Spring has sprung

It is finally Spring!

I am so pleased that it is time for the clocks to move forward.  This is definitely the most wonderful time of the year for me, when the sun is slightly higher in the sky, a little bit warmer on the skin and the days have that crisp fresh spring feel to them, especially the mornings when I am able to sit outside with my cup of tea contemplating the day ahead.  Also exhilarating is that feeling of suddenly needing to wash the curtains, clean out the cupboards and get the garden ready for the summer, the unexpected desire to paint a particular room a lighter, sunnier colour and the urge to tidy the drawers and pack the woolly jumpers away to be replaced by linen trousers, t-shirts and flouncy flowery and colourful blouses. 

Growing up in the southern hemisphere means that the seasons were opposite to the UK.  So where I now love spring in April, as a child it was September.  But the feeling was still the same and I vividly recall the squeals of excitement on the first day of September when the swimming pool gates opened for the first time after the cold winter months.  Nothing ranked higher in importance than that fact, for it meant life returned to the normal cycle of rolling your towel up into your swimming bag with clean underwear, putting your bathing costume on under your school uniform (no point mentioning the difficulties that created for us girls during the day!) and then walking-running the odd mile after school to queue up with your friends in front of the entrance gate outside the brick walled paradise that was our town pool, twitching with excitement as the joyous squeals of children already splashing in the gloriously crystal clear blue water and running around on the grass, feet covered in leaves and dry grass cuttings, before plunging back into the refreshing water, drifted across the top of the wall sending little darts of excitement through each one of us as we fidgeted with our coins ready to buy our very important little rectangular paper ticket, torn from the large roll on the counter, wondering why it was taking so long for the queue to move, some of us already in several states of undress so that we could dump-and-run the minute our feet reached the inner perimeter.

The only outdoor pools I've experienced in the UK have been the Lido in Finchley and the Hampstead Heath Ponds, neither of which I so much as poked a hesitant toe in, although my husband frolicked with that bravado only men of a certain age seem to be able to find in themselves faced with either the prospect of diving in and making the full show of having fun or making the dry-bodied walk of shame back to the seating area, unable to face the prospect of the ice-cold mind-numbing wallow.  But the enjoyment of the experience itself is in being surrounded by the sounds of splashing water and laughter, the smell of the chlorine, the sunshine (sometimes) and always the squeals of excitement from the children as they arrive, their eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Morning Fresh

Writing first thing in the morning.

Early morning writing is definitely good for me.  In the summer months it is easy for me to pull myself out of bed, make a cup of tea and settle down, still in my PJs, on the top step of the sleeper wall in my garden, surrounded by the raucous morning chorus of the local birds hunting for food, the fresh breeze that has the ability to lift any mood, and the lush grass, shrubs, flowers and cherry sapling already host to miniature swarms of flying insects, bees, butterflies, bumblebees and the occasional spider.  Winter months and rainy days aren't too bad either because I get to snuggle into my favourite chair at the window with my cup of tea, pull my legs up and tuck my feet under me to keep warm and lose myself in my writing.

 

Morning in the garden

If I’m busy writing a story then I pick up the thread, imagining my way through one or another conundrum that my characters have put me in, yet again and morning writing stints have a habit of producing the best outcomes and sparks of fresh ideas and before long my mind is in another dimension, wrapped up in my story. 

It is a good time for letter writing too, especially the difficult kinds of ones when something has unravelled in the fabric of life, an argument with my mother or a disagreement with a friend or sibling and I've gone to bed replaying the scene over and over and spent the night fretting and fuming over how I’m going to have this out on paper (you know how face-to-face confrontations have a habit of screwing your words up and sentences go awry as they leave the safety of your mouth).  I find that these morning sessions have the ability to smooth out the sharp ends and dampen down the flames and very often the resulting letter takes on a completely different angle, often leaving me feeling like not only have I learnt something about my own feelings but also how to deal with the person who has upset me in a way that often calms the situation.  Sometimes I find that the writing itself mends the rift and quite often the letter never reaches its intended audience, thankfully.

Moments spent in thought in between bouts of writing allow me to look around, admire the garden, take notice of the neighbourhood, appreciate my surroundings and feel grateful for the space I have.  Best of all, for me, is when the allotted time has passed and I’m off to work or facing the tasks of the day and I feel as though I've accomplished something important.  So what if it’s just a few pages in a notebook or a wordy letter, but it is a problem I've dealt with or a piece of a chapter I've completed or a bit of story-line that’s suddenly gone off at yet another angle, enough to keep my thoughts and imagination busy for the rest of the day until I can sit back and pick up my pen and notebook and lose myself in my imagination once more.

It is not simply the telling of the tale; it is how it unfolds in my imagination

As a small child I would sit huddled cross-legged with my friends and classmates on the wonderful magical island that was the threadbare rug in a tucked-away corner of the school library, surrounded by shelves neatly stacked with colourful books of all shapes and sizes telling stories of adventure, fantasy and discovery. Enthralled by the tale being told by our beloved teacher during story-hour, her voice rising and dipping, loud with excitement or mock-anger then whispering with secrecy and conspiracy, my eyes grow wide with each incident, my small hands clasp tightly in the folds of my skirt as I cling to the essence of the story until the final moment when she snaps the book shut to sighs of deep disappointment.

But the intrigue continues to unfold in my imagination giving life to my charismatic protagonist (usually my super-hero self, of course) in untold numbers of situations fraught with danger and adventure, secret quests and trails leading deep into forests, through deep and treacherous swollen rivers or in desolate coves and caves seeking and exploring; re-enacting scenes in the playground with my friends who fill in the gaps with their own super-hero selves resulting in fantastical sound effects and plots, sword-fights and high kicks with someone ultimately ending up tied to a post or wash line before we regroup over milk and cookies to discuss the exhilarating outcome and prepare our revenge.

The path from childhood into teens brings new adventures with higher stakes and more bravado, my protagonist developing curves and wearing skin-tight outfits brandishing weapons of mass destruction and saving the world from obliteration whilst basking in the glory of untold bravery in the face of peril; or occasionally ending up the helpless victim in a dark tunnel, faced by terrible jeopardy until the handsome hero swoops in for the rescue and sweeps her off to live happily ever after.

These enchanted moments framed the stories that I would carry in my memory throughout my life to be instantly recalled at the site of a worn rug or a small stool placed beside a bookshelf in the children's section of the library, or the sound of a story being told.

Whatever the nature and plot of the tale, whoever the characters and creatures and wherever the locations, the stories are nurtured and cultivated in my imagination waiting anxiously to be put into words, ready for the telling.