Behind the stone fence

Written for our local poetry group 

Prompt: Behind the stone fence

This will be it for the next 2 weeks as I won't be able to post because of circumstances. I might have time to visit my blogging friends, otherwise see you all after the 20th of April

Behind the stone fence

A thud,
an apple drops.
I wonder what breathes
behind that stone fence
of our uncle’s house.

Later, an invitation
glimmers in my email.
I come to work
in the children’s home
behind the secrecy
of that fence.

I find
a house full of stories,
no one ever reads.
Children’s voices
like wind chimes
in a restless storm.
Yet within this circus
of tumbling echoes
I find a quiet beauty.

Sitting in the doorframe
of a little boy’s room,
a threshold between
his wildness and sleep,
I read
the Guinness Book of Records,
his favourite.
His dark, wild weather
softens into peace.

When my dyspraxic hands
struggle with cooking,
a ten-year-old girl,
smiling like a lantern,
juggles pots and pans
till our meal turns
buttery, warm-spiced.

Little soul-touches
spark on my phone:
“Marja, you rock.”
And we do
on music,
on theatre,
on fish and chips,
eaten with salty fingers
at the beach.

I learn that in places
behind fences,
where kettles boil
without a whistle,
little love-lights burn,
starborne flames,
small but steady.

And somewhere
still
in the shadow
behind stone fences
quiet flowers
stretch toward the sun
without a witness.

 

The morning struck thirteen

The chosen prompt for Poets and Storytellers United: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” ~ George Orwell 

Reality is a dream that learned how to live
Marja

The morning struck thirteen

The morning stood upright 
on a bright cold day in April.
The clock cleared its throat
and struck thirteen,
breaking the habit of time.

Rumours buzzed;
a threshold was crossed.
Pebbles skipped across the pond,
spreading ripples of truth.

People stopped
running, talking.
They watched the sky,
heard the birds sing silver songs.

The language of love bloomed,
its breath becoming a bridge

Rivers cleared,
mirroring the wisdom
of ancient trees
that wandered
like old storytellers,
whispering
the tide had turned

Fresh food rose from wet earth,
replacing factories
that once made things
the world did not need

Mirrors of ego cracked
People spoke to neighbours,
shared tools,
swapped seedlings.

Laughter stitched itself
through the streets,
the air filled
with fresh baked bread.

Loneliness faded
like mist at dawn.

The sky held happiness
as the world revealed
the quiet brilliance of peace,
still learning
how to stay.

Rock Ridge Track

I recently walked the Rock Ridge Track with four others from our walking group. The track is about an hour from Christchurch and feels like a big, wild extension of the Washpen Falls track in Windwhistle, which I’ve done a couple of times. I was a bit nervous beforehand because the first day had 1000 metres of elevation and some steep sections. But we took it slowly, and it went absolutely fine.

This 31 km route showcases the best of the high country: native bush, dramatic rock formations, working farmland, forestry trails, rolling hilltops, sweeping valleys,  lakes, mountain peaks and the braided rivers that stitch the two neighbouring farms together.

It was fantastic; beautiful, expansive, and surprisingly luxurious. We stayed in a gorgeous homestead with great beds, and the food was amazing. On the first day we soaked in a hot tub with a glass of wine after the walk. Dianne, who once worked as a student on a sheep farm, gave me a tour of the shed where they were shearing. It was such a treat and a fantastic two days.

We did all of it, and I’m pretty damn proud. Not bad for a 64 year old lol

Day 1: 1000 m elevation, 13 km

Day 2: 750 m elevation, 18 km

Washpen Falls

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How my brain works (and why it matters)

I used to think something was wrong with the way I learned. Repetition didn’t stick. Instructions got lost. Words disappeared just when I needed them and conversations moved too fast. It took me a long time to understand how my brain works differently.

I have a combination of Dyspraxia, CAPD, Dysnomia, and Aphantasia. Each one affects a different part of how I process the world. Together they create a very specific way of thinking.

Meaning comes first

My mind works in whole ideas, not in sentences. I don’t naturally build meaning step by step through words. Instead, the meaning is already there and I have to translate it into language. 

Why speaking is harder then writing 

When I speak, I have to do several things at once: I process what I hear, organise my thoughts, find the right words and say them in order. All at the same time. Sometimes the words don’t come. Not because I don’t know them but because they don’t arrive when I need them. So, I pause and search. 

Writing is different.The idea unfolds naturally, almost like it already exists, and I’m just putting it into words. There is no time pressure. I can pause, shape, and adjust.  Sometimes I scan random text until a word clicks or use a thesaurus.

How I learn

Traditional learning often relies on repetition and step-by-step instruction. That doesn’t work well for me.

What does work is: understanding the concept, connecting it to something I already know and rebuilding it in my own way. To do that I use metaphors, analogies, and patterns “this is like…”  That’s how I create conceptual hooks.

Most people start with words and build meaning through sentences I start with meaning and move toward words. That’s a different direction.

Why this matters

From the outside, this way of thinking can look like difficulty: pauses in speech, slower responses, missing words
But underneath there is often a rich understanding and a strong sense of meaning. Understanding this has changed how I see myself. This isn’t just my story! I learned to adapt however and from that shift, this poem emerged: 

Garden of freedom

                                                        

She kept on
loving, living, learning
after the world trembled
the ground splitting
beneath her sanctuary

She crossed
the deep blue ache,
emerging from the water                                                  
last droplets
sliding from her skin.

She walked forward
alive
capable,
not by ease,
but by a quiet refusal
to let the world diminish her.

And slowly she shaped
a garden of freedom
wherever her feet fell,
a flower unfurled,
catching her breath
like a blessing,
like sunlight spilling
into a long-shadowed room.

 

Seeds of the hidden heartbeat

The prompt for Poets and Storytellers United is something you feel deeply about

The following poem is inspired by something I feel deeply about; synchronisity and the feeling of being guided.

Seeds of the hidden heartbeat

A force moved me
rising from the undergrowth of the world.
I followed the nudge,
leaned into its whisper,
I met a path without imprints
soft,
inviting,
yet daunting.

I pulled all strings of courage,
moved forward,
stumbled in the shadow
to test the weight of my bones.

The mysterious offered a hand,
words dropping like crumbs
along my path.

Dreams opened their gates.
Symbols wandered in,
insight brushed my thoughts
like stars passing the night sky.

Books fell into my hands,
their pages talking to me
I felt the pulse of light,
the shadow retreated.

I learned to trust the seeds,
growing into the heartbeat of life,
following the echo of the unseen
as it slowly faded.

The guiding hand released itself,
leaving the glow of its ember.

  

Like sunlight in a jar

The prompt for What's Going On is Children 

Like Sunlight in a Jar

They carry worlds behind their eyes,
magic reflected in sparkles.
Souls unclouded
by society’s gatekeepers.

Young hearts move in colourful places,
never separating them like adults do.
They gulp the world
like lemonade through straws.

Faces of delight,
running through sprinkles,
grasping bubbles,
dancing, singing.

Enchanted by stories,
captivated by imagination,
holding the secrets
of Little Red Riding Hood.

Their laughter
echoes the joy
buried within us,
like sunlight caught in a jar.