The Wound

I’m no poet. I write blogs, short stories and novels. I love to read poetry, but have never felt like sharing any of my small, inexpert attempts. Getting vulnerable and sharing something I wrote in bed this morning, reflecting on the upcoming Easter, and what that means for me; and for all of us. Be kind, I’m a public poetry virgin…

THE WOUND

When I was eight, I ran into a wall

the blood trickled down my neck,

pooling in my collarbone

And I cried.

Then I was ten, and fell down two flights of stairs

running through a Scarborough hotel.

I felt my spine bounce of the wall

And I cried.

So many wounds and cuts, sprains and falls,

that give way to a greater pain.

Hurts and failures, disappointment and grief,

And sometimes, we learn not to cry

to hold it all inside, and cope

‘I am strong enough to hold it, in, and all’ we say.

We toughen up, we harden up,

the wound scabs over, but beneath it still bleeds.

We ignore it, the itching irritation,

the inconvenient tenderness of life

that slows us down

and sends us to bed with a tub of Ice cream and Netflix.

Unsatisfied.

But we can rise.

Shake off the blankets that buffer us

and sing

because the wound is more.

More than the pain.

More than the ugliness.

More than an inconvenient tenderness.

The wound is strength and weakness, like the salt and vinegar crisps of heaven.

The wound is the beginning

and the end of you and me.

The gateway,

To another, and another us.

There was a wound deeper than mine.

A wound that was all my pain, and yours too.

A wound that led to death; but didn’t stop there.

Three days it took.

The wound can be healed,

the scars might remain

but transformed

a source of beauty, not shame.

He is magician,

taking the wound tenderly

in nail scarred hands,

‘I’ve got this’ he says, smiling.

He makes the wound a badge of honour,

a medal of valour for his dearly loved.

He turns my wound into a crown;

to match his own.

Gillian Fox – March 2018

Sing Louder

I’m a naturally anxious person. I always have been. As a kid I spent hours worrying that I was destined to die young because my star sign was Cancer. I would lie awake for hours on a Sunday night, dreading the week ahead, not because anything particularly bad was on the horizon; just because I knew that I would have to leave my bedroom, my books, my Barbie dolls and go out into the world. It worried me.

Sunday nights often still do. It is no surprise that I find myself writing these very words on a Sunday evening, my week already of too an unpredictable start with my eldest ill in bed with the flu and me having to call into work to say I can’t go in. My week hasn’t even started yet!

Anxiety central.

My mind is racing ahead of me, not just out of reach, but out of sight. Miles ahead, turning off the main road and taking detours though dark forests and past abandoned factories. Trying to get ahead of any prospective new horrors. But really, just finding more.

So I put pen to paper. I’m not going to chase it down dark roads, rather I will sit here and wait, pen in hand, for it to return to me, tail between its legs and sit back down beside me.

I can see it coming now, reluctantly, like a toddler who doesn’t believe that you aren’t chasing them, and wonders what you have found that is so interesting.

My breath deepens. Slows.

The pen is a mighty weapon indeed.

I know I’m not the only one. The only one who lies awake and worries. Who has to summon the courage to walk into a building full of people and look them in the eye and smile. Who always makes her husband order the takeaway because she just can’t stand talking on the phone right now.

But I know that with a pen in my hand, or a word document open before me, I wield a power over my worries, my anxiety, over the darkness that lies inside all of us, somewhere.

Honesty.

Authenticity.

Relationship.

Connection.

These are my weapons, and my ammunition is words. Words are powerful. It’s why I love them. Words, whether you write them or read them, can reach inside you, right down to the core, and switch on a light. They can extinguish the darkness and bring hope.

Words matter. What we read. The ‘content’ we fill ourselves up with. What we say. To other people, and to ourselves. In this time of fake news and cringy, empty platitudes, honest communication matters more and more.

Who you are, what you think, how you feel, matters. You matter.

This week I’m going to try and speak over the din. Bring honesty and hope and reality, where there is none.

If I feel anxious, I’m not going to beat myself up about it. I’m going to acknowledge it and know that it will pass.

Fear will disappear, maybe not forever, but for now, and I’ll have some words ready for its return.

Now, I’m just going to breathe.

Be honest.

Be kind.

To me first, and then to my little world.