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a life in writing zehra cranmer pages home about articles blog among tigers wild contact tuesday, 3 january 2017 happy brave new year happy new year! i hope this irregularly mild holiday season was met with family warmth and laughter that has kept your inner fires warm enough to get you through these ice laced mornings and evenings. i don't write resolutions as mentioned before but i have picked a word to loom over me, it is brave. i endeavour to be braver in everything i pursue, be it hunting for a home and delving deeper into work like a bear nuzzling into a cave but that's not the right analogy as that doesn't sound brave but cosy. so maybe what i should say is, i long to be a tree; deeply rooted whilst reaching for the sky. in these dark times; more bombs , more death, more darkness, we reach for our family. sometimes the family that takes us back to our roots, in this instance, my sister sifa. we worked alongside each other for many years, each understanding the other better than ourselves, particularly in our creative endeavours . we started a little hashtag of our own on instagram #sisterszehraandsifa where we got our insta-mama (please tell me you've watched the instagram husband on youtube) to take a boxing day pic of us together. it's a way of documenting the little/big things. i'm heavily pregnant with my second child on boxing day 2015, there is so much on my mind, so much is about to change , sooner than i thought! do you have a word to try and live by? a resolution? will you keep that promise? boxing day 2015 boxing day 2016 there is a toast theme here (unsponsored) the gown in the first pic and birkenstocks and jumper in the second. posted by zehra at 22:44 no comments : links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest thursday, 24 november 2016 if you see me on the street, i’m a juggler without any experience. a tightrope walker without a pole. a lion tamer without a back up distraction. i’m a parent. i’ve joined a very special circus; it’s made up of family; the one that made me and the one i have made. the only difference is, people don’t pay me to watch. but eyes are cast upon our act everyday. even the ones that try not to watch. we’re all watching each other act. some with a clear plot and others carefully improvising along. we’re all improvising. we’re all falling and most of us are acting out a love. or acting out of love. when you see me, sometimes with a smile on my face as i pull the eldest along the street on a scooter and the baby on my chest finely wrapped in his mamaowl fleece suit hoot hoot. i might be smiling at a simple pleasure. my children are happy in that moment, the air is crisp and we are breathing in the fresh air. i am happy in that moment. ’it’s cold, but so fresh, breathe that air in ayla” and we both inhale and exhale, my daughter inhales harder and more dramatically and utters, ‘so fresh!’ ‘i love this weather, feel the sun.’ ‘the sun is glorious’ she exalts, of course she has picked up that phrase from me. the sun is glorious , the sun is glorious . this is my song and by now, she knows it well. she also knows the answer to the question i ask over breakfast, ‘who’s the boss a?’ ‘bruce springsteen,' she shouts with a grin, jammed toast and milk is sprayed everywhere and pride fills my heart as i make note to clean the crumbs later before the mice feast. i’m singing along to bob dylan’s ‘don’t think twice it’s alright’ when she suddenly sings back to me ‘i'm on the dark side of the road’. we play it every night in the car to get the baby to sleep and at the same time lulls her into dylan’s world the way i was. our words and poetry are all rolling into one and our children are soaking them in. i remind myself not to let in too much ugliness, i’m afraid too much of it will seep in. she doesn’t need to know how ugly the world can be. not yet. but sometimes when the news comes on the radio, she catches words like dead, steal, greedy,trump. and the jig is up. sometimes i’m walking on the street with my children and i’m laughing hard at something funny she has said. she can make me laugh so hard, but she can make me cry so hard too. you’re not carefree, you’re not unattached, you hold this mother weight from which you’re attached. the mother weight it ties you down. thankfully it ties you down. do you see how it has so much meaning? the meaning of two and that without one the other cannot be? there are days where we have many negotiations to survive, our horns butting and minds screeching at polar ends. we are drawn together as i place her on my lap when the baby is asleep, in the window in our reading chair the way we had always done. ‘read me a story mummy’ ‘hop on’, hop on i tap my lap which holds the memory of her changing limbs and weight. her legs fall longer on mine, her back taller but her round cheeks give her smallness away. her need for me, reminding me she will be my child forever. ‘how long will you be my baby for?’ i ask her at dinner one night. ‘till i’m old’ she answers. she knows because i’ve told her this before. i hold onto my baby tight and try to remember everything as he drinks from my breast and smiles the knowing look babies have because i know i will forget that feeling. i will somehow forget that look because motherhood is tiring and i’m already slowly forgetting so much. it’s the lack of sleep, the soul crushing playgroups that are filled with mothers that aren’t like you and the doubtful parenting eye you have to ignore. but i have this look now, between us and i’m filling myself up with it. with his babyness that i know will go in such a ridiculous short amount of time. and time has no face. it is fuzzy around the ages as it morphs into something that has no reliable name. almost intangible. . sometimes when you see me in the street, struggling, it’s because i’m weary. it’s because i’d rather be writing in that moment and not feeling guilty over it. because i don’t want to face that morning’s struggle as the baby climbs over everything or chews the moss covered bark from the nature table while i try to make everyone presentable for nursery is that a stain is that a moth hole and how i bloody hated school please don’t make her go to school next year she’s too small. she’s too small. sometimes i’m walking along the street and i’m invisible because i’m a mother. it wasn’t my children that left that dirty mess on the cafe floor. i’m not just a mother who couldn’t control a situation. i’m not just a mother who sits around all day folding laundry while watching day time tv eating biscuits. and it's ok if you do, because being a mother or father has a weight that can only be lifted by a familiarity that eases that weight. that’s not me. i’m a daydreamer. i’m sometimes daydreaming at the wrong time. gazing out of the widow as i sit on the floor. daydreaming while being tugged and spoken at. ‘ hmm hmm yes, that’s funny.' i’m not just every night i’m at my desk, working hard, sometimes i write a lot. sometimes not. i have found a little family of writers on facebook. we are all mothers who write so we say things without having to say it because we understand one another so well. we are a tribe that keeps on growing. sometimes we are unable to show up at the writing pew but we try again the next day through sisterly encouragement. and sometimes. sometimes i’m on the street with my children, and i really don’t know where we are going but wherever it is. we are going there together. for as long as they have me. posted by zehra at 00:41 no comments : links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest wednesday, 5 october 2016 literature | review : the lonely city: adventures in the art of being alone by olivia laing my three year old mentioned loneliness the other day. it wasn’t the first time she had uttered the word. at first, like most parents my reaction was one of concern, as though something painful, damaging and everlasting may be occurring in her soul. because like everybody else, i know how painful loneliness can be, it’s like being eternally cold on the inside, like a solitary iceberg chipped away and floating away from its family island. my first response was of course to console her and shower her in attention, even organise a friend to meet up with, anything to fill up that gaping feeling, but then i stopped. i stopped trying to fill up this perceived hole. i thought about my own loneliness; yes it can be painful but at times, it is desirable. there have been many instances where i’ve longed to exit a social setting and yearned for loneliness and then relished in it when i finally got it. so the last time my child mentioned it, i said, “sometimes it’s good to be a little bit lonely, sometimes you need it.”it doesn’t matter if i was understood but maybe if my child grows up hearing that it is ok to feel lonely at times, then when she is, it won’t be too heart breaking, but most off all, know that it is normal. laing’s important opening words are “if you’re lonely, this one’s for you.” the question is why is it so shameful to admit you are lonely? does it signify some form of failure on your part? and what does one do when forced to inhabit a world of loneliness; whether forced into by society norms, family circumstances, poverty or any other factor that may contribute to this human condition. of course, that’s just what it is; it is as much a part of the human condition as feeling love or hatred. it is what we as humans experience at many points in our lives but having to admit it is like exposing our innards. many artists have gone to extreme lengths to convey this feeling. not only so that they are understood and relieved of some of this loneliness but so that others can feel less alone. laing writes, “many marvellous things have emerged from the lonely city: things forged in loneliness, but also things that function to redeem it.” just as in echo spring laing once more focuses on a group of artists who have dealt with the theme of loneliness in their work and in their lives. artists such as edward hopper, andy warhol, david wojnarowicz, greta garbo, klaus nomi, henry darger and more have somehow navigated their lives and art through sexual preference, disability, sickness or foreign-ness. when laing finds herself shrouded in loneliness in new york city after discovering her life was not going in the direction planned, she finds herself in numerous rear window situations looking in on other people’s lives, apartment blocks split in multiple boxes, each one holding a different life. she is surrounded by many, yet each one; including herself appear to be entirely alone. edward hopper created many paintings interpreting this voyeuristic loneliness and he is the first of four artists laing focuses on in her study of art and loneliness. many of hopper’s images stick with the viewer, they are somewhat unsettling as lonely figures sit in cold painted light with sharp angles and stern faces, or figures focused on in social settings are crowded around but appear untouched by their surroundings. these images are unsettling yet reassuring all, it’s a feeling of resistance and acceptance all at once. it is the story of darger that it mostly unsettling, an “outsider artist” who was in fact a janitor who had grown up in an abusive setting of the asylum for feeble-minded children after a sad beginning to life and was only discovered upon his death. his art work is disturbing and his stories filled with darkness and the macabre with sexual paedophilic undertones. his entire life, collected in one room exhibited his loneliness in his hoarding tendencies and a life lacking in any family contact. warhol was also a hoarder, creating many time capsules and collecting voice recordings and tapes. even his constant entourage could not shield him from his loneliness which stemmed from his foreign tongue to his appearance. laing goes on to talk about technology and the entirely new breed of loneliness it has unleashed upon people. the internet not only connects people by seeking solace in strangers in a world of avatars and memes but also has a way of breaking a person up and enhancing their solitude. twitter, facebook and instagram to name a few have a way of morphing you into a silent witness, a voyeur of hundreds of lives and you don’t even have to leave the house. the individual finds themselves slowly pulled into a world of “like” buttons, if it’s not clicked, does it mean you are un-liked? do others know that you exist? do you even exist? laing writes, “...an ardent witness to the world, the lady of shallot with her back to the window, watching the shadows of the real appear in the lent blue glass of her magic mirror.” it is whilst sifting through warhol’s time capsules and diaries, darger’s room &artwork, wojnarowicz’s rimbaud photo cut-outs, zoe leonard’s “strange fruit” installation and klaus nomi’s operatic voice that laing skilfully slices through their solitude and then draws them together with herself into a realm of togetherness. this book is an absolute masterpiece; it’s presence after reading is strong and even physical. it makes it hard to feel so alone. posted by zehra at 20:59 no comments : links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest wednesday, 28 september 2016 the day on which i return. i can't really be called a blogger anymore, i simply don't blog. blogging has morphed into an entirely different creature, it can be hard sometimes to differentiate a blog that is trying to sell you something subtly or blatantly. there are many out there , lifestyle blogs are guilty of this the most, that seem to be desperately trying to help you live a different life, somebody else's life. even posts about unveiling the rose tint, are tinted by roses. what exactly am i trying to say? well, quite simply, i suck as a blogger but the writer in me still longs to write here, but i'm tired. maybe one day i will be able to explain this tiredness in more detail but for now, let's put it down to an 8 month old boy and 3 year old kidlett who now attends nursery 4 days a week ( i had to beg for that one day off) to ease my way back into this little corner of the world i thought i would share some of my favourite bloggers, is that weird? sharing my bloggers? am i trying to divert attention away from me? that makes no sense right? well maybe it does, i suppose in a way, by showing you what i like, we can become reacquainted once more. hello stranger, it's me, remember me? remember me? remember me. i realised i hadn't even introduced our youngest member, our son aydin who is now 8 months old! anyway here are just a few blogs & people i am drawn to. the first one is ; lulastic & the hippyshake by lucy aitken--read whom i've written about multiple times; such as here ,& here. she's a champion of children's rights, lives in a yurt, is all about no poo (shampoo) owns a cow, chickens, goats, honestly, what's not to love? the second is whole family rhythms by meagan who inspires families to connect peacefully with the earth and one another. by observing and living seasonally our families and ourselves can lead a happier healthier life. she is a homeschooler / homesteader who follows the waldorf way. third is sugar house workshop by jessica lewis stevens who is an incredible quilter in vermont and waldorfian mama, is that a saying? the fourth is jean hannah edelstein who is a writer, and i simply like her style of writing the fifth is north county folkware by julie who is a homesteader who specialises in ceramics, incredible knitwear and more. her instagram account is well worth following, it is inspirational, i promise. the sixth is soulemama by aamanda blake which is bursting with inspiration; creativity, motherhood, homeshooling, sheep & more. there are so many more, especially on instagram. what i crave from life for myself and my children is more simplicity. a slow, back to earth kind of life, with lots of reading and lots of writing. always the writing. hi. it's nice to be back. posted by zehra at 22:58 no comments : links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest friday, 13 may 2016 review: nobody told me: poetry and parenthood by hollie mcnish literature | review nobody told me: poetry and parenthood by hollie mcnish if you are a mother, a mother to be, a father, a father to be or just simply a human, then reading mcnish’s nobody told me is not only a must but must be passed onto fellow mothers and fathers. parenthood can be the most isolating, mind boggling, sleep deprived, trippy ride one can embark upon. you question yourself daily whether you are doing the right thing, you’re also questioned and criticised by strangers who insist you are doing everything wrong. cosleeping, breastfeeding, opinions, and being unmarried with a child are just a few buzz words which raise many an eyebrow in our british society, all of which mcnish discusses. mcnish is the silenced voice. her thought and confession is knitted together through a powerful marriage between poetry and prose. no subject is untouched, it is unflinching, matter of fact and doesn't miss a beat. the imagery she conjures in her poetry is vivid and solid. she talks about guilt; the guilt of not being prepared to be a mother to the everyday guilt of being a parent and the human desire to be alone, to being an individual, to not be just a mother which is the hardest confession a mother can make. even thinking it makes a mother question her own altruistic nature. there are many comical moments punctuated by juxtaposition, for example just as she is about to tell her partner dee that she is pregnant, he tells her that he is no longer in love with her to which her reaction is, “lump in my throat. ah shit i'm thinking about that maternity dress i just bought. i’d imagined wearing it at this moment in my life.” but he stays and falls deeply in love with their daughter and the subject is never brought up again. mcnish raises the rarely touched subject of sex; about the body which nurtures a baby day and night which has to be miraculously transformed and take on the role of lover. in her poem “breasts” she writes: so i lay her to sleep and wipe off the milk and step into the next room for some innocent filth in the middle of which her screams jolt me up and i transform breast once more between lover and love. on the subject of breastfeeding, she looks at how women’s breasts are forced to live a double life; where it’s acceptable to be on display on billboards or on the top shelf of a newsagent but as soon as they are used to serve their functional purpose, there is a look of disgust and the shattering of the male gaze as if they are a mere accessory designed for a mating ritual. one of her most powerful poems is “embarrassed”. she writes about the shame she is forced to feel when having to breastfeed in public. like many mums, she locks herself away in a dirty toilet cubicle in order to feed her daughter. she writes: as another mother turns from nipples to powder ashamed or embarrassed by comments around her as i hold her head up and pull my cardie across and she sips on the liquor made by everyone’s god i think for god’s sake, jesus drank it so did siddartha muhammad and moses and both of their fathers ganesh and shiva and brighid and buddha and i’m sure they weren’t doing it sniffing o piss as their mothers sat embarrassed on cold toilet lids mcnish leaves no stone unturned in this account of motherhood. she discusses the playgroup dynamic with other mothers and fathers who rarely have a support system. she writes about skin colour, how her daughter’s colour is usually compared to her own and one man even has the audacity to ask her if she had always planned on having a child with a black man. mcnish also covers gender stereotypes and all the issues and problems her daughter has stacked against her. but most importantly she treats her daughter as a person, as an individual and not an extension of herself. she is patient and dismissive of demeaning slogans such as “terrible twos”, she sees her daughter as a person who has needs and struggles with big emotions, something many grown-ups never really grow out of. once you've read this, pass it onto a fellow parent. i know i will be. posted by zehra at 09:13 no comments : links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest older posts home subscribe to: posts ( atom ) linkwithin search this blog subscribe here for email updates enter your email address:delivered by feedburner follow powered by blogger. copyright notice all material copyright ©zehra cranmer. all rights reserved. these include, but are not limited to, adaptations, samples, or other derivatives emanating from original material on this website, 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