Dear Mom,
Happy Birthday in Heaven
It’s been thirteen long years,
since you left and went away.
I still love and think about you,
each and every day.
The love that we shared,
was an unbreakable bond.
I hold you safely in my heart,
knowing you will never be gone.
Your love, kindness and caring,
laughs, chats and sharing.
There can be no comparing.
Sadness hits me harder today,
as I remember your birth day.
“Everything is temporary, but love
outlives us all”
https://justsayins.wordpress.com/ancestry-and-cultural.../
“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”― Jamie Anderson
Mom looking at the stream at the bottom of her garden in South Wales. Home of her (paternal) Grandmother ‘Susan Howells’ Cardiff, South Wales. (1940)
DEAR DIARY,
“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go” ~ Jamie Anderson
On the day my Mom passed away …
I was too shocked to speak or comprehend, that my life would never be the same.
Would I ever feel that loved, protected, safe or whole again?
My world had turned upside down and stopped!
Falling into a cold, empty void of heartbreak and tears. Scrambling and searching to find a ‘safe place’ to store all of this love that I have and will always hold for my Mom. This is the life force and the pulse of my love affair in the blogosphere with “Hey Momma”
My philosophy of life is absorbed from the wisdom of my beautiful Welsh mom and from the most extraordinary love that she exuded not only to me and our family, but all whom she met.
I had promised Mom that ‘I would trace her Welsh family ancestral roots’ as a legacy addressed to our new generations, yet to come.
So, a few years ago, after I had come to terms living without her, I began to search for my Mom’s, Mom’s Mom… but that is where I came to a full stop:
‘Gwyneth Jones’ from South Wales?
W H A T!
A needle in a haystack doesn’t even begin to describe the monumental search I had in store,but I had made my Mom a promise, that I could not break.
This is where my search into the folklore, legends and history of her birthplace in Neath, South Wales began.
Each day as I’ve researched our Cymru history and culture, I find myself closer to the heart of my great Celtic Mom and all that she had stood for.
Happily, I have found her again, in the silence of sacred mountains, the wildest and deepest of valleys and in the wandering of streams, right back to the memories of my childhood trips to visit my grandparents. And so here I am today, having smuggled myself back to Wales, following in the footprints and spirit of my Mom and our home.
I have met King Arthur and his knights, warriors, goddesses, kings, queens and princesses. It has been quite an adventure! Thank you for joining me.
WHERE TO NEXT? There will be more ‘Welsh’ adventures yet to come in a few months time.
but now, for the next little while, I am going to find ‘my self’ again, getting amongst the great outdoors in the outback of this great ancient land where I live and love today, in the golden heart of Western Australia.
Always duty bound! is a Mom and Wife,
to support, her family, for the rest of her life!
Always putting her loved ones, needs first,
always cooking and washing away dirt.
Always caring what her family eats,
always worrying, what’s happening on the streets.
Always too much work to be done,
always others, are having much more fun.
Always the carer, teacher, nurse and friend,
always the one, on whom everyone depends.
Always there when the day is done,
always her commitments keep, coming along!
Always there for everyone’s needs,
always a housewife in thoughts and deeds.
Always too many jobs on her list,
always expectations, she’s obliged to persist!
Always the one, forgotten at home,
always the one, who’s left, all alone.
Meanwhile our Daughters, follow mom’s trends,
pray, tell me? which generation, will this slavery end?
When a man is retired, he sits back to relax!
but a woman’s job never ends and that is a fact!
Image: Anne Stokes. “The Truth” based around the concept of giving trust. The image is full of symbolism. In the picture the woman gives her trust by offering the sword of truth. The hope is that it will be used alongside her. However it is a weapon and in the wrong hands it could be used against her. If this happens she will be hurt, but the dragon will stir, which represents her anger and inner strength.
“There was a time when people accepted magical experiences, naturally”
This web-blog has become my voyage of discovery.
as I now begin to trace back my Mom’s Welsh Celtic footsteps to her birth place of Port Talbot, in South Wales. Sadly, as a young child, she had been relocated to Birmingham.
I remember when I was little, that she’d enjoy taking me back to Cardiff, in Wales as often as she could, to visit our folks. I have fond memories of those days. In each of their houses, there were remnants of welsh national costumes, Welsh love spoons hung from their walls, there were so many questions that I hadn’t asked them about their customs and traditions, until now.
“But How Will I Know My Family History?” Wales was a land of story tellers, although, unfortunately those traditional lores appear to be dying out. I think that its beliefs and customs have been lost in bleak and scary translations.Yes, their legends can be deep, dark and spooky. However, in my eyes, they live in the land of ‘moving curtains’ (Their analogy: everyone looks out for each other) … and what about their secrets and magic? bridging between the visible and invisible.
New Chapter In this next chapter of my web-blog affair, I hope to unravel their intricate folklore, quite simply. To ensure that our Celtic family heritage is never lost to our new generations.
I began this diary, to express my grief after losing my Mom, but through writing these poems, now five years later, although the pain is still there, the healing has begun. It’s time to follow the path to find my matriarchal ancestors. There comes a moment, when these two origins have to co-exist.
My Mom was a beautiful pure Welsh Celt, who had thick black hair, deep brown, soulful eyes and the most fragile transparent white skin.
She had a loving wisdom, that was always ‘knowing”
Mom was one of life’s greatest gift’s to me…
Victoria Healing ~ 5.2.2020. Come Over to The Welsh Side, We’ve Got Dragons
Image Credit ~ The Time Tunnel is a 1966–1967 U.S. science fiction TV series.
There was a flurry of excitement,
as we approached the murky “Tunnel”
Up ahead, a gaping, shadowy hole,
marvelling where, that entry would go?
Was there a switch, or a teleport door?
should we stand up, or sit down on the floor?
Psychedelic lights flashing, vividly around
hearing the brrrummms of strange, buzzing sounds.
A soft voice was speaking, up ahead,
“this may take a while, for our journey to end”
A long winding passage beckoned and twisted,
as we encountered a new sensory, existence.
A bright beam glowed, at the end of the tunnel,
it was the gateway of departure of our ‘times travel’
An instance of silence, as we prepared,
in wonderment about, what lay ahead?
Dad would then give, a nod to Mom,
“here is the exit of the Mersey Tunnel, hold on”
The entry point had begun in gloomy Birmingham City,
finally the exit, into Lancashire landscape, so pretty.
A great place to escape to, to be beside the sea,
it was a countryside haven of nature’s beauty.
These trips I would make when I was a kid,
to visit my aunty, at the seaside, I loved that, I did.
Victoria Healing ~ 5.6.2019
Time Travels
The Mersey Tunnel Entry ~ As I remember
As a young child, I looked forward to travelling from Birmingham, through the Mersey Tunnel to visit my aunty Nett and uncle Bob, who lived in Southport, Lancashire.
I grew up thinking that the Mersey Tunnel was a Time Tunnel and a means of escaping the bleak, city life of Birmingham, into a refuge of endless beaches , country landscapes and the smell of salty, fresh ocean air… and creamy, vanilla ice cream.
“Everything seemed possible, when I looked through they eyes of a child. And every once in a while; I remember, I still have the chance to be that wild.” ― Nikki Rowe
Every person within hearing range, stopped to look,,,
As i was screaming, at the top of my lungs,
in fear, dread and a great panic,
i ‘d squeezed her hands tightly,
knowing that ‘I’ was about to vanish.
… but,
She had let go of my hand,
as i was forcibly dragged away, into a foreign land.
I yelled and shouted for her to come back,
as my world turned, into shades of black.
Discipline, by fear,
the rule, that they had held dear.
No understanding or care,
kindness was forbidden, to share.
“Sit up straight, look at me”
don’t dream of what you want to be.
Look here at the sad and the grey,
learn your alphabet in this repetitive, boring way.
Add up these numbers,
no time, for fun, play or slumber.
Speak only, when you are asked to,
don’t do, what you want to do…
Pay attention, follow, these rules,
indoctrination, was their tool.
On that first day, my Mom took me to school,
…was when i first began, to feel the blues.
Now, i am beginning to see,
exactly where, i’d lost my interest and curiosity,
in the wonders, of life’s magic and its mysteries.
“You will find more happiness growing down than up” ~Author Unknown
Class sizes in the 1950s and early 1960s were large, often over 30 children to a class, as these were the ‘baby boomers’, children born after the Second World War. There were no classroom assistants, just the class teacher and so discipline was strict. It was quite common for a disruptive child to be rapped over the knuckles, on the buttocks or on the palm of the hand with a ruler.
