Many moons ago when I was a little girl and lived with my grandmother in a small wooden house besides the woods, I remember, quite clearly, my dread of Mondays! This was the only day I was happy to go to school so that I would avoid the wash day blues.

     I’m sure my grandmother was trapped in the 30’s, agitating my small cotton dresses on a posser, in an old zinc tub.  Out would come the blue dolly in a special bag to whiten the clothes and those all too familiar soda crystals. Then I’d watch, fascinated, as my clothes were squished through a mangle, to get rid of the excess soapy water. I can only guess now, that prior to this, she would have taken the washing down to the river and bashed them about on a stone! Why we didn’t have an automatic washing machine like my friends, beat me!

     But these wash day blues, did have a silver lining. By the time I arrived home from school, the washing would be blowing in the wind on a long stretch of line. This was tied to a tree at either end of the garden and supported along the way, by long branches. I would always stop and watch in amazement, and imagined my dresses escaping the wooden pegs and flying off on adventures. Oh how I wished I go with them! It always brought a huge smile to my face. But when it rained, things were quite different.

       Four wooden poles set parallel between two metal frames, hung from the ceiling in the kitchen, above the fire. On those rainy wash days, my grandmother would hang the squished out clothes over the poles to dry. Those were the days I liked the least, coming in from school to the smell of  drying clothes making everything feel cold and damp, despite the glow of the fire and a cup of sweet tea.

       But there was always a hearty supper on the table, every day of the week. This is where my love for food began. We never ate ready meals or processed food and I was never taken out for fish and chips or a takeaway. In fact, the first Indian meal I had, was just a few years ago.

       Now, strangely, when I look back at those wash day blues I long for them again. Oh how much my friends missed by not going to school, smelling of carbolic soap!

‘You spend too much time talking!’ the Sister on the ward once told me. ‘Get them in and get them out!’

    Get what in and what out, I thought to myself. Was she referring to people or injections? Surely she couldn’t mean the patients. Not these patients, who were facing life changing therapies. So I nodded and smiled then continued just as before. I was a nurse after all and since when had the word reassuring been switched to chatting?

     The following day I was called into the Sisters office. She was on the phone when I entered, so I gazed out of the window and across the car park. My eyes were drawn to an old campervan, something I had always longed for. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I thought, to just up and go! No more shifts, no more sadness, no more being told to stop chatting.  

     ‘Sit down!’ the Sister said in a voice that told me this was serious.

      ‘You are a wonderful nurse!’ she said as my eyes wondered again to the top of the camper, waiting for the ‘but’ to come.

      ‘But,’ there it was, so I looked directly at her and waited for the blow, ‘you are a Social Butterfly!’ she said peering at me over her glasses. And she smiled a sickly smile that even I would refuse to wipe up. All the while, I hadn’t said a single word.

       ‘The pace in this department is quickening and there is no time to chatter. We have to get them in and get them out! Do you understand? There is no time to talk!’

        The old camper across the car park looked more alluring than ever. That is all I could think of! Not rules or regulations. Not ways to save money. Not forgetting to nurse holistically.

         ‘You have to toughen up if you’re to survive in nursing,’ she kept going on. ‘You will burn yourself out!’ I already had, I thought miserably, and she had started the fire, not the patients. Oh she was right, of course, in a strange sort of way, but not my way. My way would cost the department a lot more time and money.

            As I walked across the car park, on that late summer’s evening, I noticed the old camper, still sitting there as if waiting for me. It was in perfect condition, considering its age. The pale blue curtains matched the bodywork and then I saw it. There was a butterfly sticker on the side of the window with the words ‘A butterfly never lands on the hand that grasps it!’ What a coincidence, I thought, remembering what the Sister had called me earlier that day...A Social Butterfly!

           ‘It’s for sale if you’re interested,’ the voice startled me and I turned to see a handsome man standing there. He looked the clever sort, the sort that is kind and unassuming!

So I bought the old camper and married the kind and unassuming man two years later.

Quite often, when I am working at the hospital, I gaze momentarily out of the window at the sea in the distance and long for my bench by the pond. I can almost taste the sweet tea as I imagine sitting there...waiting...watching ...for nothing in particular but aware, nevertheless, that at any moment I could see something amazing.

     Perhaps I have an overload of imagination. I can see why some people can turn a molehill into a mountain, as I certainly can, according to my kind an unassuming husband. What I can’t understand is what do people think about if their head is lacking this substance. 

      If you know anyone who hasn’t any imagination and you think that they could benefit from some, let me tell you a simple way in which to do this.

      First, you read to them! You tell them stories that will evoke pictures in their heads. They will see places they have never seen before and hear words they never knew. They will bring to life a part of themselves that had been hidden from view. Similar to opening a door that had never been opened. Now throw away that key!

       I quite often find that my imagination enables me to escape from life if I need too. As a chemotherapy nurse, I used to use my imagination more frequently to help cope with the demands of my job.

       So by encouraging people to use their minds as eyes, by listen to stories or tales, you are developing their skills to cope with life in difficult situations.

       Mr Einstein once said “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge,’ he said, ‘is limited. Imagination encircles the world!’

       So next time I gaze out of the window and imagine my bench by the pond , I will taste my cup of sweet tea and think of Mr Einstein. I will smile to myself and remember the meaning of his words. To imagine, is to switch the light on and look at the world!

Young Alfie was born to be a soldier but he wanted nothing more than to be a honey farmer and milk the aphids that lived on the stems of plants beneath the sun. Until now, his days were spent underground dreaming of his herds of whiteflies, blackflies and greenflies. But he knew that they would soon take him to join the army.

     ‘Don’t you want to be a soldier or marry a princess like all the other ants?’ said the old worker.

     Alfie shook his head. ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t want slaves to work for me and I would never make a soldier. No, I’m going to be a farmer.’

     ‘In that case,’ said the old worker, ‘You’ll need to find the best rose bushes and nurture your stock and milk them regularly!’

     ‘Is the honeydew as good as they say it is?’ asked Alfie softly.

     The old worker laughed and nodded his head. ‘It’s better than anything you have ever tasted. It’s the sweetest thing!’

      ‘But how will I get the honeydew?’ asked Alfie.

      ‘You have to stroke the aphids back gently, with your antenna and then open your mouth to let the drips fall in. It’s as simple as that!’

      Alfie closed his eyes and listened to the beat of his heart that ran all the way from his brain to his abdomen. He imagined the sun shining on his roses and his herd of aphids feeding off the sap. He could taste the sweet liquid in his mouth. He would nurture his herd and let them take shelter in his nest when times are hard.      

              The old worker looked worried. He knew that poor Alfie was destined for the army and looking at Alfie’s face, as he dreamed of being a farmer, saddened him.

       ‘I’ve heard stories,’ said Alfie to the old worker, ‘ of our relatives in faraway places called Africa and Asia, marching in their thousands, killing almost anything that gets in their way, including horses  and human babies, so they tell me!’ He clenched his little fists and said, ‘that’s not for me, I would rather die first!’

       And so the day dawned and they came for poor Alfie. He stood in the back row nervously. The sergeant picked out the strongest looking ants then turned to face him.

       ‘I’ve been watching you, young fellow,’ he said, ‘and I have decided that you will tend to my farm instead. That is, if you don’t mind not being in the army! However, the job in hand is very similar to being a soldier. You have to protect the herd from predators! ’

       Alfie opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. So he nodded his head instead, and smiled. He saw the old worker winking at him on the other side of the nest.

       ‘You must keep up the good work,’ said the sergeant, ‘we’ve been farmer millions of years longer than humans. So don’t let the side down, will you?’

       Young Alfie straightened his back and held his head high. He was the proudest ant in the entire nest. He shook the old worker ants hand as he passed him. Then he marched to his honey farm and to the roses above ground. He would protect the aphids from the ladybirds that try to feed off them and become the best soldier farmer they had ever seen

‘Slow down and take time to smell the roses,’ my father often said to me and as an unstoppable teenager, I remember pointing out to him that we didn’t have any roses growing in our garden.

     Many summers came and went before I knew what my father meant and that it had nothing at all to do with roses or indeed any other flowers. And I still haven’t taken his advice, well, not as much as I should.

     Early one morning I strolled down to the pond with a cup of sweet tea in one hand and my camera in the other. The birds were awake well ahead of me and were singing enthusiastically in the hedge. 

     A delicate blue sky rose high above the quiet village with an unexpected promise of sunshine. So I sat on the old bench besides the still water and sipped my sweet tea.

     I noticed the roses had opened and their delicate pink heads stretched down to the pond like a waterfall bouquet. It was then I remembered my father’s words, ‘slow down and take time to smell the roses!’

     During the years I spent travelling, I discovered what my father actually meant.  Life is meant to be savoured, not devoured without experiencing the sight, the sound, the taste, the smell and the touch. And if that includes taking time to smell the roses, then indeed you must lean over the bush, being mindful that no bee will sting your nose, and smell that heavenly scent.

      Here in the garden at our home for waifs and strays, it is easy to relax and take time out, to smell the roses or watch the hens or listen to the humming bees in the foxgloves but life goes on, on the other side of the gate. Just remember, that we can all find a moment during the day to ‘slow down and take time to smell the roses, whatever form that might be!

“What day is it?"
It's today," squeaked Piglet.
My favorite day," said Pooh.”
― A.A. Milne