Category: People

Poems about relationships, friendships, beginnings and endings.

Why I’m not a hoarder …
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"... you can’t always choose 
what you inherit 
don’t always recognise 
the legacies 
planted in you 
germinating 
when you least expect ..."
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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about de-cluttering, which to be fair, is a recurring theme in my life. I’m not one of those people who feels the need to hang onto things that belonged to the people I’ve loved. If my bookcases are full of books, it’s because they hold personal memories, or they are books I want to re-read. I don’t hold onto something just because it was gifted or inherited from a loved one. I won’t keep things I no longer use just in case it comes in handy sometime in the future. I’ll recycle, donate or bin it, depending on its condition.

It’s suddenly become quite trendy to de-clutter. The latest word for it is death-cleaning and having had to clear out rooms and whole houses belonging to loved ones who have died, that resonates. But this is a not a new thing. It was William Morris who said, “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful”. Not a bad starting point.

Don’t get me wrong: I still do have lots of things in my house that are neither useful nor beautiful. It’s a work in progress and, given my husband is my polar opposite when it comes to stuff, it’s a battle of wills! That’s a whole other story, which I won’t get into here.

I suspect that one of the reasons we hold onto stuff is that it belonged to someone we loved and we feel obliged to keep it. Perhaps we think we have a duty to pass it on to the next generation. But mostly I think we hold onto something because we believe we’re holding onto a part of the person we’ve lost. It is a memento, that when we look at it and pick it up, makes us feel closer to our loved one. I do understand that. But what I’ve learnt over time is that I don’t need the object to bring the person closer. The memory of them is already stored inside my head and heart, and I can bring it to the fore whenever I need or want to.

This week’s poem came from a couple of recent experiences, which on the face of it are completely unconnected. I love how a poem can channel a range of thoughts, experiences, and events through a single conduit. I took part in a group exercise last month marking All Souls’ Day, the traditional day when we remember the dead. We were invited to make a bracelet using old buttons, the idea being that each button would represent a loved one that you had lost. I had this romantic notion of pulling out an old button box that might have belonged to my grandmother, which I have treasured since her death. But that’s not the reality at all and it made me wonder about that yearning for connection I sometimes feel. A tin of old buttons won’t make memories of my grannie any more real than the memories I already treasure and that’s the truth of it.

Similarly, I spoke to a woman in Iceland who was so proud of the fact that her family had lived on the same farm in the east fjords for generations. Her sense of place was so defined; she was firmly rooted in her family legacy. That clearly works for her and, for a moment, it made me yearn again for that same sense of connection to land and to family. But what works for one person may not work for another. In reality, I think the thing I most value about my upbringing was the sense of freedom my parents gave me to spread my wings and find my own flight path, and I absolutely have.

I sense I’ve barely touched the surface of this theme of legacy as it’s made up of several layers, but I hope, by scratching the surface, it’s prompted you to ponder what kind of button box, real or virtual, you have hidden in a cupboard and what it represents.

the button box Download
17/12/2025
How one woman’s passion inspired others to fight for theirs …
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"... on sigriðarstigur
I wonder at my legacy 
such as it is 
I’ve been a leader of people 
driven by my values 
remaining true 
to who I’m meant to be ..."
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As I’m heading home from my trip, I’m ever conscious that there’s an obvious reason this feels different than other homecomings. For the first time since my student days, this has felt like a trip rather than a holiday. I won’t be heading back into the office on my return, as I have done so many times previously.

I can’t deny that my job has been a huge part of my life and my identity for three decades, and yet I’m reluctant to say that it defined me; I don’t think it ever did. I’ve known people who have been so invested in their professional roles that they can’t let go. I’m not one to judge, and maintaining links with your old firm, or working in a similar role beyond retirement, clearly works for many people. But for me, retiring is about starting a brand new chapter. I’m looking forward to having time to do other things that interest me (such as this blog!), to learn new skills and explore parts of the world I haven’t yet visited.

Which brings me to this week’s poem, which is based on the true story of an Icelandic woman who wouldn’t give up. She fought all her life to prevent a mighty waterfall, partly owned by her family, from being exploited for financial gain. Her father was tricked into selling the lease and she supported him in fighting a legal battle, which they ultimately lost. Despite the courts going against them, Gullfoss was left intact, because the new owners failed to honour the terms of the sale.

But that’s not the part that really inspired me. What inspired me most about Sigriður Tómasdóttir was her tenacity and her absolute passion for nature. She was determined that the waterfall be allowed to flow freely as it had always done. Not only that, her courage to stand up to officials inspired others within Iceland to respect nature on their doorstep. They began to appreciate nature for what it was, rather than what we might make it. As a result, many refer to Sigriður as Iceland’s first environmentalist.

This fight for her beloved waterfall was her life’s work. She was skilled in many other ways, but it was her commitment to Gullfoss’s cause, that defined her. I don’t think she would ever have let it go. It made me wonder what, if anything, would I hold onto because I cared so deeply. If not my professional role, then what?

I guess it boils down to the same thing that undoubtedly drove Sigriður: values. It was my values that determined the job I did and how I did it. It’s those same values that influence how I interact with others, and how I live my life. Perhaps that’s why I found it easy to let go of my professional role because the foundations on which it was built continue to shape me.

I wonder how aware Sigriður was of her legacy? She would’ve had no idea that a monument would be built to honour her at Gullfoss, and a walkway named after her. Do any of us truly appreciate our impact on others? My ex-boss used to quote Maya Angelou to her workforce on a regular basis: “people will forget what you did and said, but they won’t forget the way you made them feel”.

I did my best, on many occasions, not so much to impose my values on my team but to impart advice that was rooted in what I believed for myself. I trust they listened at least some of the time. I believe they did, and I watched them thrive with pride. The foundations have been set and that’s as much as I can do. I hope they will continue to thrive, which is also my hope for you. May the thing that you hold on to, whatever it is, bring you joy.

sigridarstigur Download
12/11/2025
How life is never the same following bereavement, but still, there is life …
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"... tonight in my kitchen 
as summer rain finally fell 
I listened to your playlist 
sang my heart out 
feet tapping 
hips swaying 
embracing the joy of life 
thankful for what we had 
and for all that is yet to be ..."
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I expect that everyone reading this will have been impacted by the loss of a loved one. It’s a funny thing, bereavement, you never know how it will affect you and each time is different. The circumstances will be unique for both the person who has died and for you who lives on. Experiencing bereavement as a young person will be very different to how you approach it as you get older. And, of course, your relationship with the person will shape your response to both the process of dying and their ultimate death.

You may lose someone suddenly and the shock of it can rock you to the core. You’ll probably regret all the things you never had chance to say; the things you planned to do together that never happened; the questions you always meant to ask but never found the right time or place. I’ve lost count of how many people have said to me, over the years, to remember to tell people that you love them and to say the hard things before it’s too late. It’s not easy advice to follow.

Then there are the anticipated losses: loved ones that have a terminal diagnosis. You foolishly think you’ll be prepared and you brace yourself for the worse. But no matter how much you think you’re ready to say goodbye, you won’t be. Even when you know that letting go is the best thing for them, it’s still hard. You grieve whilst they are dying and then you grieve again when death comes.

In my experience, you’ll be guided by them. When my dad was given a diagnosis of less than 6 months to live, he was very matter of fact about it, which meant I had to be as well. Loving a person means you respect their wishes, no matter how much it goes against your gut instinct.

I’ve always believed that the best way to honour the dead, is to live your life to the full. That’s what they would want for you, I’m sure. That’s how I’ve tried to approach every bereavement I’ve experienced and it does help, particularly when you go through tough times. It’s the best prompt there is to make the most of every day you have.

My best friend died from a rare cancer that she was determined to fight. Even when she went into the hospice for what we all knew were her last days, she was sure she was there for respite only. She died when she was just 49 and it felt utterly tragic. I didn’t think life would ever be the same and, true, in some ways it isn’t. There’s a hole in my life that no one else can fill. But lots of life carried on regardless, as it must. We did have the opportunity to say the things we wanted to say, and I’ll always be grateful for that. I’ll never forget the wisdom she bestowed, which has guided my days without her.

There are so many times I wish I could talk to her, but can’t. There have been rare occasions, since she died, when I’ve felt her presence so keenly and even heard her voice. At times that has brought me comfort, other times it’s given me a kick up the backside; always it makes me grateful for what we had.

I wrote this poem some years after Karen died. It was my way of telling her I was okay. We’d listened to a lot of music together, danced and sang our way through many a favourite track. For a long time, I couldn’t listen to the music we shared; the fact that I was able to enjoy music again reminded me that healing does come, life does go on and you do recover parts of yourself that you feared you’d lost. If recovery feels far from you right now, then be patient. It will come in time.

Since you’ve been gone Download
24/09/2025