So what if I haven’t reached the goal of what I was going to be when I grew up.
Does that mean I haven’t grown up yet?
I do hope so.
The problem is you see the destination.
The goal it hasn’t really changed. It was always right right there.
It paused and waited patiently.
Waited whilst I grew my wings and bravery left home.
Waited whilst I became a mother and raised my children alone.
Waited when I went to college, tapped its pen to remind me that it was still there.
Then when I was busy again opening a barbers shop.
Then onto different jobs changes of career going here and there moving houses sometimes towns.
That goal it never really lost sight of me and I thought of it often.
I waved from afar.
Mature university student, another packed van heading over the border to that magical place of green valleys and purple toped mountains Wales.
There it was following the removal van.
still waiting ‘the goal’ never a thought of leaving me.
Flying with me like a colourful kite in my catching my eye.
following me like I followed my dreams.
Falling in love, cottages, canals, dogs, cats, geese and ducks.
Secure job that I love.
My children gifting me with precious grandchildren to love.
Opening our beautiful cancer retreat.
Life had moved on the wheel continually turns.
That defiant rebel girl still dreams and the goal she had was a simple one.
To be a part of the story tellers who shaped her life with books of magic and poetry.
The books she found on dusty library shelves.
Terry Pratchett. J.M Barry John Steinbeck. Daisy Aldan. The stories that filled her with hope. That carried me to far away places to disc world to castles and places I could only dream of
So now I see why it waited so patiently.
Here I sit with a lifetime of memories, dreams loves and experiences that bring life and meaning into my poems and stories.
So the goal and I sit together often and when I now step
Into into my sacred space of magic poems and stories. I’m so glad it never left, waited like a faithful old friend.
When I’m not there in that space I know that it still pauses, waiting again patiently like a half blown dandelion, waiting for the next breath of life to blow gently and set the rest of the seeds free.
Each tiny seed a story a poem or dream.
Paused waiting to float gently land and grow pushing its tendrils and roots of ink onto the page. Words meandering like winding inky rivers collecting meadows of wild flower colours.
Gentle breeze blows the words into valleys of green healing and purple toped grounding mountains where warrior ravens fly.