Medicinalmeadows

THE PLACE WITHIN

Category Archives: MEDICINAL REIKI


by 2 Comments

Snowdrops – Winter’s Delicate Flower

Snowdrops1

Snowdrops are a delightful sight in February. They give a bright feel to mossy grounds which sparks a little joy on a grey day. These flowers are known to have approximately 20 variations of species and can grow up to 30cm tall. The botanical name is Galanthus, gala in Greek means “milk” and anthos, meaning “flower”(Wikipedia.org).

Although they are cultivated far and wide it is thought that they are native to eastern Europe. It is believed that many soldiers of the Crimean War brought small bundles of these bulbs back to Britain, but were first documented in Botanical text in the 16th century (www.nhm.ac.uk). Today they are cherished and there are dedicated Snowdrop Gardens open throughout the UK.

The snowdrops delicate nature has attracted the attention of many poets. Emily Dickinson, the garden lover, often uses metaphors to describe elements of nature. In the poem “I taste a liquor never brewed” she is giving praise to her garden, “drunk” on the intoxication of scent, beauty and botanical skills in cultivation. She uses metaphor to convey feelings, in my opinion, of her joy in the garden. I love the last stanza as she refers to the “seraphs” (a variety of snowdrop) as they “swing their snowy hats”.

I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Vats upon the Rhinesnowdrops3
Yield such an Alcohol!
 
Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro’ endless summer days –
From inns of Molten Blue –
 
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door –
When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” –
I shall but drink the more!
 
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!
By Emily Dickinson.
 
William Wordsworth also thought of these little white flowers as angelic. In his poem “On seeing a tuft of snowdrops in a storm”, he uses words such as “faithful and immortal”.

snowdrops2When haughty expectations prostrate lie,
And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,
Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring
Mature release, in fair society
Survive, and Fortune’s utmost anger try;
Like these frail snow-drops that together cling,
And nod their helmets smitten by the wing
Of many a furious whirlblast sweeping by.
Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great
May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate;
And so the bright immortal Theban band,
Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove’s  command,
Might overwhelm, but could not separate!
By William Wordsworth.
 

Dailypost – Winter’s Delicate Flower

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/

http://www.nhm.ac.uk/natureplus/blogs/wildlife-garden/2014/01/27/snowdrop-history?fromGateway=true

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galanthus

Photographs by Medicinalmeadows.com

 


by 3 Comments

Memoirs – Beauty of Youth

Dear Michelle

I first met you in 1997, I was 24 and you were 20 and our friendship just took flight, I’d never met anyone like you before. It’s true you had a zest for life that people either loved or hated, and you knew it. I believe others just wanted to be like you, you had the ability to trust yourself completely. Lessons I got from you were to think for myself, not of what others think. Have no regrets. I hear others thinking how selfish! Is this so untrue? Do we all not wish we weren’t dancing to someone else’s fancy.

Michelle, you got me to be more frivolous than I ever had the nerve to be and in my twenties this was a liberating feeling. And my god did we treat ourselves and think we deserved it! I was overly sensible and for this period of time with you, I discovered so much about myself, this small, shy person got some confidence. Without you Michelle I would not have known the twenties to be my roaring twenties. You showed me I could have it all if I wanted. We bought expensive lavish items I had previously only stared at. I owned a little of the celebrity thanks to you. I experimented, my hair went from auburn brown to blonde and you said “go blonder”. Make up, now this is where you pulled me away from the Boots range I had been wearing since I was a teenager. You dragged me over to the high-end counters and we spent a fortune. My pale lipstick went to red, my eyes got a sweep of liquid liner and you cut my hair! As for perfume, we discovered the updated ranges and within a few weeks I had my own shelf packed with XS Pour Elle, ditched the old Opium for the Chanel Allure, as for the White Musk, swapped for a light CK One. Each time I catch a whiff of these scents now I am reminded of the great fun we had.

You may think all this is a little materialistic but to me it’s called growing up, developing into a woman and experimenting, what you like, how you feel, having fun, just for fun and doing it while you can. It is all in the name of building those beautiful memories of your twenties and looking back with a chuckle and a cheeky smile. I honestly believe that these flights of experience are mouldings for our existence. To ponder an alternative, you may not appreciate the fit, but a little of it you may steal away for your own virtues.

I am so grateful for the time we had and our fun days, fun nights and the best bits of getting ready in between. We went out most weekends, sometimes we didn’t drink but just wanted to go out, have fun, stay sober and be a little tired the next day, but so what. We worked hard too, worked six day weeks and long shifts. We had an amazing time, and laughed so much and looked out for each other.

I just want to say, Michelle, you showed me that dreaming was necessary, confidence can be made. To aim for the stars is the only way and not to settle for anything less. So, thank you for the great memories, here’s to our twenties.

From Janice x

(For the Daily Post: absolute beauty)


by 6 Comments

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


by 10 Comments

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.