Online Workshop with Jill Teague

       

        Letting the Wings Unfold

An Online Writing for Wellbeing 

Workshop with Jill Teague

During this workshop we will use a range of poetry and visual images, referencing the characteristics and aspects of the life cycle of birds as metaphor - giving ourselves the freedom to explore, experiment, and expand our creativity.
 
The workshop will be delivered via Zoom and will provide the opportunity for small and whole group discussion.

 Sunday, July 30^th, 2023
 2-5pm (UK time) please check own time-zones*
 Fee: £45
 
*If this time-zone does not work for you (e.g., Australia/New Zealand) but you are interested in attending a suitable time, please register an interest. 

For booking information or for further questions, please email 
jillteague@yahoo.co.uk

 

Undreamed Of

                                                          Bal Maidens - Cornwall

                                           

The first lines of D H Lawrence's poem "Terra Incognita" reads - "There are vast realms of consciousness still undreamed of/vast ranges of experience, like the humming of unseen harps."

I set myself a ten minute writing exercise with "Undreamed Of" as my starting point. 

Those blinkered pit ponies that my paternal grandfather cared for down in the pitch black, both he and them released onto the mountains for just two weeks of the year. The Bal Maiden bonnet that his daughter wore as she crushed the copper from rocks in all Cornish weathers.

How to come up from the dark? How to  see through the wide angle lens of life when your eyes are sealed with your fate? How to rise from the ash and the dust? How to rid the mouth of the bitter bile, to find a voice in the the turmoil of survival, while grinding a living from the bones of dead matter.

Who was it that said dream small but live large? 

Undreamed, unlived - that's the way to madness. 

A woman grasps the edge of her kitchen sink as the grey waste water drains away, and says, "I regret..."

Come up from the dark. Come in from the cold. Come forth into at least some sort of light that flashes and cracks the bulbs of despondency.

No to the pinhole camera of a life. In obscura.

Missing Pieces

 

I bought this jigsaw puzzle a few years ago from a charity shop. When I put it together I found that it had a piece missing, just by wren's throat. This reminded me of the many hours I'd spent with my parents as a child, completing jigsaw puzzles. Every time, my father always hid one piece, so that I always thought there was a final piece missing. After a few moments he'd reveal the piece he'd been keeping in his hand, so pleased with himself that I'd fallen for his trickery one more time. 

Yesterday I decided to put the puzzle together again. It has sat in its box on a shelf since the last time, so I was surprised to to find a second piece missing, this time from the outer circle. This is another level of incompleteness. The circle will never be whole. And yet I feel fine with the imperfections.

The wren was revered by the Celts, who admired its fastidiousness and were inspired by its song. The symbolic meanings of wren include freedom of spirit, joy and connection. Wren reminds us that it's the quality of the relationships that we forge that enriches our lives. What does a missing piece or two of a jigsaw matter when you have spent time with those you love completing the bigger picture?

I wrote this poem after the first time of doing the puzzle with my partner.

Wren Jigsaw

From the start I'd said there could be pieces missing.

We went ahead, unmoved by incompletion. Just let

her eye be whole, you said. 

And so the bird grew in her frame of green and grey.

What I remember most is your small hand holding

the pieces, our fingers brushing.

The wren held us in time, gathering  and garnering

to make her complete, as she in her own world would

do with song and nest.

You found her eye, put it in place. The missing piece

was at her throat, and yet she sang out unaware one

part of her was lost.

WINTERING - How we survive and thrive in challenging times

A four­-week online writing course

with Jill Teague

outofthebluewriting

 

November 09 - December 06, 2020

Cost: £125

'In the middle of winter I at last discovered 

that there was in me an invincible summer' 

Albert Camus

 

Using Katherine May’s latest book “Wintering” as inspiration, and Winter as a metaphor, we will use poetry and visual images to explore ways and means of supporting our mind, body and spirit, through “wintering” - those challenging times that are a natural and inevitable part of being human. 

(NB the book is not required reading for the course)

 

     The course will comprise of:

 -  Weekly resources and writing prompts via email with the opportunity to  share your written responses with the group

  -  Weekly 90-minute group sessions via Zoom, where we will come together to write, discuss and share

  -  PDF Workbook at the end of the course

 

Work at your own pace, in a supportive and creative forum. 

Previous experience is not necessary, just an open heart and mind.

 

 

For further information and to book a place, please contact me at jillteague@yahoo.co.uk

 

The Family of Things

“Untitled” by Kim Whan-ii

There is something deeply poignant about the call of wild geese as they fly overhead. I am brought back to the breath of a present moment by their haunting cries. With outstretched necks, muscular with the desire to be elsewhere, the sight and sound of these geese reaches a visceral place inside. I am moved by such strength and determination.

I also admire their solidarity. Their flight formations enable the intense effort involved in migration to be shared out for the benefit of the whole flock. And if a single goose comes down to land, whether from exhaustion or sickness, two other geese accompany it. They will wait there with it until it recovers or dies. 

In Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese” she speaks of how, through the call of the wild geese, the world offers itself to our imaginations. It is often through a connection with nature, through its unwavering mirror, that I find my authentic self reflected. And at this current time -  a time that feels particularly divisive, it is vital for me to be clear about who and what I feel connected to.

Grey Areas

                                                     Grey Glove on Manhattan Sidewalk
                                             

Some time ago a friend gave me a copy of  Han Kang’s “The White Book”, described as “a lyrical and disquieting exploration of personal grief through the prism of the colour white”. I had  enjoyed reading the book and engaging with Kang's unique explorations of the colour white and so I suggested to my writing group that as our next project, we could each choose a colour and, over the course of six weeks, make our own explorations of our chosen colour.

The colour I chose was grey - a favourite colour of mine. I began by mapping the associations that came to mind from thinking about the colour. I then turned these ideas into a list poem which in turn became the focus of further exploration.

Grey
Rhondda Grey
River grey
Rain
Rain
Rain

Clouds
Mist
Shadows

Webs
Eyes
Hair

Jets
Warships
Doves

Bedroom Paint
School Uniform

Slate
Squirrels
Scans

Grey Areas
Grey Matter
Grey Mare

Moth
Mouse
Moon Rocks

Grey Sidewalk
Grey Glove
Grey feather

Sloughed Snakeskin

Vacuum Cleaner Hose

"Across the Evening Sky..."

                                                           "Waiting for the Light"

I spent solstice with friends - two leggeds and four leggeds. We took a picnic down onto the beach that looked across the estuary to Ynys. The sky was reflected in the water and the water reflected our personal ebbing and flowing. We celebrate the longest day, knowing that the light will be less as we turn again on our axis. And we are constantly turning there, each on the pivot of our own axis. There will be goings and comings as some prepare to leave and others return home.

Dusk fell as the swifts swooped and rose again and again above us. Their lively energy felt like a thread that was weaving us together as friends - right there, right then.

We walked through the lanes to the highest point on the hill and watched darkness fall across the last pink of the setting sun. The sea was still and the harbour lights lit up one by one, like tiny beacons of hope. I thought of the song "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?"

"Sad deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving
Ah, but then you know it's time for them to go
But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving
I do not count the time

For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?

And I am not alone while my love is near me
I know it will be so until it's time to go
So come the storms of winter and then the birds in spring again
I have no fear of time

For who knows how my love grows?
And who knows where the time goes?"