January A Writing Project

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mindful writing challenges

Over at Writing Our Way Home they have kicked off the year with a small stones writing project for the month. Small stones are basically a moment of focus, encapsulated in a few words. You can see examples of the past 3 days of stones on their website (link above).

I joined them in November when they had just 1 mindful day of small stone writing on the 1st. This was when I discovered what ‘small stones’ were. I was gutted when I realised it was only a one day thing and delighted to discover they are running for a month in January. Sometimes wonderful ideas can come from small stones, I will be building up my own collection of small stones here.

It is a good focus exercise and gets you observing the day better, trying to find a small stone.

I hope some of you join in too.

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MY SMALL STONES morning write

1st

The day full of promise
is cloudy and overcast,
a parallel match to
the state of your mind
after welcoming the new year in
through the slim neck of a bottle
or two.
Your own neck and legs ache
you don’t remember dancing,
no amount of water re-hydrates you.
Slipping quietly back beneath the covers
You hear the bleak weather
rain lashing angrily at your window
begging to be let in.
An unwelcome visitor.
Your plans swallowed by flood waters.
You give yourself permission to sleep,
glad to be inside
on the first wet day of the year.

2nd

Grey clouds like puffs of smoke linger in a pink, blue sky.
The rain has disappeared and the sun has shone.
The air is cold and full of promise.

3rd

Lying in bed,

my favourite place to be

reading,

searching the words to find opportunities.

Circling possible ventures

carefully

in freehand straight lines

with a thick purple pen.

4th

I sit with these women I love

Looking at them, reading the stories

held in wrinkled skin,

I buy lunch – it is the least I can do.

5th

Sitting at a sticky-edged table in a room full of writers

writing silent scribbles across blank pages

Atmosphere alive with open hearts spilling.

I write a poem about walking up the volcano without you

on our first Valentine’s Day.

6th

Standing outside I can usually hear the buzz of the playground

I hear the birds

as term doesn’t start until tomorrow.

7th

Land littered with puddles,

children relishing getting shoes wet and laughing

as they splash each other.

8th

In the role play corner, now a house,

a little blonde girl wears a colander on her head

and waits for the boy to give her

her baby back.

9th

The sun shines through the pale, unlined curtains,

greets me with promise after days of rain.

10th

I pull my clothes on in an attempt to make myself
feel awake.
Technically I have got up.
I am wearing a combination of clothing
I would never brave the outside world in,
I am comfy.
I have not restricted myself into too tight for
me undergarments or bothered to cover
my naked feet in socks.
There is no need as I spend the day
beneath a blanket
and sleep.

11th

The excitement of being found
by your lover.
His face lights up as he discovers
me in the room
next door.
I love these moments.
These moments confirm he loves me
More than words ever could.

12th

The rain falls
all day,
the rubbish waits
in bags
by the back door,
waiting to be taken out.

13th

I watch her growing older

and forget that I am also

aging.

Inner vision paused

on twenties.

No portrait in my attic.

14th

Mixing glitter in play-dough

such a simple idea

people forget how magical childhood is already

you only need to sprinkle in a slight

difference

to create a whole new universe.

15th

I watch them play

I am working

Post-it notes in hand I scribble what I see

until the game on chairs.

That I watch

and am instantly transported back to a

childhood of smiles.

The boy and girl

sit opposite each other in the home corner

(now a home)

she sits with her feet up and baby doll on lap

he tickles the doll’s feet

and each time she mimics the baby’s giggle.

Making make believe.

16th

Sirens and

the spoken word

don’t mix well

out in the open.

17th

Looking through rails
in the vintage clothes shop
I am transported back in time
to my own teen-hood
when all of this was still retro
but could be found in my own wardrobe.
Shopping at the Rag Market
and in charity shops
for a fraction of the cost.

18th

Hazy, heavy head

off-balance

early waking

from the night before

little more than a few hours sleep

feel the tilt of the Earth

and in each step

the gravitional pull.

19th

Sitting in a room of writers

a prayer like quality

a peaceful belonging

one that reminds me of home.

20th

Frozen windscreen

sitting behind the wheel

of my own private ice world.

No-one can see me

Smile.

21st

Dark lanes, unknown roads unwind before me

thoughts turn to turning back

something prevents me from being this sensible,

onwards I travel, tyres through rain.

22nd

A conversation makes me feel awkward,

exposed.

Revealed too much

spoke too soon,

Wishing I could run back into the shadows and

not be judged.

23rd

Too tired to keep up the smile.

Emotions snap

and crackle

like a wild fire.

24th

The journey seems further

roads are busier.

I know what to expect.

A day as grey as the tarmac

unfurling relentlessly.

25th

Overdosing on sleep

I can only write from dreams

and just like fading light

they dimly form a memory

in my head.

26th

The garden Centre is filled with a treasure trove of colourful temptation.

We should have just gone in

grabbed the half price seeds and gone back home.

We lingered, we looked, we touched.

We hoped and wanted,

lusted and longed

coming home with empty pockets and a full boot.

27th

A new week

fresh and wrapped beneath a shiny layer of possibilities.

28th

Home in tears, too highly strung.

Emotional girl.

He didn’t understand,

I deemed him cruel, but it was probably for best.

29th

Tightly wound like a coil.

I wish to be something simpler

than this.

30th

The snow fell.

Tiny sprinkles.

E minus effort,

it started as rain,

fell as tiny tokens of snow

and then, later – rain again.

31st

I see a small bird,

a wren, a sparrow, a thrush.

It eats berries off the bush and makes it way

up the garden path.

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2 responses »

  1. Pingback: A Day in My Writing Skin! (The 1st of the Year!) | awritersfountain

  2. Pingback: 2014 January – The Review | awritersfountain

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