Different...

Here is another of Penny's poems...

Different.

Penny

May 15, 2010 at 7:50 pm

Categories: Uncategorized

URL: http://wp.me/pSnOU-h3

 

life is art

and

how you see it

may be a bit different than those around you

~

some days

it will even be dramatically different

but

that's okay

~

and

if looking left

when everyone else is looking right

feels good to you

~

then

look left

and

when they all look up

look down

~

different is good

 

~Penny Westwood~

 

The Two Of Us...

In this post of Penny's, she talks of her relationship with her "Mum" and the "Girls Day Out" they planned together...

I cannot even imagine, what her Mother, brother, sisters, cousins, husband and daughters are feeling now...

If she is like me, her busy life made those precious times with her Mom, even more special...especially since her Mom moved to be closer to Penny and her family, as Penny was the only child, out of her five children, to remain in New South Wales...

The two of us.

Penny
June 21, 2010 at 11:20 am
Categories: animals, family, travel, weekend
URL: http://wp.me/pSnOU-h8

"Once a month, my mother and I have a Girls’ Day Out. When I was a child, my grandmother, mother, and assorted aunts and older cousins would “tart themselves up”, to quote a younger male cousin, pile into an old Studebaker or Chevrolet (or two or three) and disappear for the day.


These outings were planned well in advance; the date set, the tables in the tea rooms booked, shopping lists organised, and arrangements made to meet old friends (who were then included in the proceedings).
 My mother’s family were sheep farmers. They weren’t isolated in the way that outback farming families were, and still are, because “Town” was only 45 miles (72 km’s) away from my grandparents’ farm and a similar distance for other relatives who were farming in the district. But the older relatives had grown up in a time when the roads were unsealed, pot-holed, muddy if not impassable in wet winter weather, and transport was unreliable. My grandmother and her sisters were young girls when the first cars appeared in the district and they could remember buggies and horses, bullocks and drays.

So a trip to Town was a planned event, and not undertaken lightly. Supplies for the farm, and things like large sacks of flour, were purchased by the menfolk on their days; the women had other requirements.

My brother, sisters, cousins, and I were not included in these outings until we were in our teens. Most of us were “townies” and staying on farms for the school holidays was a big adventure, so not being included didn’t bother us at all. We had our own adventures; catching small fish in the creeks, making bows from willow branches (bows that never worked properly, although we persisted), digging China holes, getting underfoot at shearing time, and getting sunburnt.
 Over time, relatives died, farms were sold, relatives moved to other countries or other states, and lifestyles changed with the times too. My mother was one of eight children and is the last still living; she is 87 now and is feeling her years. She lives a long way from familiar surroundings, moving several years ago to a nearby and larger town to be close to the only one of her five children to still live in New South Wales.
 Mum says that I was her most rebellious child, the one that gave her more than a few sleepless nights. Of course, I don’t remember it that way; my recollection is that she was too strict. I do remember one incident though, when someone had an argument with her and accused her of having “lost her marbles”. I bought a big glass jar, filled it with marbles, put a note on it that read, “Now no one can say you’ve lost your marbles”, and gave it to her as a joke. She was not amused, in fact the joke upset her enough to ground me for two weeks.
 A Day Out means a lot to her; the event is planned, but not as a shopping day, Mum spent most of her adult life in a city and that has no appeal. So we pour over maps, decide on a long rural scenic drive, preferably one that takes us through a town or village with a good café and facilities suitable for an older person, and have a Girls’ Day Out, just the two of us.
 I feel that there’s a certain irony in this."


** The comments below, were captions below her photographs, which were deleted when her blog was closed. **

"This weekend our drive took us west to an area known as Cabonne Country."


"Yellow leaves still hanging on to these poplars."


"The town of Obley is no more - a former gold mining town with just a few remaining ruins. If you click on the photo to enlarge it, you can see a kookaburra on a branch in the mid top. (Corrugated galvanised iron was invented in the 1820's. I didn't know that until I looked it up because I was surprised to see some in the ruins of an 1850's town.)"


"Red berries give a corrugated iron shed a point of difference."


"Beside the still water."


"Afternoon tea at a café in Orange with a blazing fire – very welcome on a chilly day."


"Some of the locals."

The Printed Word...

I was explaining to one of my blogging friends about why I am posting Penny's posts...the only way I can express it best, is to say, I follow my instincts.  I have learned I have good ones.  I feel compelled to post them, so as long as I feel it, I will do it, and I hope I do not freak anyone out or turn anyone off...I would care as much if (God forbid) something would happen to one of you...

For me, we all, do form a unique sacred circle...we do get to know one another intimately by the personal stories we share.  I personally, think it is beautiful and rewarding.

This is the last post written by Penny Westwood, the day she had the accident.  The car accident was in the morning, and this post was obviously automatically set to post later in the day at 5:31pm, which is when she was lying unconscious in a coma in the hospital.

The printed word.

Penny
August 17, 2010 at 5:31 pm
Categories: grumbles, opinion
URL: http://wp.me/pSnOU-RL

"Few pleasures can match waking to the sound of a few hundred pages of printed paper landing on the front porch. The making of breakfast and coffee, the dividing up the sections, arguing over one opinion or another. Sharing the morning paper is a simple joy. And even though I love how the internet has democratised how we receive our news, there is something so satisfying and tactile about large sheets of news print.


This household subscribes to The Australian which like most newspapers has much of its content online. Having news online means competition for readership is global. The advantage of this means I can catch up with other, favourite papers whenever I want to. But my morning commute as well as weekend pleasure, is all about the cup of coffee and the paper.


The vagaries of the economy and the development of new technologies has affected sales of newspapers. If some cease to remain viable, this will be a tragic loss for those concerned with sustaining and promoting a well-informed and engaged public. And I really do hope the news continues to be printed. I cannot imagine being at a café, on the bus, in the garden on a sunny day, or at the kitchen table and needing a computer to read the latest news. And for mere coins, the paper is one of the best bargains around."
 
I tried going online to The Australian to see if I could find any mention of an obituary or her accident, death notice or anything...I could not find one word about her...

Spring Is Coming...

I don't know why I feel so occupied with Penny Westwood...maybe she is whispering to me, urging me to post the words she wrote, since her blog was taken away, too soon, from her many friends...Luckily, there were several of her posts, which I subscribed to, I had not deleted.  As I said, I have some of her posts, but the photographs automatically were deleted along with her blog. I found several of our emails as well.  I will keep them for awhile...

She wrote this the day before her accident...

Spring is coming....

Penny
August 16, 2010 at 5:27 pm
Categories: birds, flowers, garden, seasons
URL: http://wp.me/pSnOU-17Q

"It's the sort of fine sunny morning when one senses that warmer times are just over the hill and frolicking behind the trees. There are clear blue skies beyond the windows and several happy Grey Butcherbirds dancing about and hoo-eeing uproariously at their own jokes. A Crimson Rosella is singing a jubilant spring song, but he is much too far away to capture even with my telephoto lens. I can see his splash of brilliant red though, at the top of a liquid amber tree one street away.


This morning, I can feel springtime light and warmth returning. The early sun is shining like butterscotch through the leaves of the plants in the south facing dining room, and out in the garden, a light breeze is moving elegantly curled daffodils about with enthusiasm.


Just in the last day or two, new leaves have appeared on the trees and there are minuscule rosy buds on many of the shrubs in the garden. Hallelujah. . ."

Celebrating The Temporary...Answer Me This...

I find myself contemplating Penny's sudden death. Not to be morbid or weird, but she really touched me. I can't help thinking of her, as she was a loving mother/wife with three teenage daughters...one handicapped.  One never wants to die before one's children.  Her "Mum" is in her 80's, as is mine, and I think of their monthly "Girls Day Outs" they will no longer have.  No doubt, she will step in and help with her grand daughters...

Years ago, in the 70's, I read a book entitled, CELEBRATE THE TEMPORARY by Clyde Reid.  Basically he promotes living in the now...celebrating the temporary. "To rid ourselves of "self-afflicted bondage."  Celebrating life, means contemplating death, which makes life much sweeter.  He writes about really tasting one's food, really taking in the scenery and people around you and to not dwell in the past or rush too quickly into the future; because each day we wake up, is the only time we have for this one day...we need to make the most of it.

Penny used to ride the computer train to and from work. I think they had one car.  For her to be driving, she had to be going some where special, possibly with her camera to take pictures for her blog, to the village coffee shop she used to frequent, or to shop for interesting textiles to work with. Penny really seemed to celebrate her days.

I have been re-reading our emails and her posts I had subscribed to.  I can no longer view her wonderful photographs, because they are deleted along with her blog.  I have emailed some of the bloggers who also knew her by following her blog...several have left comments on my blog or email.  We all seem to have this common thread which weaves through our lives and ties us all together...the love of the written word, to write,  and to express ourselves.

 A month before her accident, she wrote the following...

Answer me this...


Penny
July 15, 2010 at 2:48 pm
Categories: lifestyle, opinion
URL: http://wp.me/pSnOU-MI

"Is blogging the pastime of the privileged? Like the luxury of learning to read in the Middle Ages or the time to sit and paint during the Renaissance? (And by 'privileged', I do mean pretty much all of us lucky enough to be toiling away here in first-world countries.) Because as I scroll through (well-written) blogs about various people's lives, their struggles and fears, their kids, their gardens, their ideas and their photos, it occurs to me that it is.


Because it's self-indulgent, isn't it? It can be borderline narcissistic, as social and personal media platforms like Facebook and Flickr can be. We want to record, record, record. In a society ever more inundated with images, words, and graphics, in which it's become harder and harder to hear through all the noise, we shout: Look at me! Look at my life! Look at my garden! The world gets smaller and smaller and we struggle and squirm in an effort not to be squeezed out by the sheer amount of information, headlines, photos, and anecdotes.


Not everyone has the luxury of this daily, weekly, or bi-weekly self-indulgence. But that doesn't make it a bad thing. Because not everyone has the inclination, either. And someone needs to: if statistics of blog readership can be trusted, we evidently crave that peppering of philosophy and psychology in our daily grind, that reflection of our lives, that finger on the pulse point of what we do each day: the mothering and the working, the discord and the perfectly rising bread. I know I speak for myself when I say we want that depth to the ordinary. The current under the surface.


We want someone, somewhere to be monitoring it all. Confirming our fears. Echoing our opinions. Have you ever marvelled at all those postage stamp-sized glimpses of random people's lives? All those snippets of gardens and kitchens, cropped family portraits and slivers of trees or cloud? It's stunning. And inspiring. And crowded. It makes you want to hold hands with these people and throw an elbow for some breathing space both at the same time. It might as well be me. You. Your neighbour with the cooking blog. Your kid's English teacher with the poetry site.


We're self-obsessed, sure. But the musings and the over-analysing of, well, everything has always been left to the ones with time (even if that time is in short supply). Or more accurately, the ones rushing to schedule a post amid the chaos of family and working life. The ones with the burning need to document.


We think we know why we record, write, photograph and share this cyber-space with one another the world over, but if we know why we write, then why do we read? Why are we drawn to our favourite blogs day after day? What do we gain?


As far as I’m concerned, this place and all that goes with it (reading, commenting, discussing), has become a substantive conversation. And though it has really only taken on an important place in my life in the last several months, it has in a very big and important way. It doesn’t surprise me, I like what I do here: thinking and sharing and discussing. I don’t know why I didn’t discover it earlier except that it's probably because I didn’t have the right inspiration.


And that’s what has happened: a renewed desire to discuss issues, to think and write about life, and the things that make me happy and unhappy. Perhaps a self-indulgent luxury, but one I needed.


However, it does puzzle me why I’ve found this here and not in my real world (how I hate that painfully inadequate way of differentiating the two). I know that the connections I make here aren’t real. I worry about even saying that and don’t want to offend, because they truly feel real but I’m very aware that they are tenuous. The time we spend with one another is different, enriched and concentrated. We learn things that some of us choose not to share with others in our life. But why?


Blogging is without borders, real or figurative. We can choose who to connect with in a different way than perhaps we can in our real lives. It’s easier to surround ourselves with like-minded thinkers because we can simply turn off those that aren’t. And we all need to write or record, so we all get what this is about. Do you suppose that’s what makes the difference? And by virtue of our ability to do that, does it make it less real or more real? I’m not sure. I’ll continue think about these things as I write here and read other blogs. And I’ll hope it is real because it matters to me and I don’t want to lose it. "     ~Penny Westlake~
 
I want to believe, instinctively, she chose to blog, to put herself out there, maybe because some where in her subconscious, a higher power was preparing her, nudging her to follow those deep inner dreams... To bring those thoughts to the surface and allow it to blossom. She reached out and was heard from all over the world. I am glad we were there for her. We read her words and heard her voice. We related to her and remember she was here...

 I know I do...

Diving Into The Unknown...

I just finished reading SHADOW DIVERS by Robert Kurston. Fascinating page turner and vicarious thrill ride, diving with those divers 230 feet under the ocean...something I would NEVER do in my real life...The writing was so captivating and so well written. I wonder if I could have the discipline to write to fruition and get my book published...

Diving deep

into the unknown

following a need

which cannot be denied.

The adventure

of discovery

despite

the fear

of failure

regardless

of the outcome,

willing to dive

again and again

to seek and find...

as the need to breathe,

is the need to express

to find my true self

is to search my soul

challenging,

stretching,

 learning and growing..

Knowing others

better than myself

is not the path

of self discovery.

Hanging on

for dear life

to this life line

as my hands

pull me deeper

 and deeper

into this quest...

blues of isolation

greens of growing

toward the light

of knowledge

from those
with more experience.

Fighting the kelp
 of self doubt

twisting me

clutching at me...

rays of light

piercing the depths

like shards of a broken mirror

remind me

to close my eyes

and trust my instincts

hand over hand

on my life line

will be my salvation.

The darkness of fear

will blind my vision

 and mute my voice.

Believing

only
what can be seen

is far too deceiving...

Knowing

the demons and darkness

will take over my life

if I allow it.

drowning me

 in the worst possible death
to not give
myself the chance.

Facing the fears

 doing it anyway

builds character

 inner strength.

Discipline

is so elusive;

slipping too often

from my grasping hands.

I must persevere..

It is the key

to this treasure

opening my way

to make it safely

 back to the surface...

The irony

is the exploration,

 patience,

single minded pursuit,

focus,

dedication,

commitment

not to quit

is the only way

to capture

 discipline,

to find the portal

of feeling

the warmth

of the sun

on my face...

and to know,

I did it.

~dkb~

Sudden Tragedy...Loss Of A Friend...

As some of you may know, Penny Westwood at Penny's Word (which has been deleted) was in a car accident, August 17, 2010.  She lived in a small town of New South Wales. She was driving and swerved to avoid a speeding car driving too fast, around a curve and on the wrong side of the road.  Her car left the road and slammed into a tree.  She was severely injured.  The doctors put her into an induced coma.  She became conscious, and then had a relapse.  Tragically, she died August 26, 2010 in the hospital of a cerebral hemorrhage.  Her funeral some time today, in the afternoon. She was only 59 years of age...

Several days ago, I had gone to her blog to check for updates and discovered it had been deleted.  It gave me a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I hoped either her husband Doug, or one of her three teens, may have done it by accident...

I had emailed her Gmail account asking how she was.  Today, I received an email from her husband Doug, who shared about her death.  When I replied, that email had been deleted as well.  I cannot imagine the grief and loss they have to be feeling now...

I read her blog last March.  I had read one of her poems and was so touched, I asked if I might have her permission to post it.  She graciously allowed me to.  At the end of my post today, I will re post her poem.

I had been corresponding with her only five months, but in that short span of time, through her writing and photographs, I felt she was a kind, gentle, loving woman who loved her family, her little town, animals and nature.  She was a regular visitor with her comments.  I will miss her.

Here is her poem:

Just sayin’.

When in doubt, leap. One needs a little courage to live.
Miracles happen so often they become commonplace.


It’s easier to draw a straight line than to straighten a crooked one.
How come it’s always the narrow path that considers itself superior?

If you paint a black picture, the picture will be black.
Boredom is the price one pays for not enjoying everything.

Getting lost is part of getting there.
There’s something braver than dying for the truth – living without it.

Lessons are learned, not taught.
When your burden gets too heavy, you learn how to carry it.


The little girl riding her bicycle. Never once did she wonder: “Is this worthwhile?”
The sea will wash away our footprints but not the fact we made them.


Experiences for which there are no words get along fine without them.
Reasons are invented, not found.


No river could flow if it had to know its destination first.

~Penny Westlake~

Rest in peace, dear friend...