Dreams Wander On
For twelve months, starting in January 2005 I worked with patients and carers at The Heart of Kent Hospice. Our fortnightly meetings provided a creative writing component as part of their day therapy activities.
The work was the result of meetings between myself and the hospice and a successful bid to the Colyer–Fergusson Charitable Trust. The funding we secured paid for my running of the group, an anthology of work and a launch event for the anthology. These things have proven themselves to be worth more than money. I don't think any of us at the start of the project had any idea that we'd produce so much good work. In one sense, despite the writing we did, words were never enough to capture some of the feelings and ideas.
The book and the project seem to have touched many people deeply. Even the PR agency helping with the promotion found themselves getting emotional, something that seldom happens in that business. This page records some of the work although - in the interests of confidentiality - names and individual details have been omitted.
As this page goes live there is a plan to begin a new project working with the bereaved and combining a creative writing group with training work allowing counsellors to develop skills in the use of creative writing. This page will be updated when there are developments regarding this new group.
Dreams Wander on is available from Amazon
THOUGHTS
You asked me if I thought of you,
My reply was 'No',
But when the wind is high,
And the clouds scud through the sky
I think of you
When the moon shimmers over the sea,
And the waves wash slowly over me,
I think of you
When I see a boat with ochre sails,
The sun gleaming on its silver rails,
I think of you.
When I see in someone's soul,
The freedom that makes them whole,
I think of you
So yes, I think of you,
And even if our times are few,
I'll think of you.
A ME MOAN
Into every life a drop of rain must fall
Or this is what they say
So could someone please explain why
I have to suffer the most enormous downpour?
Honest, I'm not complaining
But just to feel dry again would be nice,
To wake up in the morning and lead a normal life
I really wouldn't complain.
But here I am sheltering under the brolly of life,
Coping the best way I can,
So complaining is out and I'm sure,
In no time, so will be the sun.
LIFE IS LIKE A DANCE
The dancer stands in the wings listening to the music, waiting her cue to join the rest of the world in the dance. Thinking of past events, present time and the future going through her life. Seeing so much as she waits, then dances. Sometimes fear, anger pain, but overcoming this is love peace, companionship. Bringing harmony as the music plays on for the dancer. Both for the dancer and in life, it is like a dance. Look as we are carried through life there is so much to be gained. Different circumstances, in life and dance. Life leads you by the hand.
The following is a longer piece I produced. Much of the work in the group was — in one sense — an act of snatching a victory in the face of a defeat. Some of that spirit is captured in the following piece:
AN EVENT
The truth: On September 8th 1883 in Bismarck, North Dakota a group of dignitaries gathered to celebrate the driving of the last spike on the Northern Pacific Railroad. The great metal highway connected the East and West coasts of the newly opened United States of America. The public gathered to hear the speeches and witness the sights. They were attracted largely by the presence of a distinguished and legendary guest. Riding at the head of the parade, resplendent in Buffalo skins, was the great Sioux war chief, Sitting Bull.
Sitting Bull — by birth a Hunkpapa, a small division of the Teton Sioux — had earned himself a reputation as a warrior and hunter. From his youngest days he'd been fiercely opposed to treaties and settlements. He would never trust the white man.
In the fighting at the Powder River territories Sitting Bull had urged others not to negotiate with the cavalrymen. When the soldiers fired on an Indian peace party Sitting Bull took charge. He led raiding parties on fast mustangs who turned and ran as the cavalry charged out. Seeing the cavalry mounted on thin, starved horses Sitting Bull outran them, waited until the exhausted horses were pulled up and then turned his band of braves to make devastating counter attacks. Twice the Sioux tore into the troopers. As the cavalry retreated through icy wastelands Sitting Bull led harrying assaults that reduced many of the starved and frightened cavalrymen to insanity.
Before the battle of Little Big Horn Sitting Bull staged a sundance, falling into a trance he saw troopers, heads bowed in death, falling from the sky. Having led the rout of Custer's men the war chief hunted Buffalo until the encroaching 'civilisation' drove the herds from the Sioux hunting grounds. Unwilling to live on a reservation, Sitting Bull moved to Canada, returning only when hunting and survival proved impossible in the cold northern lands.
And so it was that the great chief was reduced to living under the domination of the whites. Never defeated in battle, never bested for courage or cunning. Simply driven under by superior weaponry, superior forces. Sitting Bull's reputation had grown in the telling. The soldiers had seen to that with the tales of courage in the face of the 'savage' Sioux. Now Sitting Bull was feted by the press of an emerging nation. A curio to be displayed alongside the pelts of slaughtered animals.
As he sat on his white mustang the public gawped at the living legend. Any remarks they made would make no sense to Sitting Bull, who spoke no English. But he understood the situation well enough. As the dignitaries prepared to cut the tapes Sitting Bull was to make a speech, praising the achievement that allowed men to cross the nation on the new iron horse. Sitting Bull would speak in Sioux. His words — a collection of platitudes and Indian metaphors — were already written out in translation to be relayed to the crowd by a young bluecoat soldier, the only person present who spoke both English and Sioux. Sitting Bull duly took his place on the platform and rose to say his piece. The bluecoat soldier glanced down at the bare page of notes he was to deliver immediately afterwards.
'I hate all white people,' said the chief. 'You are thieves and liars. You have taken away our land and made us outcasts.' The crowd roared their approval. Sitting Bull smiled, bowed, took the applause and continued for five minutes detailing broken promises, the crimes of white people and his undying hatred for those in power who had allowed them to take place. At the end the crowd exploded into cheers and more applause. The young bluecoat — realizing his translation wasn't nearly long enough to fool anyone — rambled and improvised, throwing in any Indian metaphor he could summon on the spur of the moment.
The tape was cut, the first train pulled away and everyone deemed the event a mighty success. Sitting Bull had proven so popular the railroad immediately arranged to take him to St Paul for another ceremony.
Neil Nixon