Tuesday, 23 September 2014

The Gold and the Mud

Sometimes when I'm feeling a little lost and finding it hard to see clearly, I collect scenes. Things that I see along the way, the sort of things that make me smile or give me goose bumps and just like Maria said, 'Then I don't feel so bad'. I've collected a few recently. A milk chocolate grandpa teaching his baby granddaughter to blow her nose. A mischievous and newly six year old, mixed race boy telling me 'I'm allergic to black and brown people' to watch the reaction of his mama's face. An old black guy wearing a white string vest and carrying a small square holdall with a long strap, smelling of sweet coconut oil. Looking back on these scenes now, I see a pattern and recognise that I'm missing him. Again. That father of mine. 

Sometimes these scenes just trigger other thoughts. Like the other day when I saw a girl, a little thing, asleep in a sitting up position holding a pair of dried out dandelions. She was perfectly pale, perfectly still and seemed straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel. Those dried flowers like some powerful metaphor for both life and lifelessness. Of late, I have felt a little like those flowers, tired and dried out but sticking around clinging to the hope that there is still purpose for the tired and dried out. Clutched so meaningfully by the still, still girl I could feel hope lifting in me. She could see clearly their value, their true measure. 

I don't think that in life we like to face our fears. At the beginning of last week, I had to begin the journey of facing one of mine and I didn't like it. Not one bit. But then as my hubby scooped me up and listened to my worries and allowed me to collapse into him, I remembered aloud, 'I don't like change' and with that I immediately felt better. I thought of those dried out dandelions and I've thought of them often in the days between then and now. 

Today is mine and my hubby's nineteenth wedding anniversary. I have now been married more years than my parents were married before my father died. I married a brilliantly impossible sunshiny dandelion. Together we weather the storms and celebrate the seasons and admire in one another, the faded yellows and the dried out coats that we now wear. We cling to one another, cling to the hope that there is still purpose in us. I can see the value, the true measure of all of these years. With him, my huckleberry friend. In this life, there is gold and there is mud. Gold and Mud. 

Mama and More


  1. As always you write so powerfully, so poignantly, with such truthfulness (you've brought tears to my eyes). You've moved me with every word...as a filmmaker I too collect scenes, moments, I capture them in my memory and often scribble them on bits of paper or recollect them when I'm shooting (although it's been a while). I loved this so much #allaboutyou

  2. I'm glad you are feeling stronger and that you and your husband support one another so much, so crucial x

  3. Thank you for your warm, encouraging words Vicki! It is such sweet music to know that someone connects with the words that sometimes spill out, without you knowing if they make sense! Carry on collecting those scenes, I'll keep a look out to see where you find a home for them! Thanks so much for stopping by honey x

  4. So beautiful and moving Katy - I hope that the fear your are facing recognises that you are greater than it, and it is a wonderful thing to have your rock, your support, your Huckleberry friend beside you. Much love and thanks for linking up to #AllAboutYou xxx