradually disappearing inside her tiny body. I couldn’t bear to witness her suffering, and the prospect of a long, complex process to try and diagnose her ailment forced the kindest choice, the only choice left.

The longest hugs preceded saying good night one last time.

She was our dog-cat, I still feel her nestled against me. She is forever imprinted on me and every corner of our lives. My days peppered with routines and rituals around her. It’s incredible the love so many of us felt for her.

So grateful she chose us, and changed us all for the better.

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If you feel like sharing your own dance and grief from having loved a pet, please leave a comment, thank you.

I was born foolish, blistered by the suns of acrimony.
My city was untamed, and so would I be.

Through my early dawn desertion,
I condemned myself to err 
Like a nationless orphan
Encased in chrysalis of soft aluminium,
Feeding off manganese and salty magnesium.

I morphed into a shadow of myself,
Inside bland European deserts.
Stubbornly searching for the paprika sky
Of a weary, sleepy 
Jerusalem.

I feared I would become someone else,
Soaked with accumulated fallacies, 
Having swapped my fluorite sap for vulgar metals, 
Swollen with amplified apathies.

I often wondered,
Will I ever lose the irony of human absurdity,
And sink in the sometimes-envious stagnation of slow winters…?
And every night give up a little bit more of whatever is left over from the enzymes of 
Silences,
Forget the sweetness of a balloon of light, the waves, the Suns?

I escape to avoid whatever attracts me.

Nothing within me could be more elasticised than the desire to believe  
In order to forget.

It is in the breeze that I escape monotonous flowers.
I cherish escaping in order to reminisce later...

You breathe, in me, the aquatic sands, the desert-like blues, the purple violence of 
Absence.
It is my Philistine origin which decreases from my complexion down to my insurrection.

On the blueish burn of my lips swollen with piquancies, I have the pinch of Absinthe,
And its green juice turns me sad and tipsy.

Underneath the shadows of perished prayers, 
Almost nothing left. 
 
I am but the elsewhere.
In me lazes the enormous absence of smile…

Haunted by the tremors of occupations,
I remember the infernal cadence of malaise, 
The nocturnal affiliation of their pain 
To repulsion. 

Its immensity is my anxiety, 
And under the chaotic laziness of interrogations
Is the nectar of my somber melancholy, 
My slow denigration.  

Tightly wrapped in cellophane, 
Heavy pomelos hide a bitter pith,
Their pulp my only gourmandise.

A few flowers languorously age against my chin,
Orange blossoms and lemon peel.

When I dream,
My hands lock
In the quiet indigo of automatic prayers…

I fight thousands of feverish reels,
Each one collapses against my tympanums.  
The echo of their bile a clumsy hum.

It is the portrait of my nation.
Its giant wave strolling against
Extermination.

Running through the Old City with all the adrenaline of condensed fear,
I rush, tumble and fall
To the sound of raucous walls, 
And the perils I distil. 

Is there a way I can push through and make some sense of labyrinths…?  

Like a jaundiced electrode, unable to entice neurons to connect, 
I stutter in the middle of 
My thoughts.  

I can’t resume the dialogue and so silence the petals of despair.
There. 

I take refuge in the appeal of summer fears… 
The pungent smell of almond shells, 
The sabre of 
Insufferable sunrays, and the 
Raspy 
Thirst I can’t escape…
…
The escapade a nightly haunting 
Replaying gun 
Shots 
Amid 
Fervent 
Interrogations…

Looping every single dusk, it fills me with 
Vitriolic 
Fears.  

The muted 
Scream of the 
Sorrows of an errand tribe 
Can never recover its voice, and so, on its own, it falls…

How can I lose such legacy and, finally, be free? 
Could you,
Show me,

You stroll mindlessly, each step encased in the pace of ska, as placid as a giant Buddha,
And my quest remains my own; some things can only be suffered alone. 

I hope this wasn’t too long! I already hacked away at it as it somehow morphed, over the years, into the longest poem I’ve ever written. Feel free to let me know your thoughts,

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Little ball of fluffy fur
Soft as a cloud bouquet
I want to nibble your tummy,
Until you somersault away
Showing we can no longer play.

Like you, I too purr
And snooze endlessly against satiated down duvets…

If I gently flick your silvery whiskers,
You twitch the end of your button nose,
Checking your TomTom’s still alert.

Rumbles of snow pour from your chin,
Tipping through to your sooty cloak
Pure as cashmere and potent oils
Those of lotus and oranges.

I like to stroke quite mindlessly,
Your wilderness and violin bows 
The felt-like pinks of lazy paws,
Risking the fury of your claws, 
Taming your whims and all your meows.

At 4.00am, and without fail,
Your gentle purr drowns out my dreams.
If I resist a tad too long,
You rearrange each of my shelves,
You nibble books and knead my face
Until I greet your tenderness 
With love 
And plentiful kibbles. 

We pout a light embrace,
You knead me solemnly
And nudge me to caress
Your elongated chin.

You sweep your furry tail my way,
And lure me to your dish,
As we both know you graze only with company.

Your big wide saucers flash as you seek pampering,
Blinking a green eclipse, you paw my busy arm
Begging for more petting until I hold you close,
So you can snake away in a contented purr.
 
We have our own language,
I feel every message,
Adjusting to your needs
Learning all your triggers,
As you devour my open heart.

You’re part-time fatal minx,
And merciless killer,
I am your most willing prey.

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The cat has now claimed what used to be our fruit bowl, just so she can be near me when I type! We now have several smaller displays of fruits on the table, no big deal.