I'm always excited by the arrival of the first snowdrops and I was delighted to come across a patch under a hedge in mid Wales last Thursday morning. But then in the afternoon I found a clump of daffodils in full bloom in a churchyard a couple of miles away - and came home to find my Christmas cactus (which had refused point blank to flower at the requisite time last year) just coming into bud, more than a month belatedly. Nature seems to be getting more than a little confused with things these days ...
But my second Writing Our Lives group is well underway now and the eight participants appear to be enjoying it as much as I'm enjoying facilitating it. As with the first group, they come from very varied backgrounds and have very different life experiences from which to write. And their modes of expression are so individual, so personal. For those writing for generations coming after them, this is so important. A ghost writer (and I've recently seen several adverts from individuals offering such writing services) could certainly write their stories for them - but for their authentic voices to jump from the page, to bring their days and years to life demands so much more than such simple recounting.
I'm now getting back on track with the pilgrimage project that was derailed by last years' health and family issues. I spent a fascinating, if decidedly chilly, weekend walking in the footsteps of the Chartist marchers in the Newport Uprising of 1839, finishing in the grounds of St. Woolos Cathedral at the site of the unmarked grave that is the last resting place for ten of them, cut down by soldiers lying in wait at the Westgate. If you're not familiar with their story - their contribution to the fight for universal suffrage and democracy - do look it up. And a fictionalised account (but one based on very thorough research) is Requiem for a Patriot by Alexander Cordell, and that's a very good read.
