the crone

opening the door to ideas

I’ve been researching the rise of ‘Pauper funerals’ in the UK. Also called Section 46 funerals, these are burials that are paid for by the local authority when someone dies alone, with no known next of kin. What struck me as I read through case studies, watched news articles and looked up Gazette postings, is that when …

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I’ve been talking to another blogger fourhillsfarm64 about the legacy of being a child who has grown up and lived with the long-term disease and death of a parent (or loved one). I’ve covered some of my own thoughts and experiences on this in previous posts. The outside calm and the inside crying My father was disabled and horribly ill for most of my …

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So I’ve brought up both of my children up to be individuals. To celebrate that everyone is different. To understand that being unique is something to take pride in. My son is very different to most 10 year old boys. Not because he has Aspergers Syndrome or Autistic Spectrum Disorder … he really is quite eccentric. His …

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I went to see my daughter perform in The Mikado on Saturday. It was great to see her on stage. Poised. Confident. Having fun. Part of a really quite ambitious school production. She was one of the Japanese maidens, and to see her singing in the chorus was just lovely. It’s hard to remember now how …

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Sometimes I cook fancy things. I chop. I peel. I cut. I knead. I slice. I season. I go on long convoluted shopping trips in order to track down 60 separate secret ingredients for Sambal, Bun Bo Xao and Garam Masala. But fussy people do not want this. They demand Macaroni Cheese. They care not …

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Why do we become who we become? I puzzle over this a lot. Fixated that I could’ve been better, done better, achieved more, ‘if only’, ‘if only’, ‘if only…’ Who were you supposed to be? Apparently, who we become isn’t just a matter of nature or nurture. For instance, murderers and psychopaths are both born …

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Three young artists diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis were given a brief — to create something good out of something bad. The one above I thought was beautiful and thought-provoking. The birds look longingly into the sky; maybe they feel grounded? Are they thinking they will never fly again? Do they miss their wings? Whatever has happened to their bodies, they are …

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I was about 11-12 years old, on summer holiday in the Norfolk Broads with my mum, dad, 2 sisters and a cousin. I was one of the youngest children. It was early afternoon on a clear and sunny late summer’s day. We’d moored our hired long boat in a very quiet area next to fields and …

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We were asked to donate a nearly-new cuddly toy to my boy’s school to raise funds in the Christmas raffle. My son decided to give away one of his precious teddies. The teddies of all shapes and sizes (and species) jumble together in a seemingly random heap, next to his pillow in bed. However, they apparently have a strict ranking and …

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I love his face.

His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.

I love his range of facial expressions.

I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).

His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.

His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.

I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.

I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.

He is so funny.
So, different.

I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.

I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.

To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.

To crunch him up,
In a box.
Like school and society want.

Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.

Owey, Owey Oatflake.

Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.

You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.

Asperger's on sports day

It’s the not taking part that counts.

October 22, 2014