Oaty meaty chewy twang of sugarcane hit, crinkly plastic rustling thin cheapness, plain label boring, wholesome, clearly carefully made, energetically clean enough. Want it to be gluten-free, wheat- free. Can’t hack wheat-full badness. Everything is bloody wheat. Would be nicer if it was organic, just tastes like another artisan oat biccy really, would be fully delicious if it had a heavy honey tone, and a crisped up, slightly burnt base.
Why Do we all have to rise Andy shine these days, why can’t we just fall and wither like autumn leaves, and Ben appreciated for the sheer act of doing so? Why can’t we just see the beauty of turning inwards and downwards, or do we also have to attach a catchy selling cosmetic name to the art of feeling dark and sluggish and groggy at 7 in the morning? It’s 7 in the morning, I’ve woken up tired, still as tired as when I went to sleep last night. I give in to the temptation to press snooze on my alarm clock, until I have to rush into my clothes, scramble downstairs, force feed myself some breakfast and be on my way to work. Rise and shine, this oil will fix even your most dreadful sleep deprived Monday morning.
The day is tomorrow or the day after. There’s confusion in the air. Questions lurk unanswerable. There is no way to comprehend, but we must. I must. There she lies, the teenager; the young woman I live and share my life with. The young woman I grew from a seed, shaped, watered, nurtured, all by myself for nigh on fifteen years. There’s no way to know how it happened. But happen it did.
I am a single mom to the most incredible legend of a teenager ever invented. She challenges all societal norms with tact and diplomacy (must have licked that off the ground) and spouts heart shattering wisdoms. Of course, she sneaks to the shop for sweeties on the way to school. She lies until she’s beetroot colour. And she thinks I am dreadfully boring.
Fifteen years ago, I danced around Newbold House trying to get her out of me and into the world.
Now, I am offering creative writing workshops to anyone aged fifteen or over – back at Newbold House, Forres.
Thank you World
Newbold House link
I invite you to join me, Orla Broderick, in a delicious earth writing class for earth tenders.
I teach mindful free writing. Poet farmers seem to love it, also sea-go-ers. Those with a tale begging to be told soon see how to start to get it out.
The Isle of Skye has been a playground for many tales, including my own. As a location for creative writing, the north west coast of Scotland has no equal. Earth Ways, Rubha Phoil, Isle of Skye, North West Scotland is simply stunning. It is wild and sacred. I have so much love and so many many stories for and of Rubha Phoil. I have heard so many imaginings around beach fires when I was still breast feeding. I used to hang out there with a man called Magick, who loved a scythe and cut his aloe vera plant for my aching raw nipples. Years later I cleaned the ceilings of the main house, balanced on a ladder with a steamer, while my girlfriend held the ladder. I worked on the boats in the bay for Isle of Skye yachts, with my daughter. Armadale is gorgeous. Spring is coming. New beginnings are here.
My daughter loves to swim. Swimmy fish, feet as flippers, she glides over water, strives to own the pool. When I was pregnant with her I dreamed every night about dolphins. We used to see them then in the Minch going from Skye to the Outer Isles. She’s been swimming for years now. It’s a thing we share. I’d like her club to keep going, to get stronger and more established. She needs them and pool time but our wee club doesn’t make enough in member fees to offer all the swims the students need. We raised a few hundred at a bag pack in Tesco Forres recently, but we need a bit more. All I can offer is this creative writing class with all proceeds to the club. I hope it interests you enough to contribute.