Brown Study - Daydreaming

I hadn’t heard of ‘brown study’. When I looked it up and did a bit of online research, I quickly realised that I do it all the time. Deep in thought, away with the fairies, that’s me and seemingly more so at the moment. There is a lot going on to fill my head with worry and make me stressful. Of course, things will improve, but I’ve got to get through the here and now. I drift off into my thoughts, trying to reason things out or work out what to do. There is rarely a solution.

This morning I was enjoying the stroll in the cool air to a group I attend. I was wondering if I would have better staying at home because I was feeling upset and close to tears, but the short walk would do me good and I love to catch up with my friends there. I stopped to cross a road, turned to check for traffic and jumped out of my skin to see one of my friends next to me. She’d been saying my name. I hadn’t heard her. I was away in my own little world of oblivion. We walked the rest of the way together, chatting about the mild weather after I’d explained that I was fine, just lost in a daydream.

I’m struggling to concentrate when reading. I’m near to the end of what is a re-read of a good book and I keep losing it, literally. The paragraphs give way to me overthinking something, so I go over it again then often nod off. It isn’t a boring book, well, some might disagree, but I love the story and it is a real rediscovery now, as a mature adult. I think I was about eighteen when it was mandatory reading and, I confess, some of the content was lost on me. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, thank you, Robert Tressell.

My personal brown study isn’t always about what I might be fretting over at the moment. Sometimes I travel way back, reliving nice happenings, or being angry with myself over doing things I now consider stupid – we make mistakes, learn from them and move on – I don’t need to beat myself up fifty years later. Most of what haunts me from the past are things and events that I had absolutely no control over and remain in residence in a brain cell.

I found this poem meaningful. It’s written by C. Vergara, published on Poetry Soup.

Deep thoughts, without blinking
In a trance, deep thinking

Voices of yesteryear, instilling neurotic fear
Deeper and deeper, across my hemisphere.

Deep thoughts, within my soul
Bringing my running to a slow crawl

Trying to avoid it, but can’t control it
Like a ‘who done it’, I can’t outrun it

Deep thoughts, take over my mind
They begin to grind what’s left behind.

It’s a sign, rectifying
My essence in time.

                              C. Vergara 9/6/2010

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Fairies - Titania and the Tooth Fairy

Stitching ‘Titania’ was one of the longest projects I’ve ever done. The end result is far more beautiful than my photograph shows. Perhaps I should have taken pictures before it was packed off to the framers. She is mainly cross-stitch, but what the camera fails to pick up, due to too much reflection, is the delicate, gold threads, tiny sequins and seed beads on her wings. They are noticeable on the picture it was worked from, but again, it doesn’t do the completed embroidery justice.  She doesn’t live with me otherwise I’d do another photo shoot.

Titania, the queen of the fairies from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, is placed majestically on a wall in the home of my friend, who is also my sister-in-law in Troon, Ayrshire. Titania belongs there in the company of lots of fairies. Some, like Tinker Bell, are easily recognisable, others are pretty garden fairies, Christmas fairies and even mischievous fairies. My sister-in-law loved her on sight and I knew, not that there was any doubt, that my surprise gift was very welcome.

Needlework helps me to relax. When I was working on Titania, about ten years ago now, I’d taken her with me on holiday to Wales. We were staying in a static caravan on a very nice site in St Dogmaels. I was feeling particularly ‘strung out’ at the time. Our son didn’t want to come and was old enough to leave at home. I knew he’d be fine, but I worried anyway. Our daughter didn’t want to come but had to because she was too young to leave at home. It’s just life, I suppose and most days she was fine, as long as she could take her lap-top over to the family bar and link up with her own world via the holiday park wifi every evening. I was unwell with hayfever because of the trees and that didn’t help. After a day out it was nice to get a smile from Tilly-Flop when she was given the heads-up to go off with her lap-top. I was happy to sit in the huge, caravan lounge, surrounded by daylight from three sides of windows and stitch a bit more of Titania.  My sister-in-law, knowing how I felt, had asked if I had some cross-stitch to relax with. Little did she know.

Years earlier, when the children were little, they received letters from Peggy, the Tooth Fairy. She was always pleased to collect beautiful, looked-after teeth from under their pillows. Her letters reflected the importance of brushing teeth, keeping them clean and not eating too much sugar. She always praised my children for doing it ‘exactly right’ and she was happy to leave them a reward. I think it worked out at £1 per tooth. My daughter had a wobbly tooth that came out at school. She was sent to wash it, but lost it down the plug hole. Peggy was unfazed. She read the note that was left under the pillow and went to see if she could retrieve it from the school drains. Poor Peggy even had to hide in a doll’s house when the caretaker came along. I think she must have found it because a shiny £1 coin was under the pillow, with an account of Peggy’s adventure.

 

 

From “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act II. Sc. 2. Enter TITANIA, with her train.

TITANIA.—Come, now a roundel, and a fairy song; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;— Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds; Some war with rear-mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats; and some keep back         5 The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices, and let me rest.   SONG. 1 FAIRY.—You spotted snakes, with double tongue,               Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;         10             Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong:               Come not near our fairy queen.   CHORUS.  Philomel, with melody,             Sing in our sweet lullaby;       Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:         15             Never harm,             Nor spell nor charm,             Come our lovely lady nigh;             So, good-night, with lullaby.   2 FAIRY.—Weaving spiders, come not here,         20               Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence!             Beetles black, approach not near;               Worm, nor snail, do no offence.   CHORUS.  Philomel, with melody, etc.   1 FAIRY.—Hence away; now all is well:         25               One, aloof, stand sentinel. [Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps.

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Mystery of Thought

The garden of my early childhood was where I learnt about tenderness and beauty, pain and failures, mystery and miracles, friendship and loneliness. It was a modest garden, with a garage at the bottom, and just enough space for a patio, a vegetable patch and a metal slide. On the left hand-side the garden was flanked by a clump of conifers followed by a section of trellis, while the other side was a stretch of terracotta brick wall topped with varnished sage-green bushes. It was the same world, yet at the same time, it was a different world. It was private and secluded; it had a quiet about it that was often difficult to find inside a city, and a degree of mystery

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Grandad Tom and The Dragon

by Rachel McGladdery



My childhood was difficult. I spent large tracts of it with my grandparents at times of trauma (which were frequent), not that I’m complaining. When I stayed with my grandparents, I was bathed, warm, fed and always had clean clothes to wear, this was due to the wonderful mothering I received from my grandma - granddad did the other stuff every child needs, he filled my head with rubbish... other dimensions, fairies, elves (told with such astonishing flair that I actually saw them, digging for coal in the cellar) in addition, each evening that he wasn’t ‘on nights’, granddad would tell me stories at bedtime. He would hitch up his trousers and sit with a sigh on the little chair by my bed and begin.


Each story had me as the eponymous heroine, whether fighting for Earth’s survival against aliens in ‘Rachel and the Spaceship’ or hunting for rainbow cloth in ‘Rachel and the Fairies’. But my favourite was ‘Rachel and the Dragon’. This would see me questing for gold and magic rings, looking to slay an ancient dragon and steal its hoard, but eventually panned out to a battle of wits in which me and the dragon would become firm friends and I would get a fair share of the treasure, leaving the dragon enough to see it through till old age. I swear that the man had magic. No doubt the tales were forged from a mixture of Ursula Le Guin and Tolkein with a smattering of C.S. Lewis thrown in for good measure, but the detail and the clarity not to mention the affection which he wove into them, made them as real as could be. He read a lot, complained as he was getting older that there were ‘no new stories.’


Granddad died 7 years ago, and I miss him, I mourn more for the fatherly comforting presence that my younger children are denied, I do tell the children stories in which they emerge as the heroes, I base them loosely on Enid Blyton but they aren’t a patch on granddad’s. He began telling stories to his brothers when he was a lad, carried on telling them in order to survive school and openly admitted that he made them as bloodthirsty and erotic as he could as he moved into his teens, then a hiatus for the war, before more stories with his own children and eventually his grandchildren. The last time I saw him before he took to his deathbed, he sat with my two boys then aged 7 and 8 and I went out to the backyard to watch the tableau through the window. My view was made swimmy with old glass and tears, but he leant forward, spittle on his lips, in the certain knowledge that this was his last chance, vehemently telling them tales of his childhood and the war, teaching them, through stories, how to be men.


Granddad once said when I was very young, ‘You’ll be a writer when you grow up, because you’ve had a bad childhood’. Granddad, some of it was terribly bad, but I survived, thanks to you and Grandma, and I am a writer, not because my childhood was bad, but because you made it enviable.



http://writeoutloud.net/profiles/rachelmcgladdery

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