It struck me the other day that I have never been as inspired as much by a building or a bridge or anything man made as I have been about a tree, a beach, a mountain or sunset.

I was rattling along on the train, coming home, moving through the concrete, graffitti tagged tunnels that lead me home and I realised that in order to recharge, I think we need greenery and open spaces. There is energy in the daily hustle of business and innovation and thinking, but for me down time needs to be green and blue. It got me thinking about the moments when I have felt “wowed” by something I have seen and although I have been impressed by (and fallen in love with) New York City with its endless bridges or the Petronas Towers in Malaysia, lit up and shooting into the sky – it has been a beach or a tree or a mountain that makes my spirit soar. I wondered why this was the case, as there are things we have built that have taken enormous ingenuity, but I came to the conclusion that it is the randomness of the tree, the beach, the mountain that has the spark of creation that all of us carry either alive or dormant in us, that fills me with wonder. It is the mystery of why this particular hill chose this particular spot to jut out and stare at the ocean, the inexplainable beauty of it all is what recharges me and reconnects me with the spirit of who I am.

I have been blessed with finding a little patch of earth, that has trees that reach into the sky, fruit trees and giant ferns and pockets of shade with mossy rocks huddling under bushes. I was awestruck when I discovered that my new garden held a tree that started to bloom in Spring, with bright pink leaves, that are gradually turning yellow and will if I believe my googling, will be green in a week’s time. I love the fact that I can wander down to my veggie patch and pick some sage and lemon thyme and use them to flavour a roast chicken on a rainy night. I love the return verandah, where I can aimlessly sit and listen to the birds, watching the grape vine and climbing roses do their thing, while my dogs run with boundless joy through the nooks and crannies of the garden. I am finding that weekends in the Cottage of Tranquility feel long and languid and that I am getting back to work feeling like I have been away for a long time. So if you are looking to recharge, as all of us are, I suggest, a tree, a rock, a beach or a hill to connect you back to the source of who you are…

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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There is a tale of a goat, told to me by Fifi, as I was wont to call my Grandmother, as she curled her hair in tight poodle ringlets. It was irreverent of me, to do this, but it was why she loved me. I would pester her to tell me the tale of the goat. She would sigh and roll her eyes and say “it is not that funny.” I would plead “tell me the tale of the goat.” She would smile and begin. “Once when I was a little girl, I went on a school excursion to a dairy farm and I came upon a goat. It had a friendly face and a stubby beard, so I decided to give it a toffee. It chewed the toffee for ages, like this…” and she would pull an agonised face, contorting her wrinkles and pushing out her false teeth to show how the goat had struggled for ages to chew on the toffee. I would squeal with delight, I could see the goat, straining to take in the sweetness of the sticky toffee and a diminutive version of my grandmother, like Madeline, in her pinafore and boater hat, with her poodle ringlets peeking out from under the rim, viewing the goat in horror as it chewed painfully. And we would smile and flip more pancakes, while we both played with the pictures in our heads.

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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The deliciousness of finding a new poet. Mary Oliver, where have you been? Look at these…

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”
― Mary Oliver

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save

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