The lost joys of playing and just being – Graham Music

https://nurturingnatures.co.uk/the-lost-joys-of-playing-and-just-being/

Children who are lost in play often evoke a sense of awe in adults, play just has intrinsic value; we do not do it to achieve anything else, although there are often rewarding by-products. We can get lost in play, be taken over by it, and it is no coincidence that the psychoanalyst Winnicott  [5] contrasted play with reality, and argued that the capacity to play, to symbolize, and creativity in general are fundamentally linked.  Harsh realities can sometimes come crashing in to destroy fragile moments of play. Think of the little girl who puts on her mother’s shoes and hat to and is pretending to be a teacher until her mother comes in and harshly asks what she thinks she is doing.  The teacher who has to disrupt children’s game to ask what that colour is or how many beads there are will just kill the play stone dead. Play produces benefits in its own right for the player, spurring other developments, yet it is generally undertaken simply for the joy of it.

Silverdale

I wish we were in Silverdale again

The meadow full of flowers,the nettle’s sting

The boarding house,the hedges rich with song..

The sketch pad,ink, the birthday pen

My brother’s humour and his wacky games

I miss his buoyant face, his eyes untamed

At least he’s not in prison doing time.

I liked the way he misprounced my name.

I wish we were on Windermere today

The bouncing sun,the blossoms rich display

Come back now I love you anyway

My heart was stabbed with death,you went away

I saw your shadow cycling in black rain.

May we help each other with the pain?

The churchyard wall

The bricks of the old wall while crumbling live
Five hundred years of history passed them by
While plants grew in the cracks below, above

Apart from people, this is what I love
That ancient structures stand and do not die
The bricks of this old wall while crumbling live

A little beauty will do well enough
This cheers my heart and lifts my spirits high
Wild flowers grow in cracks below, above

We fill our minds and homes with shop bought stuff
Gaze on bricks and cracks, what will we spy?
The bricks of this old wall while crumbling live

Like old complexions, older bricks are rough
The Vicar cannot smooth them though they try
Holes for plants inscribe these cracks with love

From generations past, ghosts wander. shy.
Looking for their graves, they whisper,sigh
The bricks of the old wall still crumbling live
Tenacious weeds shall wave below, above

The day out

Oh,horticultural college, you have charm
To grey old souls your roses are a balm
But if I need a stimulant
To Tottenham Hotspurs I’ll be sent
To see the players break each other’s arms”

O gardens fair ,O trees with bark that gleams
O roses red, your scent awakes our dreams
But if my brain needs livening up
I’ll burn the ordnance survey map
And wander round the garden as I beam

O cafeteria , what a terrace fair
While others eat I chew my straggly hair
But when my sister takes a snap
She makes two frogs sit on my lap
She’s so creative, she has gentle flair

Oh,horticulture is a lovesome art
Which gives us flowers with which to decorate
But once a week
We have a peek
And see old men who’re eating mulberry tarts

Oh,rapidly the summer darts away
So we must enjoy a flower while it’s here
Otherwise ,it’s tea and cake
Which Mary Berry now dictates
The main thing is to love cake without fear

Waxy flowers in the snow

Waxy flowers poking through
Snow so white
Flowers bright.
Made me think of you.

I see once more your just washed hair,
Soft as snow,
On pillow.
Now my bed is bleak and bare

,
Face alight,flower to sun,
I loved you.
Love so true.
Fear by love,overcome.

Cyclamen in the snow,
Pink and red,
Now frozen,dead.
Love was,oh,so long ago.

But never gone from in my mind.
Thoughts so deep,
Upwards seep.
Love was gentle,love was kind,

Always in my mind