Blog Therapy

The Mail on Sunday today has an article on 'blogging' and the therapeutic rewards it can bring. Some regard blogging as either a pastime for 'saddos' or a vehicle for self proclamation and ego-boosting. I never considered why I started to blog eighteen months' ago, only that it gave me an outlet to my grief.

Living out in the wilds of Oxfordshire, with no immediate friends to talk to, while struggling to get over the loss of my lovely man; writing to an invisible listener was (and still is) for me, therapy of the best kind. It is exactly like keeping a diary of thoughts, but with the added benefits of having like-minded or very kind people comment with useful or just kind words. Those of an insensitive nature think it's a way of just saying exactly what you like and getting away with it. No, no, no... it is (for me) replacing a very expensive therapist, who after all, just listens.

I didn't expect anyone to respond to my ramblings, yet I have made a few friends in the process who seem to understand where I'm coming from, or at least, keep me going with their kind comments. Only one person has upset me over my blog writing and luckily they are no longer able to contact me.

In short, thank you blogger friends for listening. Not all of us have such fulfilling lives as those who throw scorn at bloggers!

Frosty Fields

My car said it was -3 degrees as I drove to the Post Office today, hoping that it was open after the armed robbery yesterday. Sure enough, the post mistress was serving concerned and inquiring customers, although no other ladies were working there today, neither was the Post Office cubicle open for business. I asked if she was okay and could I help in any way... but she was resolute, and grateful for supporting comments and offers.

I then went to the Gym for a good workout followed by a swim... (the water, showers and changing rooms are piping hot), before going out and about to take lots of photos of frosty fields. The reason? I would eventually like to know how to paint frost with watercolours, and to that end I've been trawling the web again for courses. Painting white frost on white paper is a talent beyond me! But I'd like to know how!

Tonight there is a full moon and there will be rain by tomorrow, hence catching the frosty pics before it's too late. I can do rain... in watercolours that is! I found out by accident when holding up the pad of a wet freshly painted sky. Most of my success at anything, is due to accident.

Roll on some happy accidents for 2009!

Village Life

Nearly four years' ago, my husband wanted us to buy a house in a quiet and 'safe' area away from crime and vandalism... he'd spent over thirty years dealing with criminals of one sort or another, and being now disabled after a stroke felt all the more vulnerable.

I used to bring him out of the Nuffield hospital at Headington every weekend until he was eventually discharged in May 2005, by which time we had viewed and bought a house in a little hamlet, attached to a small ancient village that has just one post-office cum shop. He constantly insisted that all doors were locked, even though we lived in a quiet lane. He knew that if we had intruders, he was no longer physically able to defend our home, himself, or me. It was such a shift of thought for a man who had always been tall, able and strong.

When my lovely man died, I felt even more vulnerable, and consciously and continually locked all doors, including the garage door, shed door and car doors. When waiting at traffic junctions I would press the internal locking system of my car.

Today, I walked to the village Post Office to fetch my paper only to find the door shut and a few villagers mingling outside. I was told that an armed robbery had just taken place and that the van had sped off and the police were on their way. My immediate thoughts were with the few ladies and the Post Mistress, who have become my friends and who must be in an extreme state of shock. I left to walk home as the police arrived.

I also heard on the National news tonight of a Post Master's son being shot dead at a Post Office in Worcestershire; also, on local Oxford news it stated that a gang that had committed armed robberies in an area of east Oxford had now been caught.

It seems that even in quiet backwaters, or because of being quiet and secluded, our little shops and post offices are prime targets.

I can hear my husband saying, "Lock the doors and make sure the car is locked away in the garage, and don't bother getting a paper."

Cold and Quiet

When I peeped around the Roman blind in my bedroom at seven thirty this morning to look outside, I first noticed the swathe of ice across every surface, but what grabbed me most was the quietness; no cars, no birdsong, no wind gusting across the open field and more noticeably, no banging doors from my immediate neighbours. They must be having a Sunday lie-in, thought I. The quiet was short-lived, as the neighbour's back door banged - as if on cue.

I have become used to their door-banging, but my Christmas visitors were not. What to do in these situations? I've already mentioned to my friendly neighbour, in passing, and lightly, with a smile, that their door banging did sometimes wake my visitors up, and was assured that they would try not to - bang, that is! But, somewhere along the path of daily life their assurances were forgotten. While I do not wish to fall out with my neighbours, especially over a trivial matter, I do wish they'd be a little more considerate when I have people staying. I know there's nothing wrong with their back door, as I've tested it out myself while cat-minding. I suppose some people just like to make sure the door bangs shut.

Elsewhere, outside the air is calm and still. It's on days like this I wish I could really paint well.

Going South

I really enjoy painting skies, and am now getting good at fluffing up the edges of clouds to get rid of stark straight edges of white paper next to paint. Although I think I need to now work on figures... my person and dog look a little like something out of a children's story book.

I've just visited my daughter and granddaughter on the south coast... child-minding overnight. Despite living there for many years bringing up my four daughters, I now love getting onto the A34 at Winchester, putting my foot down and speeding (not literally) home to West Oxfordshire. I don't miss the vast conurbations or hectic road systems around Southampton, Portsmouth and Winchester. I long for the country roads and butter coloured stone of the little villages I've come to love. The one thing that I loved about being down south again, apart from seeing my lovely family that is, is the sound of sea gulls as we strolled through Chichester North Street. They were swooping and diving above us and their calls brought many memories of living by the sea.

I don't mind going south on regular visits, but I wouldn't want to live there again... not unless I could get a very nice cottage along the Dorset coast... yeah, right! Me and the rest of the population!

Back home I love my own bed and awake this morning looking around my bedroom, thinking how lucky I am. Lonely, but lucky!

Yet more artwork

I find I enjoy painting snow scenes more and more... but the chances of having a real life snow scene to paint is pretty remote.

I think this one looks less like a 'paint by numbers' attempt, but what would I know?

I've never like Sundays since he died; being a day of the week in which other couples and families 'do' things. I listen to my neighbours banging their back door, starting up their car with boys, going in and out of the gate and opening and shutting the garage door. Lots of activity and interaction in contrast to my little quiet life. So, I went off to the Gym to swim and lose myself in the pool where I concentrate on achieving more powerful lengths. Not to gain muscle or lean tissue, but just for something to achieve.

I have got into the habit of then sitting in the little food bar, drinking a skinny cappuccino while reading my Sunday newspaper. Again, it's to make me feel part of something. People mingle, come and go, chat and wait for partners to emerge from the changing rooms, while others just sit and read the papers - like me. This week I found only 62 pence in my purse, so when the girl behind the bar, (my dance partner of the last few weeks), happened to ask if I wanted my usual coffee, I had to say that I was broke. I chatted to her for a while, asking how she was and how were her children etc., and she seemed happy to chat back despite suffering with a bad cold. A while later, I was reading my paper at a little table, when she approached carrying a coffee. She coughed, looked around and said, "sorry it's been so long in coming." She smiled and put the coffee on the table. It was such a nice thing to do and filled my heart.

It's the little things that give me such pleasure and make me aware that there are good people around after all. It made me feel visible, warm and fluffy. She is an angel.

More artwork

I think I'm getting the 'hang' of this now! I attempted this scene - taken from my beginners watercolour book, (Alwyn Crawshaw, Collins Press). I did it in a couple of hours, taking a break midway to make a cup of tea while the mountains and sky dried. That was when Pebble decided to walk across it. His paw prints can still be seen despite my repair work.

I took it into Art class yesterday evening to lots of applause from classmates, however, the teacher thought it looked a bit like 'paint by numbers'.

During the evening I managed two more snow scenes, trying not to make them look as though they were 'paint by numbers', while the teacher went in and out of the classroom more times than a fiddler's elbow. At the end of the session she handed us a piece of A5 pink paper to write down our thoughts on the course. She also told us that the continuation course in January would be another Beginners' course and that she would show us a few more techniques while going through the whole syllabus again. Others were writing out their cheques while I looked on incredulously. Am I the only one to think that this was another College attempt to get 'bums on seats', never mind the level of students?

Before leaving the class for good, I crammed as much onto my small 'course evaluation' piece of paper as was possible, trying to be constructive rather than destructive. To think I used to be the Training Evaluator for a large organisation, designing methodologies for evaluation, review and design of courses! It all seems such a long time ago now, and these recent experiences have made me feel as though I have never existed.

Despite the pleas of my art colleagues, I think I shall pass on signing up for January. I shall look around for another Art class with hopefully, a teacher that has a bit more nouse and who can steer me away from 'paint by numbers'!

More paintings to follow...