The 'play' that resulted from the insight mentioned below has been to participate in a "Writing stories for children" distance course offered by a Swedish university. One of the first exercises in this course was to write a poem or nursery rhyme about the circus for small children. This is what flowed from my pen ... for children aged 3-6.
Dippetty doppetty down
The circus has come to town
You’d better watch out for Bello the clown!
Dippetty doppetty down.
Splishetty splashetty splush
Bello the clown has a brush
He’ll give you a shave if you don’t watch out!
Splishetty splashetty splush.
Flippetty, flapppety, flop
Bello the clown has a mop
He’ll wash you away if you don’t watch out!
Flipppety flappety flop
Ticketty tacketty tock
Bello the clown has a clock
He’ll wind you up if you don’t watch out!
Ticketty tacketty tock.
Hippetty happetty hix
Bellow the clown’s full of tricks
He’ll do them again if you don’t watch out!
Hippetty happetty hix.
© Sue Glover Frykman
Thursday, 19 November 2009
After taking part in a "Write with the Heart" workshop in connection with a "C. J. Jung Seminar" in Sweden in the summer of 2009, and writing the following in a 3-minute writing exercise, I realised that my writing was too serious and needed lightening up a bit to include more 'play'.
The same opening line for the 3-minute exercise was: "There’s a man with a moustache....."
"There’s a man with a moustache on the side on my neighbour’s van, on his knees with an insulating machine in his hand. Action man. Goal-related. A job to do and one he has to do well. Otherwise he won’t have any more work! Selling a service. Market-oriented. Where we are today. Humanity has to shop its way out of the economic crisis. What about reflection? Alternatives. Perhaps the system is rotten and if we shop till we drop we’ll fall through the hole never to be seen again. The man with the moustache is kneeling. Praying?"
The same opening line for the 3-minute exercise was: "There’s a man with a moustache....."
"There’s a man with a moustache on the side on my neighbour’s van, on his knees with an insulating machine in his hand. Action man. Goal-related. A job to do and one he has to do well. Otherwise he won’t have any more work! Selling a service. Market-oriented. Where we are today. Humanity has to shop its way out of the economic crisis. What about reflection? Alternatives. Perhaps the system is rotten and if we shop till we drop we’ll fall through the hole never to be seen again. The man with the moustache is kneeling. Praying?"
Thursday, 14 May 2009
God is dog spelled backwards
Written on 7th May, in a spontaneous writing workshop at Charney Manor, Oxfordshire
I miss the fluffy feeling of fur. Every morning and every afternoon we walk through the woods close to home, chatting and marvelling at the clear blue sky, spring’s colourful palette, the golden dandelions, the birds’ shrieks and twitters and the woody perfume of vegetation after rain we encounter along the way. Sauntering through the garden here at Charney, listening to the waves of wind in the trees, enjoying the cawing cacophony of crows and savouring the sun warm on my skin is like nectar to the soul. Yes indeed. But something is missing, and that is the feel of fur.
On leaving the Solar and going outside I made for the car park, stopping only to stroke a crimson peony, sniff the Judas trees and admire its fallen purple-pink blossoms on the spiky green grass. I skirted around the car park hedge and paused at the wooden fence to look back at the parking area. I knew that R. had his dog with him and it was his dog I wanted to catch a glimpse of to assuage my hunger of seeing, if not feeling, fur.
Last night, after the writing retreat’s introductory session, I leafed through some of the books displayed on the table. A sentence struck me – the title of a book written by that particular author in a list of other books she’d written. God Is Dog Spelled Backwards. That phrase was somehow important. So important that it flew round and round in my mind like a bothersome fly. In the silent beginning to our morning session these words – God is dog spelled backwards – again broke into my thoughts and were forced into expression during the ensuing six minutes of spontaneous writing.
I remembered the fear I had experienced as a three-year-old when waiting, as was my habit, for Dad to get off the bus on his dinner hour. We lived in a quiet cul-de-sac and Mum allowed me to walk, all by myself, to the corner to wait for and greet Dad. I did that every working day. On that particular dinner time, however, a huge Alsatian dog decided to sniff at and inspect the little waiting girl at close quarters. Not content with that, it reared up on its hind legs and put its front paws on the wall behind me. I was pinned to the wall. I was terrified. Mercifully, Dad arrived in time to rescue his quivering daughter from harm. But damage had been done. Inside and unseen.
From then on dogs of all shapes and sizes paralysed me with fear, no matter where, no matter when, no matter which.
On moving to my present home in September 2000, in the glorious midst of the Swedish countryside where my soul and self are free, I discovered that our closest neighbours had dogs. Standard poodles. When going to collect the post from the little row of boxes the dogs would rush, barking, across the path and jump up at me. The first time it happened I froze, hoping they would vanish. Or something. My neighbour raced outside, frantically calling the dogs back to her and shoved them back in the house. I confessed me fear, in broken Swedish, and after that my Ulla was very careful to keep her dogs under control when I passed.
Another person in the village had a big black dog, which I also used to avoid. She asked me one day whether I was afraid of dogs. I confessed. Come here and I’ll help you to make a new friend, she said, quietly and caringly. She showed me what to do and guided my hand in the patting of her dogs head. Dog looked up at me with eyes as deep as pools, and I felt something soften within.
Now, due to events not really relevant to this tale, I help my neighbour, Ulla, to take her four standard and one miniature poodles for a walk twice a day. These walks have become a highlight. I always turn up on time. The dogs zoom in as soon as they hear my feet crackle the shingle on the drive and thrust their heads between my legs in a welcoming doggy hug. I run my fingers through their fur. It feels warm and thick and fluffy and soft – especially so when they’ve just had a bath.
Zottie gave birth to seven pups in February and I watched as the membraned packets plopped onto the towelled floor of the birthing bed and were frantically licked clean and clear by mum. She gazed lovingly at me as I ran my hands down her sides to ease the tension. These are moments I will find hard to forget.
God is Dog spelled backwards. Dog is God spelt backwards. What that amounts to for me is unconditional love.
©Sue Glover Frykman
I miss the fluffy feeling of fur. Every morning and every afternoon we walk through the woods close to home, chatting and marvelling at the clear blue sky, spring’s colourful palette, the golden dandelions, the birds’ shrieks and twitters and the woody perfume of vegetation after rain we encounter along the way. Sauntering through the garden here at Charney, listening to the waves of wind in the trees, enjoying the cawing cacophony of crows and savouring the sun warm on my skin is like nectar to the soul. Yes indeed. But something is missing, and that is the feel of fur.
On leaving the Solar and going outside I made for the car park, stopping only to stroke a crimson peony, sniff the Judas trees and admire its fallen purple-pink blossoms on the spiky green grass. I skirted around the car park hedge and paused at the wooden fence to look back at the parking area. I knew that R. had his dog with him and it was his dog I wanted to catch a glimpse of to assuage my hunger of seeing, if not feeling, fur.
Last night, after the writing retreat’s introductory session, I leafed through some of the books displayed on the table. A sentence struck me – the title of a book written by that particular author in a list of other books she’d written. God Is Dog Spelled Backwards. That phrase was somehow important. So important that it flew round and round in my mind like a bothersome fly. In the silent beginning to our morning session these words – God is dog spelled backwards – again broke into my thoughts and were forced into expression during the ensuing six minutes of spontaneous writing.
I remembered the fear I had experienced as a three-year-old when waiting, as was my habit, for Dad to get off the bus on his dinner hour. We lived in a quiet cul-de-sac and Mum allowed me to walk, all by myself, to the corner to wait for and greet Dad. I did that every working day. On that particular dinner time, however, a huge Alsatian dog decided to sniff at and inspect the little waiting girl at close quarters. Not content with that, it reared up on its hind legs and put its front paws on the wall behind me. I was pinned to the wall. I was terrified. Mercifully, Dad arrived in time to rescue his quivering daughter from harm. But damage had been done. Inside and unseen.
From then on dogs of all shapes and sizes paralysed me with fear, no matter where, no matter when, no matter which.
On moving to my present home in September 2000, in the glorious midst of the Swedish countryside where my soul and self are free, I discovered that our closest neighbours had dogs. Standard poodles. When going to collect the post from the little row of boxes the dogs would rush, barking, across the path and jump up at me. The first time it happened I froze, hoping they would vanish. Or something. My neighbour raced outside, frantically calling the dogs back to her and shoved them back in the house. I confessed me fear, in broken Swedish, and after that my Ulla was very careful to keep her dogs under control when I passed.
Another person in the village had a big black dog, which I also used to avoid. She asked me one day whether I was afraid of dogs. I confessed. Come here and I’ll help you to make a new friend, she said, quietly and caringly. She showed me what to do and guided my hand in the patting of her dogs head. Dog looked up at me with eyes as deep as pools, and I felt something soften within.
Now, due to events not really relevant to this tale, I help my neighbour, Ulla, to take her four standard and one miniature poodles for a walk twice a day. These walks have become a highlight. I always turn up on time. The dogs zoom in as soon as they hear my feet crackle the shingle on the drive and thrust their heads between my legs in a welcoming doggy hug. I run my fingers through their fur. It feels warm and thick and fluffy and soft – especially so when they’ve just had a bath.
Zottie gave birth to seven pups in February and I watched as the membraned packets plopped onto the towelled floor of the birthing bed and were frantically licked clean and clear by mum. She gazed lovingly at me as I ran my hands down her sides to ease the tension. These are moments I will find hard to forget.
God is Dog spelled backwards. Dog is God spelt backwards. What that amounts to for me is unconditional love.
©Sue Glover Frykman
Friday, 10 April 2009
Green leaves, the city, and surprises
The first snowdrops are nodding their pretty white heads. Knotted winter aconite buds long to give their petals a good stretch. I peer into clear-as-a-bell snow-melt puddles and marvel at mossy cushions and tiny blades of grass. We can now go for a walk without having to put little crampons on our boots to pierce the slithery ice. The garden is waking after its beauty sleep and I rummage in the shed for summery seeds.
For the most part, my life is spent in the countryside. My body mirrors its quiet rhythms and absorbs its sounds. From time to time I have to go to the city for meetings and gatherings. I went there last week. What struck me most was that I lead a very cushioned life lead out here, in the midst of nature.
After the meeting, I sat on underground train minding my own business. A man, standing at my shoulder, began to repetitively drone out words in a string. “My name is so and so and I’ve no money and I’ve no possessions and I’m hungry and if anyone can help me in any way I’ll be very grateful. My name is so and so.......” I didn’t turn round to look at him. I didn’t see anybody else doing that either. After the fourth or fifth machine delivery he moved on to the next section of the carriage and started all over again. Preconceived ideas welled to the surface. Giving him money didn’t seem like an option. If he had a problem with drink, or drugs, it might only make matters worse. But I wished I’d put the banana I intended to bring with me in my bag. It might have eased his hunger pangs.
While the man stood in the corridor at the carriage intersection in front of me, and repeated his mantra, I gradually became aware of his beautifully blue jeans, his nice warm anorak and the big holdall slung behind his back. The no money-no possessions spiel seemed a bit unreal. All of a sudden the air was filled with the merry sound of an accordion. The music got louder and louder and two people popped into view; the first ploughing her way through the throng of people rising from their seats to alight at the next station. A young bright-eyed woman holding a paper cup out in front of her was followed by a young man squeezing his box. The woman thrust the empty paper carton under my nose and smiled, expectantly. I stared blankly at her. Her smile faded.
Yesterday I found the feathery traces of what must have been a Blue Tit near the bird-table in our garden. It must have succumbed to a marauding cat.
© Sue Glover Frykman
For the most part, my life is spent in the countryside. My body mirrors its quiet rhythms and absorbs its sounds. From time to time I have to go to the city for meetings and gatherings. I went there last week. What struck me most was that I lead a very cushioned life lead out here, in the midst of nature.
After the meeting, I sat on underground train minding my own business. A man, standing at my shoulder, began to repetitively drone out words in a string. “My name is so and so and I’ve no money and I’ve no possessions and I’m hungry and if anyone can help me in any way I’ll be very grateful. My name is so and so.......” I didn’t turn round to look at him. I didn’t see anybody else doing that either. After the fourth or fifth machine delivery he moved on to the next section of the carriage and started all over again. Preconceived ideas welled to the surface. Giving him money didn’t seem like an option. If he had a problem with drink, or drugs, it might only make matters worse. But I wished I’d put the banana I intended to bring with me in my bag. It might have eased his hunger pangs.
While the man stood in the corridor at the carriage intersection in front of me, and repeated his mantra, I gradually became aware of his beautifully blue jeans, his nice warm anorak and the big holdall slung behind his back. The no money-no possessions spiel seemed a bit unreal. All of a sudden the air was filled with the merry sound of an accordion. The music got louder and louder and two people popped into view; the first ploughing her way through the throng of people rising from their seats to alight at the next station. A young bright-eyed woman holding a paper cup out in front of her was followed by a young man squeezing his box. The woman thrust the empty paper carton under my nose and smiled, expectantly. I stared blankly at her. Her smile faded.
Yesterday I found the feathery traces of what must have been a Blue Tit near the bird-table in our garden. It must have succumbed to a marauding cat.
© Sue Glover Frykman
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)