Nina Olive

I pined for you and what you represent,
My creativity, expression lacking, forcing discontent.
A huge missing piece in the search for I,
An anchor, a reference, from times gone by.

Now, too late to know you in physical form,
Lost chances of poker, gin and tonic ‘til dawn,
Can’t hear your voice, feel your touch, see the glint in your eye,
Share laughter together, a synchronised sigh.

My new found cousin sent photos, I drank hungrily,
Your face looks out from the laptop screen,
Long nose, full lips, ebony hair,
Confident, sexy, a touch debonair.

Your eyes, your eyebrows, a version of mine,
Us separated by propriety, a curse of your time.
Shall I truly know you by looking in your eyes?
See the secrets they hold, the answers they provide.

You made my Father, he formed in your womb,
Grew to adulthood, made a child of his own,
Could not keep me, decision made,
No time for responsibility, much fun to be had.

So I was adopted, to others sent,
A nice family blessed with good intent,
Given what was needed as society said,
Fed, watered, allocated a bed.

She won’t know the difference,
A baby doesn’t feel
The pain of separation,
Too young to know ordeal.

On the surface yes, but not deep inside,
A part of me floundering, undernourished, almost died,
The wrong place, the wrong strengths, the wrong weaknesses,
Square peg, round hole, it didn’t make sense.

I needed you Nina, for my place to be
Was safe and sound with my real family.
The place I belong, the place where I share
Likeness, commonality, the right to be there.

The place where I find freedom to be
Myself, all that I am.
Where my soul expression finds,
Creativity unshackled driving peace of mind.

Oh Bugger!

Not a great way to prepare for your first half marathon - being woken by a drunken wife and fighting cats at 01.45. Sorry Andy. My thoughts are with you now as you pound the streets of Reading. I do harbor a wry smile as I think of the times I have laid awake while you're out for a night with the boys, me waiting to hear the key in the lock, wondering if you've made one of your mad decisions to walk 5 or so miles home at 3, 4, 5 am. Still, as cross as I got, worrying for your safety, imagining you passed out in a ditch at the side of the road, I was never in the final stages of preparation for a 13 mile run. Good timing N!

It was a great night out - Molly Malone's Bar, Hitchin, a celebration of Andrew's rise to landlordship. Good music, good beer, good company. Comfy sofas, a real pub with the genuineness of ordinary people sharing a cosy capsule of warm fun on a cold, wintry Saturday night.

The joy of sharing music

Yesterday I played my flute. This may sound like a small comment, it's not, to play my flute is huge. It is more than 2 decades since I played to an adult audience. Yesterday was fun, uplifting, nurturing even. For those who don't know me, I was a shy child with a talent for music. I began flute lessons age 10, my fingers took to the instrument like a duck to water. I spent time learning to breath from the diaphragm, strengthening the muscle by raising heavy books while lying prone on the lounge floor. My fingers danced along the keys, music flowed. For a while I was happy. Then came expectation. I had to perform. My body reacted: I sweated, I panicked, most hideously, I shook from head to foot. I could not play. I remember now the feeling of fear and humiliation, "please ground, swallow me up". My pleas for it to end fell on deaf ears. I concocted various ways to prevent me from being able to leave the house on the big night: drinking glasses of strong, salty water before leaving home in the hope of making myself sick, stealing valium pills from the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. Nothing worked, I was not heard, the ordeal continued.

Looking back now I suspect it was stage fright, all I needed was some hypnosis or counselling!

So to the present. Yesterday I played songs from movies for the residents of Symonds House in Hitchin. I shared my music with a welcoming group of appreciative adults, we laughed together, we sang together. I played my flute, they listened. They smiled, I smiled. It was good.

Awakening

Feeling a little envious having just read Greg's blog about fabulous walks around Auckland. I love to walk, I love to be with nature, see my surroundings, feel the magic of being alive. Yesterday I walked through awakening birch and hornbeam woods and across the newly green fields to Knebworth. On Sunday Andy and I walked almost 6 miles from home, again through woods with the first hint of emerging bluebells, up and down muddy tracks, across the wide open space of farmers fields to Tewin. We marvelled at the sudden eruption of the blue "glory of the snow" and stripped off our jackets as the warm spring sunshine and slow incline increased our temperatures. I remembered to stop and stand still, take in the view, the old and new, the strong, steady victorian viaduct at Digswell, the imposing white monster that is the Shredded Wheat factory. The World is wonderful, the Earth has much glory wherever we are. Finding wonder and joy in my surroundings brings me a sense of peace and fulfillment. Yes I'd love to live by the sea, by lakes, by mountains, I'd appreciate more sunshine, less cloud, but, by living in the moment there can be no greater place than where I am. Life is good.

A sense of belonging

I am excited about finding 2 cousins through facebook. There is something in me that yearns to connect with family, those who share my blood/genes. We share our Grandparents Nina and Nick. I have a real sense of belonging (at last). It feels like my heart lies with the family of Du Pille. Warmth and peace comes from finding my place.

To believe or not to believe?

It's like I'm spending my life trying too hard to prove that I am not evil, that I am worthy of existence. At the core is a need for me to believe the opposite. How is it that while I am able to coach others to find and trust their own inner value system I still struggle to have faith in mine? I see a blackboard covered in white chalk words that must be rubbed off, the slate clean of other people's judgement in order for me to start again with my own. I have spent the past 5 years writing over the top in an assortment of rainbow coloured chalk. While the rainbow words are positively beautiful, the white chalk is not obliterated, it remains, hidden, yet no less powerful. It keeps me bound. I want to break free.

More strangeness in the night

I've had a week of disturbed nights: bad dreams, alien forces, wailing woefully. I struggle with where to begin, the untangling too mammoth a task. Repeated rape from a little known, innocent, face from the past or being flung across the room by a seemingly supernatural force. Is it all death anxiety? I feel disturbed, like there's a kernel of evil misplaced inside. My redeemer, my self, but how?