Medicinalmeadows

the place within…..


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The Love Project

 YOUR MEMORIES NEEDED

There is something sacred about telling our own stories. Our adventures, love stories and history. By capturing and share meaningful moments in our lives psychologist such as Pennebaker and Evans recognise that writing about ourselves is a source of healing as well as focusing on events unique to us that have shaped our lives. This legacy writing is also a way to pass on history, values and treasures that if not told and documented will most certainly be lost forever.

Projects in towns and cities are also being provided to utilise multi-media resources to capture stories. My local project is on the theme of Love. Women are being asked to share their stories of love through the decades. They will be interviewing female volunteers on what Love has meant to them, in relationships, at a personal level and growing up in their home town. The project unfolds as women in groups or as individuals start storytelling their moments and sharing their experiences.

These interviews will be captured on video, transcripts and as written accounts. The project with put these records of everlasting memories on display to the public for future generations to see values, beliefs and emotions of women throughout the decades.

lovehearts

The Barrow Love Project ” The Red Tent” is holding a series of sessions for women to discuss their experiences of teenage and early adult years growing up in Barrow in the 1940’s through to the 1990’s.

For more information go to: www.barrowloveproject.org.uk or to book a place contact Amanda Mortlock project coordinator on 01229 833228 or mail to:amanda@barrowloveproject.org.uk

Links to other Red Tent Projects;

Women’s Stories from the Red Tent – find a tent near you

Red Tent Bristol Women’s Group

Red Tent Directory


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The Forest

And the story continues…..

This is a repost of a blog from a while back….now the story continues. Check back next week for part two….

Thank you for stopping by..

jungleLoneliness is an interesting feeling. Out here I never felt so alone. I followed the river and the water mesmerised my vision as if it was being siphoned into a spiralling hole underneath my gaze. My feet sunk into the dark wet mud. The cold covered the skin like small cuts of a knife into the flesh and the colour of my skin was no more than of bone. The iced feeling chilled every part of me. Legs to torso, to jaw to scalp, all vividly rattling along as if on an old escalator, but going nowhere.

The rain bulleted from the darkest of skies. It filtered through branches, leaves exponentially poured like from a reservoir onto my shoulder then stopped, wittingly collecting again awaiting to restart. My hair was heavy, eyes cloudy, as my forehead drained upon my face and my chin streamed a river of water onto my chest. I posed with knees together, fists together but no warmth exulted from this angle of arms into breast. Here in the wet, the mud, the moment, I was frozen.

My clothes tightly wrapped around legs and arms as the cold cloth stained into my body unmoveable. The fall sustained further back had splattered earth to my hands and face that bit into flesh. The shoes lay somewhere cemented into the ground on the path, so bare feet chilled into bone, to marrow to freeze blood.

I couldn’t hear birds call, or traffic nearby nor human – animal movements due to hissing of the rain. Foolish to venture these muddy paths of riveted blackness, stoops and drains of ground like treacle. No saviour will come this way, I and only I can make my way out of this dissented climate. I have been here too long. A lift of foot, a step, a bleeding pained first step is required just one, just rise and step away.