London Calling

London May 2015 (55) Boost 2What is it with London this year? It beckons for several reasons, a memoir workshop being one.

I promised an update on the course, but first I would like to thank so much those who have continued to ‘stick’ with me during this time, even when I haven’t been able to blog or visit half as much as I would like.

It really never ceases to amaze me the generosity of this blogging community.  Trying to balance writing (or should I say rewriting…), blogging and managing the stuff of everyday life, remains a constant challenge.

The course gives the first hour split into two half-hour slots for two people selected each week to read an extract from their work in progress.  We have to make sure to have ten copies of our work to hand out so others can read along and if they wish, write comments and feedback on them.  After a short break, there is an opportunity to share a shorter piece for the others.

I have read twice and the helpful and positive feedback I received from both the tutor and a few of the other writers has been very encouraging. This is the first time I had ever read out my work in front of a group of  ‘strangers’ and although a nervous wreck before hand, as I read on, I gradually felt more confident.

I hadn’t realised just how tough it would be, but I can see the benefit of doing so.  Reading my work out loud to myself (or sometimes to hubby if I can corner him, poor man…) is a good way to edit, but reading to a group is something quite different: my writing feels more tangible, the prospect of actually finishing the book and heading towards publication more real.

Listening to others read and gleaning advice from the tutor’s feedback on the different issues that come up is also helpful.  But the problem is there is no time to ask specific questions.

Now I’m back at square one: working on those dreaded rewrites, ongoing since last September.  Some of you have asked how the memoir is coming along (again, thank you for your interest!) which encourages me, especially when I feel ‘stuck’. Writing a first draft was a breeze compared to rewrites.  I know that now.  But I’m gnawing my way through to the core of the story, to the parts I really need to tell.  If only for a few more hours in the day, if at all possible…

This is not without the help of my friends and fellow memoir writers bringing their knowledge, shared experiences and encouragement along the way, for which I am more than grateful:

Jeanne writes of her struggles with the dreaded rewrite in her excellent post,  From Life Story to Memoir: The Rewrite and shares some great advice for anyone facing the same.

Irene is writing a weekly Memoir Monday on Tuesday series (as a follow on to Lisa’s Memoir Monday updates) in which she explores the process and mechanics of memoir.  I highly recommend her posts for anyone writing memoir.

Speaking of recommended posts, but on a completely different subject,  friend and published memoir author DG Kaye, recently asked this in her extremely helpful and timely post: Is #Windows 10 Hijacking Your Computer?   If you’re having a problem with constant pop-ups to update to Windows 10, then I say run, don’t walk to Debby’s site; she gives us great advice to cure this problem, her hard work and research saving us the trouble. I did…thank you so much Debby!

Back then to London and my other reasons for going: not only a family outing planned there later in the summer, but I’m off again tomorrow for the Annual Blogger’s Bash. A huge thank you to the four committee members SachaHughGeoff and Ali who have done an amazing job of organising it. I’m very much looking forward to seeing ‘old’ friends and meeting new.

You can read Hugh’s hilarious post about the Bash explaining how you can join in even if you can’t make it on the day. And of course, wishing all the nominees for the Blog Awards all the very best.

A wonderful weekend to you all and I’ll do my best to catch up better next week.

Love Sherri x

 

 

 

Posted in Blogging, Memoir | Tagged , , , , , , | 74 Comments

Window On A Train

I gaze through the train window looking for my fox, but so far, it is nowhere to be seen.

I put down my book, wanting only to soak up the beauty of the English countryside as it zooms past my window, and I marvel that for so many years I longed to feast my eyes upon this green and pleasant land.

But the view goes by too fast.  I want it to slow down so that I can catch my breath and find what I am looking for.

(c) Sherri Matthews 2016

The world races by but I want to beat it at its own game. (c) Sherri Matthews 2016

And then I glimpse a splash of yellow shot through spring’s verdant green ~

English Dorset Countryside in May (c) Sherri Matthews 2016

(c) Sherri Matthews 2016

I know if I am patient, if I aim my phone camera just right, I will find my reward ~

Rapeseed Fields in Dorset, England May 2016 (c) Sherri Matthews 2016

Rapeseed Fields in Dorset, England May 2016
(c) Sherri Matthews

And there they are: rolling fields of rapeseed’s bursting yellow, patchwork quilts laid out as buffers against the grey, brooding skies of a May heavy with rainfall.

(c) Sherri Matthews 2016

(c) Sherri Matthews 2016

One day, I see a deer bounding through a field and on another, I smile at a family of bunnies, white tails bobbing up and down like cotton wool puffs caught in the wind.  I watch pheasants strut their stuff, their nature-gifted palette of painted feathers shimmering red and blue and green in the morning sunlight. All go by too fast for my camera.

And still, as the train rumbles on from Somerset to London, there is no fox.

Every Tuesday since the middle of April I travel to London to attend a memoir workshop.  Six hours travel time for a two-hour course.  I am hoping it will help me clarify the process of structure, thematic threads and reflection, the nuts and bolts of the craft of writing memoir.

But I have discovered that it is in the journey, not the destination,
where my answers truly lie.

(c) Sherri Mathews 2016

(c) Sherri Mathews 2016

When I was a girl living in Surrey, before my parents split up, they built a boarding cattery at the end of our garden. One day, we had a surprise border: not a cat, but a fox cub. Entranced by my dad’s stories of a mysterious fox who lived in the woods at the back of our house, but which I had never seen,  I could not take my eyes off the young cub.

But although mesmerised by the beauty of its soft, red fur, its cute black boots and bushy, white-tipped tail, it was the fear in its eyes that held me.

For two weeks we kept the fox cub in one of the runs that also held a cosy little shed where it could sleep and keep warm and cosy against the elements.  But that fox didn’t sleep: horrified, I could only stand by and watch helplessly as it spent its first few days gnawing at the wire of the run, its gums bleeding, desperate in its bid to escape.

I cried quietly to myself as I watched its suffering, wondering why the people who owned it had left it with us when it was so miserable; so alone; so frightened.

I wanted to help it, but I couldn’t.

My dad was the only one who could handle it. It took time; he had to earn the fox cub’s trust who at first attacked when Dad tried to get near, but one day I watched in awe as with hands protected by thick, gardener’s gloves and after much cajoling through gentle whispers, he managed to pick it up, hold it close to his chest and carefully stroke it.

And then it was my turn. Dad let me stroke its little face and I marvelled at how soft its fox-fur felt beneath my small hands and then I watched as the fear in its amber-gold eyes gradually melted away.

Decades have passed since the day my dad tamed that frightened little fox cub, but somewhere still in the telling of this story lie the remnants of a little girl who once felt helpless not only for the fox, but also for herself.  She grew up and found her strength, but it was different for her father; although he saved the fox, he could not save himself.

And today, reflecting on these things while looking through a window on a train, I remember where I was, where I am now, and where I am going.

But you see, somewhere along the way, I had forgotten.

(c) Sheri Matthews 2016

(c) Sheri Matthews 2016

I saw a fox once, from a train window.  I wrote about it, almost three and a half years ago.

But another fox found me and it wasn’t in a field.

A few weeks ago after a family gathering,  I settled down in the passenger seat for the hour-long drive home, closed my eyes and fell sleep.  A little while later, I came to as I heard Hubby say, “Look, a fox!” My eyes flew open but I saw only an empty verge along the deserted road.

“Oh I wish you had seen it,” said Hubby, “He looked right at you!”

I thought he was making it up, the part about looking at me, an embellished story knowing it would make me smile.   But he told me that a fox had shot out into the road in front of us, but instead of darting into the hedgerow on the other side and disappearing as they usually do, this one had stopped.  With a swish of its tail, it had turned its head and, according to hubby, looked straight at me.

“Are you sure?” I asked.  “It was probably looking at the car, or something else…”

“No.  It was definitely looking at you…”

But I had missed it.  I had my eyes closed and I missed it.

(c) Sherri Matthews 2016

(c) Sherri Matthews 2016

On the train, I switch off from the clamour of every day life and I reacquaint myself with a world waiting to be explored in the view through my window.

There, I meet my uncluttered thoughts and I find what I am looking for in places I did not expect. I find not the end, but the beginning.  And I find the delicious escape.

Yet still I search for that fox through my train window.  I know it is out there somewhere, prowling through the fields and the woods and the open roads.

“I promise to keep my eyes open…” I whisper through the glass. “This time, I don’t want to miss a thing…”

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Family Memoirs, Nature & Wildlife | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 125 Comments

Memoir Loneliness And Tony Soprano

Sitting with my mother in the hospital a few weeks ago, an elderly man shuffled into the small waiting room and flopped down into a chair. ‘Three children, eight grandchildren and I never see them…’ he sighed, catching my eye. A nurse fast appeared, helped him to his feet and walked him out to wherever he needed to go next.  I could only mumble a quick goodbye.  Was it true what he said?  I hoped not, but how sad if so.

I wonder how some people end up so terribly lonely, isolated and forgotten.  And loneliness kills.

An NHS (National Health Service, UK) article titled, ‘Loneliness increases risk of premature death’ (taking much of its information from a study at Brigham Young University led by Professor Julianne Holt-Lunstad) states:

‘…the harmful effects of loneliness are akin to the harm caused by smoking, obesity or alcohol misuse.’

A previous study in 2010 goes into more detail, concluding:

‘The results of this study remind us that health has a strong social element and is not merely physical. Connecting with others can improve both mental and physical wellbeing.’

The study suggests several different ways to help combat loneliness, particularly for the elderly.

West Bay Jan 2016 (15) With Text Edited

Mum has been home for a few weeks now and recovering well.  She lives alone, but she is not lonely.  She is blessed with close family, friends and neighbours.  Thank you so much, dear friends, for your love, concern and prayers, your messages have kept me going these past several weeks, so that although absent from blogging, I have known you are there.

And while I’ve been away from the Summerhouse,  I have used any time I can manage to press on with my memoir rewrites.  Since I finished the first draft last September, I’ve struggled, despairing, many times reaching for it only to watch it slip through my fingers like oil.

I had set myself a deadline, you see, because thanks to fellow memoir writer and blogging friend Lisa I will be going to London next Tuesday, and every Tuesday after that until the end of June to City Lit to attend a workshop for memoirists looking for help with the last push on their WIP.  Lisa will post Memoir Monday weekly with updates and connecting with other memoirists.

I have never attended a writing workshop of any kind before, so this will be a new adventure. And of course, I get to meet Lisa, which I am very much looking forward to. Excited, nervous, just about there with a rewritten second draft, I’m moving forward, oil slicks notwithstanding.

The finish line is there, I can almost see it…

Mere, Wiltshire March 2016 (5) Edited 2

So what of Tony Soprano, Mob Boss of ‘The Sopranos’ (how did we survive without box sets?)? There’s a man surrounded by family and ‘friends’ (although, how many friends can a Mafia Boss really have?), yet exudes loneliness.  I love nothing better than a book, film or TV show that captures the psychology of the criminal mind in all its complexities, something that has fascinated me for as long as I can remember.

Tony Soprano’s complex relationship with his psychiatrist, his outbursts of unhinged violence tempered by moments of tenderness and vulnerability that he would rather die before revealing, make his character one of the most fascinating, compelling and utterly abhorrent I’ve ever known.

He is not conventionally handsome, but he oozes charisma and sex appeal.  No spoilers here (I have yet to watch the final season…) but this is the best thing I’ve ever watched.  Better than Game of Thrones, better even, dare I say it, than Breaking Bad.  And I love both.  As it rolls from one episode to the other, my heart races at the thought of what I know will be its cataclysmic denouement.

Losing myself in The Sopranos at this time of my life has proven to be peculiarly therapeutic. Don’t ask me how, but it is helping me write my memoir. The Soprano storyline walks me along a constant knife’s edge between the love of family and the terrible deeds done to protect that family.

The masterful screen writing and acting (in my humble opinion, I’m no expert), compels me to explore through my writing the war we wage within ourselves, vying for victory somewhere between the light and dark of the human soul.

Norfolk Broads 2nd Edited

Writing is an isolating and lonely business.  I think the course in London will be a good thing as I admit to going a bit stir crazy sometimes. But although I have experienced loneliness a few times in my life, I have not known the kind that the elderly man spoke of and I hope and pray I never will.

I hope he has someone, even if just one person, who cares enough to visit him. Tony Soprano is a fictional character, but I wonder how many people in real life he represents, a man who seemed to have everything, except true friends.

And true friends are the purest gold, worth more than any stash Tony Soprano kept hidden in the rafters.  Love and connection with family and friends is a life saver. Studies prove it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Memoir | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 152 Comments

Missing Blogging

Dear friends,

Eight days ago, my dear Mum suffered a stroke, an awful shock.  My boys (and Eldest Son’s Lovely Girlfriend) were home with us for the weekend to celebrate a belated Mother’s Day, hubby’s birthday and our tenth wedding anniversary which was on Friday, the 18th March.

Just as we sat down to lunch before taking the boys to the station for their train journey back home, I took a call from a friend of Mum’s who, thank goodness, was with her at church, when it happened.

Mum recently celebrated her 80th birthday.  Active, vibrant, beautiful, classy, she celebrated with vim and vigour.  I had posts planned (among others) to share some of our recent milestone family celebrations and a few pics, but that’s all on hold now.

Spring Tete-A-Tete's for Mum

Spring Tete-A-Tete’s for Mum

Since then, with much relief, I’m so glad to let you know that Mum is recovering. We are already looking to her return home and her after-care.

But understandably, there will be a lot to consider as I divert my time to help look after her (while also holding down the fort at home), which means my days are filled in ways that make it impossible for me to blog at all for the time being.

I’m sorry I didn’t get this message out earlier, I just haven’t had the chance, but I did want to let you know why I’ve been absent from blogging.  Thank you to those who have left comments on my last couple of posts,  which I’ll reply to as soon as I can.

Thank you again also to those who already know via Facebook and who’ve been in touch in other ways (and again, sorry for my slow responses…) with lovely kind and concerned messages sending love, thoughts and prayers.

Please know that Mum is getting a little better and stronger each day, not always easy, up and down, but all the while retaining her wonderful sense of humour.  We expect a full recovery and for that, we are eternally grateful.

I miss you, I hope to see you soon.

Love Sherri x

 

 

 

Posted in Blogging, Family Life | Tagged , | 137 Comments

The Voice Of Asperger’s Syndrome

I look at the photographs of the five-year old girl with the scarf tied around her shoulders like a cape and tears slide down my face.  In some, she holds a paint brush and looks down intently at her growing work of art.  In others, she makes shapes out of playdoh, walks in the garden, sits in the bath or sleeps soundly in her bed.  But in every photograph appears her constant companion – her cat Thula.

Not so unusual you might think, except that this beautiful little girl is autistic and it is her cat who has helped Iris find her voice in a world where before, she hardly spoke or smiled.

Now, as her mother writes, Iris will speak to her cat – ‘Sit cat’ – and interacts in ways she never could before.  This moves me to tears, but I cry also because with her capes, her love of painting, the way her hair falls softly across her face and her ever-present cat, this little girl in so many ways could be my daughter when she was the same age.

My third child (Aspie D), was not diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome until she was eighteen.  Although she is on the Autistic Spectrum, she has a form of autism that is commonly described as ‘high functioning’.  She doesn’t have the problems with speaking like Iris,  but she struggles to make sense of her world because of communication, sensory and social difficulties, as clearly explained in this article by the National Autistic Society.

Her anxiety levels, already on high alert, kick into sensory-overload in public; hyper vigilant of her surroundings, the energy and concentration it takes for her to focus on a conversation and say the right things exhausts her, as she thinks only of making her escape from the loud; from the clatter; from the disorder and the chaos swirling all around her.

Sometimes, she tells me, it is like drowning.

Claire & Butterfly Edited 2

It was the safety at home with her family and her pets who calmed her when returning from a day at school.  There, she felt only loneliness, unable to understand when the other girls wanted to talk about dolls and fixing hair and watching ‘girly’ programmes. All she wanted to do was to wear her brother’s tee-shirts, make capes out of pillow cases and walk down to the creek and get her hands dirty looking for frogs in the mud and reach into the sparkling, cool water for tadpoles and salamander eggs to bring home to hatch in our pond.

How could she explain when she didn’t want to hold hands with other girls because she didn’t want them touching her, or when she didn’t smile at the right times or laugh at their jokes if she didn’t ‘get them’?

The worse thing to ask someone with Asperger’s Syndrome is, ‘What’s wrong with you, why aren’t you smiling?’ Or tell them, “Why don’t you just go outside or meet up with your friends?” Seventh Voice expresses what this really feels like in her excellent post: ‘Things I wish people would stop saying to those of us with Asperger’s Syndrome‘.

At such times, feeling cornered; misunderstood and exposed, the blankness of Aspie D’s expression belies the all-consuming thoughts and emotions crashing through her over-stimulated, anxiety-drenched brain.  Unable to express what she really felt for so long, silently enraged at her powerlessness within a society that wanted her to conform, to be ‘normal’, to be what others expected her to be, only taught her how to become socially avoidant.

I read recently that studies show that the brain of a child with autism retains forty-two percent more information at rest than the average child.  Is is any wonder that anxiety and exhaustion plays such a huge part in the lives of those on the spectrum?

Claire & MaisyReading about Iris and her cat Thula, I think of Maisy, our fourteen year old tabby.

‘Found’ by my daughter in a kitten room at a cat shelter near our home in California, their bond formed from the moment eight week old Aurora (as she was named at the shelter) sprang onto Aspie D’s lap as she kneeled down in a sea of kittens.

Today, their bond is stronger than ever. I knew the value of pet ownership for children, but I didn’t know about the life-changing role ‘therapy’ pets play for those on the Autistic Spectrum (Maisy, like Thula, is not trained as a therapy cat, she’s ‘just’ a pet, but she also loved to take baths with Aspie D), something that is now scientifically proven.

An autistic little girl found her voice through her gift of painting and her therapy cat Thula, her story beautifully told and photographed by her mother in the recently released Iris Grace.

My daughter at twenty-three travels her own path to find her true voice, each day bringing her ever closer despite her life-long challenges.  Along the way as I journey by her side,  grateful and honoured to call myself her mother, I came across the video clip below on Facebook. It is the only time I have heard my daughter say this is exactly what it feels like  when she goes out.

Please, if you only have two short minutes, I would humbly ask you to watch this clip.   I find it difficult at times to explain what it is like for my daughter living with Asperger’s and how it affects her daily life.  This clip, I hope, will help. It might make you cry as it did me and my friends on Facebook who watched it, but it also brings powerful voice:

*******

Taking this opportunity to let you all know that Charli Mills is hosting a flash fiction competition over at Carrot Ranch to help raise funds for an autistic boy Noah and his service dog Appa. Cash prizes too!

The deadline is extended to March 31st, all details here.

cr-extended-deadlineYou can read Shawna Ayoub Ainslie’s latest post with updates about her son Noah and his service dog Appa at The Honeyed Quill here.  The photos alone will stir your soul.

Posted in Asperger's Syndrome | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 125 Comments

Laundry: Women’s Work?

Robots are taking over the world.  Well, maybe not completely, but they are doing a good job of it, according to a newspaper article I read recently.

There are robots in bars in Japan serving cocktails (I wonder if they shake or stir…?) one robot filling prescriptions in a hospital pharmacy in California (really…?)  and now, scientists from the University of Columbia have developed a robotic iron that not only does the ironing for you, but doesn’t leave any creases (but what if want a crease…?).

I wonder what my grandmother would have made of this news?

Granny and laundry go hand in hand when I think about Irene’s  Times Past challenge which she hopes ‘will give us social insights into the way the world has changed between not only generations but also between geographical location’.

For February’s prompt, Irene asks:

Prompt No 2. First memories of wash day. Was it a ritual in your house. Did you have to play a part. What kind of washing machine did you have? Was it the sole province of the women of the household? What was the style of your clothes line? Any memories of doing the laundry you care to share. I am sure that we are going to find some differences both geographically and generational with this one. Help me prove myself right or show that I am wrong by joining in.

Writing as a tail-end baby boomer growing up in a village in Surrey, England in the 1960’s and Suffolk in the 70’s, my ‘wash day’ memories take me further north to a place I visited many times as a child…

Granny loved ironing so much (or so I believed), that I nicknamed her Mrs Tiggy-Winkle (the ironing-obsessed hedgehog from the Beatrix Potter stories).  But Granny didn’t just have the latest, all singing, all dancing iron; she was also the proud owner of an ironing press.

Allowed to ‘play’ with it as a girl – supervised of course – I remember clearly the hiss of floral-scented steam as I released the handle to lift the top, only to reveal the perfectly pressed and starched article inside once the steam cleared.  It was like magic.

My grandparents lived in a large Victorian style house in Hale, Cheshire.  With its polished, wood floor of the large, open hallway, bay windows and window seats, a huge attic and endless nooks and crannies (not forgetting the beautiful summerhouse at the end of the garden), it called out for adventure.  There was even a cellar, which is where Granny did her laundry.

If doing the laundry was drudgery for her, she didn’t show it.  She taught me how to take each item of clothing out of the washing tub (no automatic washing machine for Granny until a decade or so later…) and feed it through a wooden wringer. I loved turning the handle as water squeezed out from one end into a bucket below as the flat, much drier, clothing appeared through the middle and out the other end.

Next, I helped her hang the washing with wooden pegs on the long line outside, or if raining, on an airer in the cellar.  By the 70s, she was the only one I knew who had an electric dryer, but she used it rarely since it was expensive to run. She always preferred to iron, and she ironed everything, including tea-towels and knickers.

Granny did much more than washing and ironing. Holidaying as a family on the Norfolk Broads was one of them. 1960s (c) Sherri Matthews

Granny did much more than just washing and ironing.
Holidaying as a family on the Norfolk Broads was one of them. 1960s
(c) Sherri Matthews

There was no particular wash day in my house, but it was women’s work for both my grandmother and mother, and one of my chores growing up was the dreaded ironing (not taking after  Granny in that department).

We had a rotary washing line at home which always reminded me of an upside down umbrella as a child.  When I first visited California in the late 70s, I was amazed to learn that hardly anyone hung their washing outside. Everyone had matching (and huge to me) ‘washer and dryer’ sets, something I had never heard of.  The ‘washers’ were top loading, not unlike the ones I had seen only at launderettes in England, since our washing machines were/are front loading.

Granny continued to enjoy ironing all her life, which is just as well as she always seemed to have a massive pile to get through.  Baffled by this, one-day I asked her about it,  since by then she lived alone. “Most of it’s for Frank, dear,” she laughed.  “I do all his ironing.  He’s too old to manage it himself now.” She was pushing eighty herself, and Frank, as it turned out, was younger than she.

In fact, most of the ironing belonged to friends and neighbours who could no longer manage it. She also disappeared at mealtimes with plates of food covered with foil for the ‘old folks’ who lived around the corner or in the flat above hers.   She was that kind of woman, one who inspires me still.

Although she would have been intrigued by the robot iron, I  know without a doubt that she would never have given up ironing.  Scientific or not, nobody could press a trouser crease like my Granny.

 

 

Posted in Childhood Memories, Family Memoirs, Times Past Challenge | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 133 Comments

Write Dance Believe

Before I dared to call myself a writer, before I could ever imagine seeing even a single word of mine in print, before I knew what a blog was, I read this:

‘When your life’s seasons, assignments or relationships change, begin to adjust.  Learn to play by the new rules…when the music changes, it’s time to learn some new dance steps, otherwise you’ll finish up sitting on the sidelines.’ ~ UCB Daily Word

At the time I read those words, I was sitting on those sidelines and I know it’s not a good place to be.  But I had a choice – stay there and go nowhere, or get up, learn some new steps and dance.  Dance and make it count.

Sunset at Moonstone Beach, Cambria, Central Coast of California April 2013 (c) Sherri Matthews

Sunset at Moonstone Beach, Cambria, Central Coast of California April 2013
(c) Sherri Matthews

Life’s seasons come and go, colours change, snow falls and still Sweet Robin sings ~

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And then spring arrives and with it a Californian welcome from across the shining sea ~

Californian Welcome San Luis Obispo, CA April 2013 (c) Sherri Matthews

Californian Welcome
San Luis Obispo, CA April 2013
(c) Sherri Matthews

While daffodils bloom in an English garden ~

English Narcissus, Somerset Spring (c) Sherri Matthews

English Narcissus, Somerset Spring
(c) Sherri Matthews

The colours of spring remain, despite a trick of the camera ~

Black & White Tete A Tetes Feb 2016

No matter what time of year, when we look to our true friends,
we know we will find comfort ~

Ston Easton Park, March 2015 (c) Sherri Matthews

Ston Easton Park, Somerset, England March 2015
(c) Sherri Matthews

But sometimes we have to say goodbye to all we know before we can begin again and sometimes that means never going back ~

California Dreaming

She would miss it, the Californian Sun, but strapped into a seat on a 747 staring aimlessly at the sky map, what would it matter? She wasn’t coming back.

A last vacation with the kids, he said, but he never showed up, leaving her with empty explanations and she was sick of it.

Foam-capped waves danced on the sand, then sucked back again into vast sea, teasing her children in the chase as big sky melted into horizon’s dark line, Pacific sun sliding into purple day’s end.

Time to go.

A lone gull wheeled overhead and shrilled goodbye.

But we can go back if it means understanding how far we’ve come.  And if that means dancing on a beach as the Californian sun slips into purple day’s end, even better. 

Sidelined no more.

We know who we are and we know where we’re going.

We just have to believe.

Dancing at Moonstone Beach, Cambria, California

Dancing at Moonstone Beach, Cambria, California

*******

I  owe a huge thank you to these ‘sheltering friends’ (and please forgive me for this clumped together post…) ~

Charli gave us ‘Wild Spaces‘ as our 99 word flash fiction prompt last week.  I wasn’t able to post anything here due to time constraints but I did post it over at Carrot Ranch so that it could be included in her weekly compilation and newsletter.   Thank you Charli for believing in me as, among other things, a flash fiction writer and for your friendship. I’m honoured to be a member of your Congress of Rough Writers.

Jo tagged me a while ago for a nature photography challenge.  Thank you Jo for taking me and all your readers along so many beautiful walks and for checking in on me after your hols in the Algarve.  *Big Smile*

Sarah tagged me a few weeks ago for the 3 Days 3 Quote Challenge even when up to he eyes in marketing and promoting the giveaway of her book Dessication. Thank you for thinking of me Sarah and for your inspiration (please forgive the challenge cheat…).

And last, but certainly not least, thank you to Jude not only for her amazing photography but also her new Garden Challenge.  February’s prompt is ‘Monochrome’.  She asks for something:

‘…black and white or tones of one colour. Look for texture, shape and patterns. The subject matter is entirely up to you, but should be loosely garden related.

The monochrome spring tete-a-tetes are for you Jude, I hope you like them!

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I’m on a blogging go-slow once again, but I will be catching up asap.  Thank you dear ‘sheltering friends’ one and all, for your patience and for dancing with me…

Love Sherri x

 

Posted in Flash Fiction, My California, Nature & Wildlife, Weekly Photo Challenge | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 120 Comments

The Power Of Surprise

In early summer of 2001, Eldest Son gave me a fabric CD holder inscribed with the name of his high school and date of his graduation.  Ideal for holding CDs for my car, when I opened it, I noticed there was already one CD inside.

My son had made it for me on the computer from a list of songs I had given him ages before (and forgotten about), writing the words ‘Mom’s Mix’ on the front in black, permanent marker. He was due to leave for college that autumn and I struggled to hold the tears back when he handed his gift to me as a surprise.

High School Graduation, Paso Robles, California (Son second from left) June 2001 (c) Sherri Matthews 2015

High School Graduation, Paso Robles, California
(Son second from left) June 2001
(c) Sherri Matthews 2015

That summer, while George Bush and Tony Blair held hands and the Twin Towers stood tall, I moved with my family into our ‘dream home’ in California. But as world events barrelled towards disasters we could not dare to believe, troubles of my own escalated in my tiny corner of the planet.

Crazy Grandma (my back then mother-in-law) had given me a Sony CD Walkman for my birthday the year before (it was yellow and black, with anti-skip and everything and I loved it).   ‘Mom’s Mix’ became my go-to CD for my early morning walks.  Pounding the neighbourhood streets lost in music helped me cope physically and mentally, a surprise all of its own.

But with the passage of time comes healing and the unexpected; today, my son and his brother live and work (and walk!) in England by the sea, and I no longer walk just to cope.

Which way to Walk? Many years ahead before high school graduation... Los Osos, California 1986 (c) Sherri Matthews

Which way? Many years ahead before high school graduation and life back in England…
Los Osos, California 1986
(c) Sherri Matthews

But I do walk for many reasons, not least of all for the exercise: sitting down at a laptop all day writing is not good for physical health.   Walking is also great therapy; I’ve made more decisions and written more words putting one foot in front of the other than at any other time.  And I always listen to music while doing so.

If I’m stuck when writing and can’t get the words to flow, I’ll plug-in my iPod’s earphones (sadly, my Walkman didn’t last forever) and head out to the park to walk a few circuits, a process which never fails to get those creative juices flowing.  But when I sit down to write  back home,  I do so in silence.

In fact, it was while out walking many years ago pushing Eldest Son in his stroller as I did every afternoon, rain or shine, that I first ‘knew’ I wanted to write, and maybe even one-day, write a book. Only time would tell…

From morning…

Somerset Sunrise (c) Sherri Matthews

Somerset Sunrise
(c) Sherri Matthews

To night.

Somerset Sunset (c) Sherri Matthews

Somerset Sunset
(c) Sherri Matthews

And it was over thirty years later, while walking with hubby high above the Devon coastline last September, elated at having finished the first draft of my memoir, that its title, at last, found me.

Such moments of clarity are rare, but we don’t forget them because they remind us of the brevity of life, of where we stand in our world today and of where we hope to go tomorrow.

When we quiten the noise in our heads and let the whispers of our hearts ring true, we are renewed, empowered, and we are never the same again

‘What good is power?’ Charli asks in her excellent pre-amble for this weeks flash fiction prompt:

‘In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that explores the question, “What good is power?” Is it a story of empowerment, or a story of a dictator? Poke around power and go where the force takes you this week.’

My thoughts on power are of the kind that see us through tumultuous times, of the ability to forgive and forge ahead to find our way as we walk along the path of our calling and most of all, to love and be loved.

Here’s my flash, in 99 words no more, no less ~

Power Walk

The faster Joan walked, the more enraged her thoughts. All day long, there he sits, like a useless lump in front of the TV, saying nothing, doing nothing…I can’t take much more.

An hour later and almost home, she softened as worry replaced anger. What if he needs a doctor? What if he needs help?

The smell of coffee greeted her.

“George…?”

He never made coffee, or tea or…

“I booked that walking holiday,” he smiled as he handed her a mug of fresh coffee.

“But…”

“I know, I wanted to surprise you, been doing a lot of thinking…”

*******

This post is also written in response to the Weekly Photo Challenge, ‘Time’.

Posted in Family Life, Flash Fiction, My California, Weekly Photo Challenge | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 109 Comments

Times Past Challenge: Chinese Spoons And Eating Out

Dressed to impress in my purple and white midi dress my mother had made for me and  patent leather, navy-blue sling back shoes with block heels, I walked into the dimly lit Chinese restaurant, mesmerised by the brightly coloured lanterns hanging from the ceiling and the soft, almost hypnotic music filling the room.

It was the mid 70’s, I was twelve and staying with my dad for the school holidays in Brighton, and he was taking me and my brother out for dinner.  My first time eating out at a restaurant for an evening meal and, as it turned out, the last time with my dad.

I didn’t know what to order, so Dad ordered what he was having: a bowl of crab and sweetcorn soup.  When the waiter placed the small, deep bowl in front of me, I wasn’t sure at first what to make of the strange, thick-looking soup with the white streaks floating amongst the sweetcorn.

Dad urged me to try it, warning me to be careful as it was very hot, a fact borne out by his steamed up glasses. And then I noticed the white, ladle-like Chinese style spoon placed next to my bowl.  I had never seen such a spoon; its shape and also the unusual design on its base fascinated me.

As a tail-end ‘Baby Boomer’ growing up in 60s and 70s southern England,  eating out at a restaurant for an evening meal just wasn’t done.  The cost was out of reach for my parents and even if cost wasn’t a factor, restaurants were not family-friendly.

The only ‘fast food’ we had, and then as a rare treat, was when my mother left me and my brother in the care of my dad for the day when she took her prized Siamese cats to London for a cat show.  Dad always, I say always, got us fish and chips wrapped in newspaper for lunch, which we ate at home with plenty of salt, vinegar, fat pickled onions and lashings of tomato ketchup.

We didn't eat out as kids, but we did enjoy family gatherings, such as this tea party for a cousin. Me on the right. Always the kid with chocolate on my face. Nothing's changed... (c) Sherri Matthews

We didn’t eat out as kids, but we did enjoy family gatherings, such as this tea party for a cousin’s birthday. Me on the right. Always the kid with chocolate on her face. Nothing’s changed…
(c) Sherri Matthews

Pubs, if you were lucky, offered crisps, peanuts and sometimes a cold sausage roll or curled up ham sandwich on dry, white bread spread with margarine.  Pub meals were not the thing and children weren’t allowed inside.  By the time I was old enough to go with my friends, the only meals on offer, at least in the pubs where I hung out in Ipswich, were scampi, chicken or sausages and chips served in red, plastic-weaved baskets.

But when I was seventeen, my Radio Caroline listening boyfriend took me out for a meal for my birthday to a Berni Inn.

These ‘inns’ were all the rage across the country in the 70’s because they offered all and sundry an affordable, three course meal consisting of prawn cocktail, steak with all the trimmings (in Britain this means mushrooms, peas, grilled tomatoes and chips) and Black Forest Gateau.  Also included was a glass of wine and coffee to follow.  Very swish, we thought.

I remember that night for two things: the black maxi dress I wore, thinking how grown up I must have looked, and the horrendous stomach ache I had later on.  I blamed it on the coffee which never did agree with me. It was a great night out other than that.

But it is the memory of a Chinese meal one night in Brighton that endures:  the soup was delicious, the spoons fascinating and the time with my dad priceless.

*******

This post is written in response to a new and intriguing monthly challenge set by memoir writer Irene over at Reflections and Nightmares:

‘I’d like to invite you to join with me in a prompt challenge that will give us social insights into the way the world has changed between not only generations but also between geographical location. The prompt can be responded to in any form you enjoy – prose, poetry, flash, photographs, sketches or any other form you choose. You may like to use a combination of the two. I will also add a series of questions for those that would like to join in but don’t know where to start.’

Irene will give us her next prompt for February this week, giving me time most generously to squeeze this post in for January’s ‘Eating Out’ prompt (thank you friend!). You can read the other responses to her fascinating challenge here.

*******

Thank you all so very much for your wonderfully encouraging response to my post two weeks ago and for your understanding when I’ve been so lax in posting and visiting your blogs, especially last week.  But this week I’ll do my best to catch up, so get the kettle on and the wine chilling – I’m heading your way, rain, snow or shine!

 

 

 

Posted in Family Life, Family Memoirs, Times Past Challenge | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 113 Comments

Blogging And The Three Year Rule

Dear Blogger,

How are you?  It’s been a while since you and I had a proper talk, and this seems like the perfect time.

I saw you walk around the park a few times last week; that’s good news,  you must be feeling a bit better.  I know how walking, especially on a crisp, sunny winter’s morning, lifts your spirits, those endorphins weaving their feel-good magic through the ‘brain fog’ .

You mentioned recently that you’ve seen your robin a lot lately.  Strange isn’t it how we end up talking about robins so much?  I smile even now when I remember how much you agonised about what to write for your first ever blog post three years ago almost to the day, and how it was the sight of your Sweet Robin (as you came to name him) that inspired you.  And that brazen, puffed-up little bird still does.

Interestingly, I found out a thing or two about robins: they are cute but they are territorial and don’t let their feathered-friends push them around.  I had to laugh when you told me about the squabbles at your bird feeder and how there, among the sparrows, blue tits and even a blackbird, stands guard your Sweet Robin, seeing them off, a steely eyed determination in his coal-black eyes.

Hmmmmm….

I read your status update on Facebook this week – one of those ‘Facebook Memories’ thing they like to do – about your trip to London to have photos taken for your first ever article published in Prima magazine.  I remember you telling me about that day when,  as you looked out of your train window,  a beautiful fox, his red fur shimmering in the pale, winter sun, appeared in the middle of a field, stopping in his tracks to watch the train go by.

“It was a sign,” you said, because you have a ‘thing’ about foxes.

But I know that this memory also reminded you of all you HAVEN’T done since then, mainly that you STILL haven’t written your book and it made you feel like crap. Well,  I need to tell you now, that is utter bull.

You hear me on this?  Now, we are good friends, we go back a long way, but it’s time you sat up and listened to me for once, because, frankly, I’m worried about you. This time last year, you wrote ‘Two Years Blogging and Still Standing’.  Well, another year gone and yes, you’re still standing. But now I’m hearing things I don’t like.

I’m hearing that you are struggling so much that you are wondering if you will keep going with your blogging because you are finding it too difficult as well as writing your memoir.  You’re finding it too much with everything life is chucking your way, one bloody thing after the other, you say.

But I don’t get it – look at everything you’ve put into your blog.  Are you seriously thinking of leaving all that behind, now?  Since when were you ever a quitter?  Come on, get a grip! For one thing, you’ve told me over and over how much you would miss your wonderful friends if you ever stopped blogging.

They’re amazing you know, your readers and friends online, and your off-blog friends and  family who never fail to encourage you and stand by you, send you an email or a text or a Facebook message (and share!) a blog post they enjoyed.  You’ve told me many times how much the incredible kindness and generosity of others has restored your faith in humanity.

Remember how you felt when you had 50 followers and you got your first ever blog award?  You couldn’t believe it, that someone from ‘out there’ would find your blog, never mind ‘like’ it and maybe even leave a comment.  And what about your ‘silent’ readers, those you know visit through Google, especially when searching for information about Asperger’s Syndrome?  What about them?

I know how great you felt when you posted your first ever blog post.  You didn’t know about tagging or any of that ‘SEO’ stuff, but who cared?  Yes, you were nervous, but your first ever comment was from that lovely hubby of yours, and your mum and best friend, who were there for you then and are with you still today.

And what about your fantastic kids?  Remember how you felt when they first told you how proud they were of you? Do me a favour will you, when you feel like you’re nothing, that you’ve achieved nothing, always remember this.

Please?

Hubby gave you flowers and a card last Saturday and you had no idea why. “To celebrate your three-year blogging anniversary,” he said.

Beautiful flowers & card from Hubby (c) Sherri Matthews 2016

Beautiful flowers & card from Hubby
(c) Sherri Matthews 2016

And you hung your head in shame because of all the negativity and stress and pressure you had allowed to steal your joy and sense of accomplishment and you didn’t feel you had much to celebrate, because you’re so overwhelmed and plagued with worries of ‘keeping up’ and of sitting on the sidelines and achieving jack.

Why do you do that? Why can’t you believe in yourself and stop feeling like you’re such a failure all the time?  What’s wrong with you?   You need to change that, and you need to do it now.  Yes, I’m talking to you…

And what about your reasons for blogging in the first place?  Yes, yes, we both know about author platform and all that, and yes, it’s important, but you’ve told me many times that you don’t want to blog for that reason alone. What you’ve always wanted is connection, to know that by sharing stories from your life, past and present, you can reach out to others and let them (and yourself) know, above all else: “We are not alone.”

Your post Asperger’s Syndrome And The Love Of Animals is viewed every single day and has been since you published it in June 2013. It’s your most consistently viewed post, at the top of all your other posts week after week.   You have no idea who most of your visitors are, but now and then somebody leaves a comment and shares with you their struggles, their victories, their story.  I know you are so glad you wrote that post.

Remember your post Jersey: Occupation Liberation Celebration? Someone called Ed Le Gallais found your link on your public Facebook Page, left a wonderful message and shared it with three tourist websites in Jersey, giving you over 6,3oo views and 36 shares.   I know you don’t pay much attention to stats, but this blew you away. You worried that your post wouldn’t do justice to such an emotional and moving celebration. After all, you were just a visitor, you hadn’t lived it.

But a dear man, Robert, shared with you that he had lived in occupied Jersey under five years of Nazi rule, and that he was there, by the Pomme d’Or on May 9th, 1945 when his beautiful, tiny island was liberated by the British. He wrote to thank you for your post.  You couldn’t believe it.  He thanked you?

“No,” you said, “it is I who thanks you, dear Robert.”

And you cry even now thinking of it.

Remember too how Harper Collins found your blog (and you still have no idea how) and sent you Mary Karr’s book ‘The Art of Memoir’ and asked you to review it? That came out of nowhere, but at just the right time for you, and you still can’t get over it.

None of these things would have happened if you hadn’t started blogging.  Don’t ever forget that.

Think too of all you’ve learnt from other bloggers, not just about writing and publishing, but about other countries and cultures, every day life, and all the ups and downs you’ve shared together, the laughter and fun, and yes, even tears, in so many shared experiences,  All the writing and photography opportunities you’ve both received and given through guest posts, awards, blog hops, challenges, reblogs and competitions.

And who would have thought that one day you would write flash fiction?  Blogging made all this, and so much more, possible.

So don’t you tell me that you can’t keep blogging. Just don’t.

It’s tough when bloggers you’ve known have disappeared, for one reason or another.  Some were friends and now they’ve gone, just like that, and you miss them and all you can do is hope they’re okay.    But blogging takes a lot of commitment and sometimes things change.  Yes, you’re going to have to find a way to keep blogging and get your memoir written, take stock and recalibrate, but try not to panic in the process.

I know it’s bad sometimes, I know that things come along that derail you. I see you on those days when you sit down at your laptop and an hour later you’re still sitting there, unable to type a single word.  I know that panic when it rises like bile in your throat and with every second ticking by, you feel your memoir leaching away from you like ice cream left out too long in the warm.

You freeze; you can’t move; you can’t type.  Another writing day lost.

So. You do. Nothing.

I understand, I really do.  But you will get through this, trust me.

I could go on, but I think I’ve said enough.  I hope I haven’t upset you or said anything out of line.  I get fired up sometimes, when I have someone’s best interests at heart.  I only want to encourage you and say I’m here for you.  And don’t ever forget how far you’ve come.  You might not have achieved some of your goals so far, but you’re on your way, that’s what counts.  But you need to enjoy the journey, otherwise by the time you reach your destination (and you will, you hear me????), you’ll be so knackered, you won’t be able to enjoy anything.

And what’s the point of that?

But wait, one more thing: I realise I haven’t even mentioned the three-year blogging rule.  Funny actually, I don’t know why I even brought this up in the first place; after all, you’re not exactly one for sticking to the rules are you? But there is one rule I sincerely hope you’ll keep.

Here it is, and it’s simple:

Don’t Quit.

Got it?

Hang in there, and I’ll see you soon.

With love from Yourself xxx

Posted in Asperger's Syndrome, Blogging, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 196 Comments