REACH

Dorset

the healing power of art and nature

As practising artists - Rosie as a writer, Marc as a painter and composer - we were excited

about working together on a project which would let us convey our passion and conviction

about the transforming power of creativity. Between April and October 2009, we ran small

weekly groups at Bridport Arts Centre, Dorset, devising exercises and activities to trigger

the imagination and encourage new ideas and skills. We wanted to create a safe

environment where people could experiment and explore with words and images in ways

they had not done before, using the natural world as a stimulus and subject matter,

sometimes involving walks to woods and on the coast.

Our main purpose was to catalyse inner change, to enable everyone to take hold of his or

her own creativity in a positive way. Since this process was more important than results,

we encouraged practices to loosen and inspire, such as associative writing or drawing with

the eyes closed. And we were delighted so many participants described their experiences

as liberating and affirming, freeing them from conventional expectations and inner critics

and letting them view their lives from new angles and perspectives. Sharing work, talking

and relating together also built self-acceptance, confidence and trust. We later progressed

to more sustained pieces, including a personal `tree of life' design.

The outcome of this has been art and writing of remarkable quality, some of which we are

presenting in this volume. Poems, prose fragments, pencil and charcoal sketches,

paintings, photographs, stained glass, 3-D, textile and paper work, all evidence of the

remarkable inventiveness latent within everyone. And between the lines, making them all

the more valuable to us, are the moving personal stories, the compassion and humour we

also shared together. Indeed, the fact that all this work was done in the midst of people's

struggles with huge inner and outer challenges - stress, depression, bereavement, anxiety,

panic, job loss, ill-health - confirms our belief not only in the power of art but in its sheer

necessity on our human journey.

All the work is reproduced anonymously, but with the artists' permission.

REACH Dorset developed from an initial partnership between Bridport Arts Centre and

Bridport Medical Centre that was brought about by Alex Coulter and the regional REACH

initiative. We are deeply grateful to them and to Arts Council England South West, Dorset

Primary Care Trust, Dorset Mental Health Forum, Dorset County Council and all the course

participants who made REACH Dorset possible. The original project groups are now

continuing their creative journeys independently, successfully demonstrating a sustainable

legacy for REACH Dorset. We hope this volume will help foster more projects of this kind

inspiring REACH Dorset members and others to continue working creatively as a major

step towards well-being.

Rosie Jackson & Marc Yeats

Marc Yeats

Rosie Jackson

Beneath the trees the bluebells grow,

While up above bright green leaves appear,

Broken boughs lay scattered, rotting, as shy roe deer

Stand ghostlike in the depths.

Earthy browns vie with powder blue for our attention,

And vibrant greens play their part.

The gentle morning sun peeps through the leaves

Casting a soft glow, penetrating the dusky gloom.

All is still, nothing moves, silence shrouds me.

The deer stare, ears are pricked, poised for flight

Velvet noses scent the air.

The heady perfume assaults the senses,

Provoking nostalgic thoughts of childhood.

While all around tree trunks stand like sentinels

With soft frothy flowers at their feet,

And overhead leafy boughs create a secret world.

I hold my breath, transfixed, time suspended,

Then all at once the spell is broken,

Birds begin to sing their welcome to the day,

And time resumes its relentless toll.

green

snot, fingers, mould, envy,

sick, what remains, apple, pea.

solace, graveyard, beetle, khaki,

scarf, alphabet, cardigan, me.

stagnant, dragon, parsley, mint,

spring, tasty, turquoise isn't.

.

and by the by ... right time, wrong time, out of time, empty, full.

the tree and I

I am still alive. I still move and breathe and capture the sun in my

arms. I am still alive. The sun has not abandoned me, though it was

eclipsed all winter. The birds still sing, hope still rattles the chains

trying to tie our legs under the table. I am still alive. I can still walk

over dried earth and moist, though my legs are sometimes as heavy

as in dreams, knotted in the blanket. I am still alive. I can still summon

faith in myself, even if God has walked out of every church and every

heart, we can tolerate his absence. I am still alive. Oranges still juice

on citrus trees, and trees pull up water from the earth even when

there is no well in sight for miles. There is still hope. I am still alive.

Leaves are well tended in their veins and skeletons as my bones and

flesh. Insects still live on bark and sap, the tree does not shake them

off, does not have allergies. The tree is tolerant and hopeful. The tree

has been standing here for three hundred years. The tree will outlive

me, will not blink when I die, will receive the news with nothing more

than a tremor of its branches. Even the wildest storm will not unsettle

it. The tree knows without studying, speaks without saying, holds its

bliss without striving, is neither good nor evil. The tree and I are still

alive.

.

hawthorn

Also known as May

`I keep coming back to the Hawthorn. It has a wild small beauty, a quiet resilience which I have probably always

loved…'

.

I'm not always a stand-alone tree, you may find me all over the place, often where the earth is considered of a

poorer quality. I thrive where the topsoil is thinner, where stones and flints are close to the surface, on steeper

climes unfit for the plough. Scrub land, Moor-land, the Downs, chalky and windswept.

When late spring slides into early English summer, my branches are heavy with arcs of creamy white blossoms, a

peasant girl's bridal bouquet, soft yet heady scent, only noticed at close proximity.

My companions tend to be what others call weeds - although a weed is only a flower in the wrong place - dog rose

and scabious, orchid and vetch, sheep's bit, bramble, ivy, moss, lichen.

I'm a small tree. But put me alongside blackthorn, ash, field maple, hazel and together we form a stock-proof

boundary, our thorns hard and sharp, our branches supple enough to move with the wind, strong enough to not be

easily broken.

Bend me and I spring back. Cut me almost through and push me over and I re-shoot, grow stronger. Penetrable

for small living things and the wind to whistle through.

We grow scattered on scrubland, fit for little save sheep grazing. If you allow, we spread our branches and crinkled

leaves to give partial cool shade to cattle, sheep, the harvest mouse and lovers, the hard and plovers.

Over the summer our flowers drop away, confetti upon the sward, and as our haw berries ripen and swell, so do

our nutty green crinkled leaves fade, crackle, dry and fall to the ground, only our grey thorns to protect our fruit. We

hint at a severe winter when our branches are laden with those deep claret orbs.

Clean air is indicated by the lichen growing on our pewter grey limbs. Our roughened trunk cleft in two a foot or so

from the ground, mossy.

We're not much good for firewood, so mostly you leave us alone. Our fruit is not much good to you either, so the

native birds have a midwinter feast. But we do protect your livestock. We are the boundary to that which you

choose to call owned, although we're there on the common land too.

We have, some say, magical qualities.

Me, I stand guard at this field's entrance. Away down the valley, there is the farmstead, sheep grazing contented

on ancient ridged slopes, and beyond, the glimmering expanse of the sea.

I don't need fertilizers or pesticides. I have sufficient. I grow in a beautiful landscape. I am part of this landscape.

So do not uproot me. There is a beauty and a purpose, which interacts with the larger scale of things. And, when

you get the chance, plant some more of me. I'm not difficult to look after, in fact, I'm mostly best left to my own

devices.

I'm a semi-shaded spot to lean against, lie beside and quietly contemplate. I'm tough, resilient in harsh conditions.

There are ornamental versions of me, but I prefer myself plain and simple.

west bay haikus

unique beach of life

overturning summer waves

crashing, splashing stones

speeding, random boat

flying over the wide sea

hurrying with force

Thank God for nature

Susan taking photographs

of our still moment

pointed tops of cliffs

jagged lines of a heartbeat

waves ever closer

A vast distant plain ahead

the light breaking through the dark clouds on the horizon

a feeling of hope in the distance.

teeth of honeycomb

tracks of Jacob's ladder

love's smudged history

ever patient waves

white lace undoing itself

gulls and children's screams

summer frolicking

cold paddling, shivering feet

happy, shiny faces

smooth pebbles crunching

slice of sea on horizon

glimpse of paradise

path dribbles down hill

rough waves smooth and soak the sand

summer hides autumn

different each day

a sand and shingle painting

the sea applauds

seagulls moult to show

their love for fledgling offspring

ragged feathers

here there be dragons

god's sketches in the pebbles

alien message

the feather

`Our task was to write a poem or piece of prose

as if we were a natural object… and the other

morning as I walked down the garden, I spotted

a dark feather lying, as if in waiting, on the

grass…'

I was lying there on the grass, waiting.

I could feel the dew moist against my back.

Then I caught her eye, was carefully lifted and

caressed.

I'm so soft, so tempting to stroke.

Where have I come from?

A blackbird in flight, perhaps,

Its soft body no longer needing me,

That hard quill that runs through me let go.

Light and almost weightless,

I fluttered and eddied to the ground,

Black against green.

But hold me to the light,

And I'm a spectrum of shades,

From pale to deep, deep brown.

Small, but one of nature's many miracles.

the buzz

Where does the buzz come from?

How do you get it?

And how do you keep it?

Can everyone get it?

I haven't got it at the moment

But, I'm trying really hard

To find the missing link

Between my life and a buzz.

colours

Round, red, rosy apples, ready to eat.

Sucking a pink and yellow hard-boiled sweet.

Watching a blue flame burning on the bonfire.

Screeching, dark black, worn-out rubber car tyre.

Crisp white towels in the hotel room.

Brown bristle missing, rotten old broom.

The look of an orange as shiny as can be.

Yellow sap seeping from a great enormous tree.

No colour can describe the soft calm breeze,

But endless colours can describe fallen leaves.

Looking at the world's colour is all free,

The ones on the land and the ones on the sea.

I think we take for granted what we see

And don't count our blessings which we really should be.

So, I'm saying thank you for every single one,

For all the colours I've ever seen and the ones there are to come.

observations of a walk in a field

sea of green

glistening with the dew

sparkling in the yellow sun

above

blue blue sky

white puffballs floating along

gentle breeze

waving delicately

over the sea of green

black on black

witch, cat, magic, sheep, bear,

swan, oil, bird, mould, raven, hair.

tar, head, pot and kettle, eclipse,

Baskerville hound, Darth Vader, Batman, pirate ships.

box, little dress, chimney sweep, hole,

soot, clubs, spades, man, mole.

thorn, ebony, jet, puma,

pudding, squid ink, Guinness, humour.

coal, diamond, plague, tie,

widow, out, Gothic, eye.

clouds, smoke, bin bag, fog,

mood, soul, depression, dog.

undertaker, cassock, habit, eyed-pea,

Sabbath, hearse, prince, me!

I'm a hard object

I'm a shell, a hard object, with ridges reaching to the top and skirting out to the bottom.

Underneath, I am hollow. I used to house a live creature, now this is all that remains. I acted

as protector to this creature. All the ridges are part of how I was formed. Subtle colours, a

white sandy beige, grey reaching towards black at the top tip and bottom skirt. Is there any

more left to me?

Underneath I am smoother. A different set of colours, warmer, orangey-beige, a grey off-

white this time in hoops, a sign of housing something soft. I think I must have been attached

to something to protect the underside of this soft creature.

Now I am so hard and rigid: fit only for breaking or gazing at - `OO, isn't that pretty?'

But my reason to be has gone, now the inside isn't here any more. An empty shell after all.

I am still here, but I feel pointless apart from being something for people to stare at. Or I

could reverse into matter and provide sustenance for new life. For I am made of calcium,

molluscs and might be useful. I do wonder what happened to the live part that I was housing.

Maybe it went on to make more shells like me… I don't know… I've lost my purpose and get

passed around from one writing group to another.

I am dead, aren't I?

flint

I am very old, was forged by nature and the forces of the earth

in the depths in the heat.

I have clear black centre covered in ivory.

My shape is contorted and distorted, through my ridges you see

my depth and when you to strike me, my soul would spark at the

world.

My weight is heavy and left out would become cold, if held tight I

would radiate warmth.

Though textured smooth and creased if broken I would reveal

sharp edges and glass surfaces ... possibly some crystals!

I sink in water to join my brethren and tumble in the tide. I might

be bought back to the shore side? In my facets you might see

faces, flowers.

In my holding you might find comfort or wisdom.

In my being I have supplied ample tools for mankind to forge a

future.

But for me ... I exist to ride the days as they come and when

they come.

You might find comfort in the knowledge that I exist or mealy

use me to build a wall.

You might walk past and send me skidding over the pavement.

Moulded neatly to the hand like play dough of a bygone era

A child's creation left aside to be found by many, admired by a

few and cherished by one.

starfish

I am a starfish. My texture is pretty rough, I feel

very dry, I should be wet, I have five points, but

I'm very rounded at the edges.

I feel like I shouldn't be here. I remember water, I

am usually by the sea, usually by the beach or in

the sea, there are usually fish swimming around

me. It does feel so strange, what is that holding me

is it another fish, this doesn't feel right; why am I

here?

I can hear strange noises; does it sound like

waves? No, it can't be! Why am I here? Please get

me out of here, I feel so dry, I shouldn't be. Where

are the rocks? Where is the seaweed? It's so cold,

alien, I feel like I am suffocating. I am lost.

What can I do to get back to the sea? It's so

strange here. I need to get back. I am scared here.

I remember blue skies, children on the beach,

other creatures. This is so alien. Maybe it's a bad

dream, maybe I will wake up soon, perhaps I will, I

hope.

I feel so dry now, I don't think I can hang on for

much longer. I just need the sea to rejuvenate me.

I cannot last much longer…

the sea - and just me

I wander down slowly to the beach

The sea so close to my reach

Bare-footed to feel the stones

Washed-up driftwood, seawood, cuttlefish bones.

I ignore what's going on around me

'Cos today it's just me and the sea.

It's shouting for me to come on in.

I go further, right up to my chin.

I look out to the vast expanse

And thank God I'm given the chance

To spend some time feeling calm

With no worry, sadness or harm.

My favourite place is the sea.

The sea - and just me.

I woke up this morning

I woke up this morning

And couldn't stop laughing.

Why was life so much fun?

Every night I go to bed

And can't wait for the next day to arrive,

Meeting different people,

Experiencing new things.

And laughing.

Laughing till your sides ache

And you have to bend over,

Tears roll down your face

And it's infectious.

Someone laughing makes the next person laugh

And soon the world is full of laughter.

If only!

reach out

Reach out for the first time and go walking.

Cast care to the wind and stop the talking.

How aimless really is the orange tip's flight,

Erratic and wild, flicking amber light?

Flittering so, what can it sense and see?

Creamy umbels that form star nebulae?

Chestnut candles seeking love from a bee?

Can it recognise human: you and me?

What do we see on this day as we pass?

Iron filing pollen packs on lodestone grass.

The arum tips its cowl to chastely hide

Its unripe berries, coyly sat inside.

Sweet chestnut twisted in some frozen dance

And a gaggle of people joined by chance.

if only I could be a tree

If only I could be a tree

What would life be like for me?

I would notice such a lot

Firmly rooted to this spot!

I'd spread my branches open wide,

So little birds could nest inside.

A roosting owl could spend his day,

As night drew in he'd fly away.

Squirrels would scamper out and in,

While insects burrowed in my skin.

Ivy creeping, climbing high

As my branches claw the sky.

Nearby a river wends its way,

In the village life's dramas play.

I'd watch the hares box at dawn,

The mother roe protect her fawn.

The farmer, ploughing face all red,

Reaping crops to make his bread.

Marshy meadows, cattle grazing,

Lovers linger, star-gazing.

Fashions come and fashions go

As people pass to and fro,

But I stand firm beneath the sky

And watch the seasons roll on by.

life is a beech

I remember the beech trees dwarfing my

garden and the small cottage where I lived:

their silvery smooth bark, so good for

hugging; their welcome shade, from the

millions of leaves in the canopy, high above,

green coolness, respite from those long, hot,

golden summer days. Were those summers

really balmier, or does memory just grow

fonder?

The trees were my friends, embracing and

protecting. There were cold, crisp, starry

nights and owls hooting from their lofty

position high above. Then there were the

storms, winds ripping from across the plain,

and now my friends became menacing, a

threat. I would lie in bed and listen to the

timber creaking and groaning in the roaring

wind, and I would pray that their roots would

hold strong in the earth and that their mighty

boughs would not split and come crashing

down.

I would sit by my crackling fire on those long

winter nights and be thankful for the wood

that fuelled it, and hope that my beautiful

trees would see many more long years, grow

many more rings, before they met the same

fate.

And the trees whispered in the breeze. They

whisper still to each other.

And I listen and smile and say thank you,

thank you for the trees!

oakend

The oak, the oak, and now the end.

The oak tree in my garden has reached its end.

“Oakend” was the name of my first school - I loved,

felt safe and secure there.

The oak, the oak, the huge oak in the garden of “Wood cottage”

Stood guard, and ever present.

My brother climbed high into its branches.

A swing was hung from one.

Sally swung, fell and broke her arm.

Oh so sad, was that when our friendship ended?

Oak end, oak end, and now the tree has been felled

to make space.

Oak end, oak end, my childhood tree felled.

“Oakend”, “Oakend”, my school bulldozed.

Oak end, oak end, my friendship ended.

Yet WAIT! - Good news

They have used the timber from the oak tree

To build the frame for the extension of “Wood Cottage”!

Oak ended in a building of a new nurturing place.

Oak ended

in a new nurturing place.

beautiful here

Trees in beautiful morning sunshine

I can see lots of different shades of green spiralling bathed in the morning light

I can hear nothing but the wind blowing

The light is streaming through the trees and the leaves are being swept away

There are steep hills beyond in the distance towering over the trees below

I can see a river running over rocks meandering back through the valley

I am amongst this landscape because I love the early morning silence it brings

It is cold here, the sun is rising higher and its light is changing

Colours are getting stronger now, it is beautiful here.

.

the tree in my garden

My sister and me in stretchy nylon swimsuits shrieking and jumping in and

out of our old brown canvas paddling pool.

My sister and me dressed as cowboys, she astride the rocking horse, me

waving a gun menacingly, I thought.

My sister and me, pushing our long-suffering baby-clothed dog in a pram.

My sister and me, in our matching coats, burying each other in dry autumn

leaves.

My sister and me running rings around the bonfire, staring wide-eyed at the

effervescing roman candles, sparklers held respectfully at arms length,

writing our names in the inky blackness.

My sister and me soaring to giddy heights on the swing our father made,

ropes creaking on the outstretched limbs.

My sister and me in our plastic bag covered woollen mittens throwing icy

snowballs, soaking wet and freezing cold.

My sister and me, watching warm inside as our mother dug a tortuous path

to the tree for our beloved dog.

My sister and me, bidding farewell to our childhood home unknowing of what

was truly left behind.

memories of the ridgeway

I am walking along the South Dorset Ridgeway. I love it here, it is away from everything I

loathe. It's a quiet, tranquil open expanse I know will be here for me to explore. The trees are

windswept from the prevailing south-westerly winds. I can hear skylarks, but most of all it is

the silence I crave.

I love the colours of the heathers around Hardy's Monument, they are a beautiful sight. There

are numerous pathways to take. I think I'll go to Hell Bottom and sit down by the old

shepherd's cottage, have a drink and something to eat.

I love it here on my own. I think I'll take a few photographs. I will wait for the light, plenty of

time. I really don't want to go home. I could live in this place, so isolated I suppose!

There's an old track way over the hill, sheep are grazing in the fields around me. The old dry

stone walls are in a bad state of repair now, yet they are beautiful in their state of decay.

I can imagine how it used to be here, probably a busy place of work and life. I wish I could

stay here and not go home, but I'd better return soon. I hope it won't change here too much

before I come back.

I feel it is my place, my place! Maybe I will come back one day, I hope so.

the shell

Hi. I'm a shell, well travelled, coming and going with the

tides. I've been on the seabed with my fellow molluscs

and now I've been washed up on the shore. I have a

lovely shape, oval and rounded, smoothed by tossing

in the sea, and although I've lost the other parts of me,

together we resembled a butterfly. On the left side of

my shell I have a chip where some human picked me

up when I first came ashore and tried to prise me open.

They have damaged me, taken away the heart of me,

and discarded my other half. I'm tough, hard on the

outside, but my insides were soft and vulnerable. I'm

quite pretty, having dark stripes and a black tip where

my other self joined. The inside of me is smooth and

shiny, cleaned by the surf and water. I've a few other

chips that have come from being tossed around in the

sea, pecked at by seagulls, bashed against rocks.

Here I live basking in the heat of the sun, feeling the

cold rain and endlessly being picked up and discarded

by humans, a piece of driftwood waiting for someone to

discover my value. I may return to the sea one day,

that is my home, but right now I'm in a good place on

this table, with someone who values me.

gold…

dreams, threads, wedding, rings, heart,

sunlight, not all that glitters, dust, digger, treacle tart.

corn, harvest, flakes, moon, dish,

yolk, watch, hour, pond, fish.

blend, whiskey, syrup, disc, honey,

crown, treasure, Olympic medal, nugget, money.

rush, mine, fools, Midas, plate,

Ferrero Rocher, champagne, phoenix, harp, gate.

bar, smith, goose, dragon, Labrador pup,

opportunity, handshake, chalice, Cheltenham cup.

paved streets, lion, tan, oldie, platter,

eagle, coach, coast, gun, crispy batter.

SILENCE!

seeing green on millennium green

Here, ribbon-grasses dressed in see-through sunshine

Rise up, then down in swallow-dive towards

The plump-pillowed spread of plantain leaves stitched

By comfortably lazy hands. And there

New nettle leaves, tight-wrinkled from their births,

Warn with their razor-wired zigzag repeat.

The high gloss of these leaves will bat away

Attack attempts, as flower-faded stalks

Bear proud seed-torches, fierce as shooting stars.

Holly sprouts globular clusters of green

Tightness flushed with pink promise of berries.

Slow drifts of dandelion clocks stop short

Glued to cobwebs beside small studded flies.

Green-feast glutted and gorged, the sky looks pink.

yellow

Sunshine laughter

Happy warm sunflower

Lemons custard, thick and warm,

Egg yolks butter peppers corn.

Cowslips primroses

My golden Molineux rose,

Creamy silky sand

My wedding band.

Harvest stubble Autumn leaves,

Bright sunlight Harvest sheaves.

Candle flames flickering

Flashy tasteless bling.

Nicotine stain

Cowardice chain.

rouge flush

Roses fuchsias poppies

Cherry raspberry strawberries

Holly berries robins

Christmas ribbons

Rubies garnets

Crimson scarlet

Hot flames fire

Anger love desire

Heart blood Satan

Danger warning temptation.

shadows

I want the people who appear like shadows in my dreams

to reveal themselves.

They hover on the edge of my consciousness

vaguely familiar.

I want to know if we met in some other life

or are they strangers, lost,

looking for a place to rest,

a place of peace and belonging.

I want to know.

the ‘o’ word

Is there anything to compare to the 'O' word?

I personally don't think so.

Lots of things come close.

Special feelings, special moments,

But nothing as explosive as the 'O' word.

Some people go through their life

Without the experience.

But, I guess if you've never experienced it,

You don't know what you're missing.

Sometimes it's over really quickly,

Sometimes it feels like it'll never end.

Sometimes there's a long build up

And sometimes you're literally caught unaware.

I can't have the 'O' word at the moment

'Cos my meds completely take away any feelings.

Medication numbs everywhere.

But, one day it'll return,

Don't you worry.

the tree of death

On top of a hill

In the beautiful countryside

Stands an enormous over-bearing tree

It looks like a guard.

It's guarding the hill

And it's guarding over the valley.

Families traipse up the hill

Just to get to the tree.

Children clamber on it

And parents admire its size,

Look up in amazement

At the many branches.

But, what they don't know

Is the tree has a dark secret.

It was a hangman's tree

And many a man had died there.

It had in the past been

Where a man would least like to walk up to

Where he'd hang until he died.

How things change!

.

`I came to the group even though I was nervous. I had no other hope left, but I took that positive step. I made marks on paper and

surprised myself. I made a group of friends. I laughed, but thank goodness I cried. I opened my mind to some very powerful new ideas.'

`I did not start in a good place, but there was always hope and an inner strength that dragged me up from the depths and made me carry on…

I am so much better placed now to carry on with happiness and joy in my soul.'

the willow

When we arrived, the willow was new, fragile and fresh, giving life to a darkly fenced corner.

It grew up with us, though nobody noticed. We didn't measure it and mark it on a wall each year.

Yet every year it gave us new games to play, new places to hide, new creatures to discover. A hedgehog found

in the leafy mush, insects and bugs rushing everywhere, a busy dog. It was a place he would take things to bury

- tattered teddies, luminous socks, lumps of wood - all left for future dogs to find.

The tree took its time, but eventually won, hiding the world beyond from our sight - the grey concrete of worn-out

flats, the modern church with no soul.

`One memorable time for me was when it was too hot to do anything and we went to the beach . . . . . . . we got to know each other a little better.'

dune seven

A desert landscape. Sand dunes at the end of arid planes.

Salt white flats and crimson rust dunes

Early morning ... say 8

Wind rushing and sand skimming over the surface ...

silence!

Nothing but slow movement of sand moving dunes over

many years

The tree in the middle of the flats, a lonely beacon

More of the same and possibly a single track road trailing

away

A dune board and me flying free over sand

Thin clouds bring a welcome cool to the otherwise hot

dryness

A site of life as a gull flies overhead

The bottom approaches at speed with a tumble

The journey restarts ... silent and smooth

`My creativity was very hidden. (Now) I've discovered new paths, new people… … I've started to look at a new way of just

launching into a drawing or sketch, by taking my sketchbook on walks instead of a camera… (Now) I can express myself

well through my writing and painting, and it is as important for me as breathing.'

`the Tree of Life project proved an exciting labour of love… of re-discovering, of re-membering… all those parts of myself

I had forgotten…'

`I relate to nature differently now, seeing trees in a new way, relishing the colours and shapes and nothing between me

and them - there's a new openness, a new transparency.'

`It has been on the side of life, and that is what matters.'

`…putting pen to paper is so therapeutic and when I look back at what I've written I can see that it is not all despair, it is

not all bleakness…'

chocolate

I NEED CHOCOLATE

And when I say

'I need chocolate'

I mean I NEED chocolate.

OK. The Co-Op is my only option

And the children are out

So it's up to me.

It's on special offer

I've seen it advertised

But I can't find it.

I don't speak to people I don't know

So I can't ask anyone.

I still can't find it.

Do I need it badly enough

To ask someone?

Yes, no, yes, no, yes, no.

Yes, I will.

And do you know, I did.

And it wasn't as scary as I thought.

And I got what I needed.

'Cos I NEEDED CHOCOLATE.

bridport

Beguiling, rustic market town

Resting between rolling hills.

Intriguing history and home to the

Dagger; and who would have thought a

Prestigious past port?

Old ways, but new beginnings, this

Rare

Town ticks on.

tortoiseshell tango

cantaloupe amber tiger tiger's eye

apricot people pekoe pumpkin pie

birch bolete hawksbit zest juice chanterelle

marmalade sunset tip mock tortoiseshell

tango glow blossom carrot Cox pippin

Penguin Books river peel flame mandarin

OS maps Dettol Savlon Lucozade

satsuma seville Sainsbury sunshade

marigold goldfish ember chocolate

kingfisher agent order Free State

appetite Blenheim future squash saffron

nasturtium clockwork tangerine neon

the tree of life

There it stands

High above everything else

Enormous.

The tree is alive

Ripe with love

Elegant and

Energetic

Open branches call you over

For it loves you

Lie down and look up -

Infinity and beyond -

From the tree of life

Endless pleasure.

`it's been a very important three months for me… to

help me move on, journey on to see myself more

truthfully…'

`maybe the best thing was the relationships with other people… it was that particular quality

of sharing that mattered most… sharing, communicating, being heard… an organized and

systematic sharing - listening - responding group of the Heart…'

`The art was fun, the writing illuminating, and the walks were an opportunity to chat and generally enjoy ourselves.'

`The course coincided with a period in my life when I was

going through an enormous amount of change and

uncertainty, which made me feel lost and without a

framework… now I feel my creative side has been ignited.

I have met some lovely creative and sensitive

people who I'm keen to keep in touch with. Overall

the course has been very enjoyable and

challenging.

I feel so much better than when I first started the

course, so much more nurtured and nourished, as

though I am at the beginning of remembering how

to look after myself.'

white….

dove, albatross, elephant, heather

polar bear, sheep, unicorn, feather

angel, star, lily, wedding,

witch, rabbit, ivory, crisp bedding

Pegasus, horse, clouds, pearly gates,

collar, shirt, owl, dinner plates

house, lie, wash, old age,

Dover cliffs, surf, out,

Dream Topping, blank page

`I am glad I have experienced this day. My heart has felt joy again! I thought it was dead, but perhaps it was just dormant waiting for the right

moment to start to grow and live, to enjoy and be enjoyed. Today, I have laughed - real, genuine laughter…

There is too much sorrow - what has been and that which is yet to come, it is all around but that does not mean I must be sorrowful, sad and

melancholy, depressed, miserable or low. There is joy and happiness all around, I need only open my eyes and my heart and let them take

me…

I thank Rosie, I thank Marc, your enthusiasm, encouragement and belief have rekindled hope, a glimpse of a new future, a path as yet unknown

but one to be followed nonetheless, leading to a brighter happier life.'

`I think my mood has brightened slightly - there is a fragment of lightness in my heart.

The children are home. I have survived the leaving and the return - a million thoughts

have come and gone, but one thing I know - for my children I can and will make it

through. They deserve to be enabled to fulfill their lives, and with my capabilities I will

do just that.'

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only

a green thing that stands in the way...

Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see

Nature at all.

But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.

William Blake

REACH Dorset 2009 can also be found on-line to view or download in PowerPoint or PDF formats.

Visit http://www.slideshare.net/REACHDorset/reach-dorset-2009

For further information please contact:

Rosie Jackson: writer & workshop leader

www.rosiejackson.org.uk

rosie@rosiejackson.org.uk

Marc Yeats: visual artist, composer & workshop leader

www.marc-yeats.co.uk

www.myspace.com/marcyeats

marc.yeats@btinternet.com

Produced by REACH Dorset. Text edited by Rosie Jackson. Images edited by Marc Yeats. Original photographic images © Rosie Jackson

(except images marked indicating REACH participants). Design and layout: Marc Yeats. © Marc Yeats and Rosie Jackson 2009.

© of original artwork and writing remains with REACH Dorset artists..