Andrews Limousines

18/06/2024

I can't stop the rain.

But I will hold the umbrella.

Even as my children get older,
taller,
and closer to grown.

Even as I know life is both.
Sunshine and rain.
Immense joy and immense hard.

I can't stop the rain.

Despite giving it my all.
Despite deeply cherishing.
Despite loving unconditionally.

The rain comes.
In aches. In grief. In uncertainty. In trials.

I can't stop the rain.

And I'm not meant to.

Because I know it's on me
to protect them from life's storms,
but to also give them the skills to navigate the waters.
To guard them from the floods,
but to also understand some rain is needed for growth.

It's a sacred dance we do as their mothers.

It's a back-and-forth rhythm of shielding,
while trying to grow their independence.
It's trying to raise them to be ready and capable,
while still protecting and nurturing.
It's holding on,
while gently letting go.

I can't stop the rain.

And it's my job to teach them to maneuver through it.

But for as long as I'm able,

I will hold the umbrella.

Because while I can't stop the rain,
I can give them the gift of knowing
that whatever they're going through,
if the storm becomes too much,
there is someone who will stand beside them

and hold the umbrella.

(words You Are Loved - Emily Roussell)

19/10/2023

I saw it all, the day after I left.
I saw my family, my friends, bereft.
I saw their pain, confusion, their shock.
I realised my demons had run amok.

Of course I mattered, of course I was loved,
of course I was not better off above.
Because being above, means seeing it all.
And now I know that my life wasn’t small.

My life was precious, I gave it away,
I listened to darkness, it showed me the way.
But now, from here, I see it anew.
If only I’d stayed and pushed on through.

But here I am, looking down from afar,
watching the pain, a lifelong scar.
I’ll never be gone from the hearts that I touched,
If only I’d seen, I was always enough.

Credit: Donna Ashworth

ART BY Lisa Aisato

19/10/2023

Have you ever thought: “I’m fat.” “I’m old.” “I’m not enough.” “I’m past it”

I was young once.

To all my female friends from 50 years and up:

Most of us are going through the next phase of our lives.

We’re at that age where we see wrinkles, gray hair, and extra kilos.

We see the 25-year-olds and reminisce. But we were also 25 once, just as they will one day be our age.

We aren’t the “girls in their summer clothes” anymore.

What they bring to the table with their youth and zest, we bring our wisdom and experience.

We have raised families, run households, paid the bills, dealt with disease, sadness, and everything else life has assigned us.

Some of us have lost those who were nearest and dearest to us.

We are survivors. We are warriors in the quiet.

We are women, like a classic car or a fine wine.

Even if our bodies aren’t what they once were, they carry our souls, our courage, and our strength.

We shall all enter this chapter of our lives with humility, grace, and pride over everything we have been through, and we should never feel bad about getting older.

It’s a privilege that is denied to so many.

•

Credit unknown
Photo from Pinterest of Yaze Meenah

19/10/2023

I remember this day.

Not because anything big happened, but because of the big I felt beat in my heart.

We had walked the length of the beach and as the sunlight gave way to its golden late day hour, she asked if I’d carry her back.

And I picked her up.

Her ever longer legs dangled down against my own. Her size now much different than the baby and toddler I once held. But her head found rest in the nook beside my own. Her arms wrapped around me, and my arms wrapped around her.

I carried this growing girl who in truth could have walked on her own.

And I savored it. I took my time with it.

I knew. I could feel. A door about to close.

A door to a time I had cherished so dearly, the days when I could still hoist and carry her tired body against my own.

Because sometimes raising our children feels like that, like a long hallway of doors.

One and then another and another and on – stretching out farther than we can see.

A vast corridor of firsts and lasts and all the spaces in the middle.

The first roll overs, the first crawls and the first steps. The last time they fell asleep in our arms. Those sweetest first words when they called us their own – Mama and Dada. The last time we sang the ABC song while washing their hair in the tub. The first time we dropped them off at pre-school. The last time we filled a sippy cup. The first time they slept through the night. The last time they asked for their beloved stuffy.

Between each door exists a season, a stage, sometimes simply a fleeting moment.

But then again and again, their hand reaches forward, clutches the k**b, and opens the door welcoming in a new milestone, a new chapter… and in doing so, the door behind them gently falls closed.

It’s both a breath-taking beautiful joy, and a deep soulful ache.

We cheer and celebrate and give thanks for their growth as they step over the threshold of an open door. And we grieve the goodbyes we must make as they stand perched to a close another door.

Sometimes the lasts flutter by us, and we don’t notice until they’re gone.

But every now and then, like this precious day on the beach, we get the gift of a pause. A moment when we’re suddenly acutely aware a door is about to close. We can feel the breeze of its swing blow across our cheek. We know a goodbye is coming.

And we make sure to take it all in. This season, this stage, that has come with both its challenges and its smiles. This time in their story that we’ll never get back that has been so fully written with love.

I paused the door on this day.

I held my girl. And while I did, I made sure to notice the pitch of her voice, the wet sand beneath my feet, her weight in my arms, and the sun’s warmth on my face.

I wanted to remember.

And I do, I remember this day between doors.

(words and image You Are Loved - Emily Roussell)

19/10/2023

For you Liz ###

People talk about the last times a lot.

The last time you said you loved them,
held their hand,
heard them laugh.

But what about the firsts?

The first time your birthday comes around and there is no card from them.

Or the first time you gather as a group and they are missing.

The first time you wake up and remember they are no longer here.

The firsts will hurt in a way the lasts did not.
They will sting, burn, break you.
Because firsts signify the start.
A new beginning.

The beginning of the rest of your life
without them there beside you,
with a missing birthday card
a missing hand to hold.

The beginning of the rest of your life
missing them.

But remember…

We only experience something for the last time once.
And we only experience something for the first time once.

So I know you will miss them for the rest of your life.

But it won’t always hurt or sting or break you
like this.

*****

Becky Hemsley 2022
Artwork by Akira Kusaka Illustration

From the book 'When I Am Gone' (poems for grief and loss) https://a.co/d/2oOs3A2

19/10/2023

THE UNINVITED FRIEND

I have an uninvited friend.
She came to my door last night, again, and I almost pretended to be out.
But it was too late, she saw me peering through the blinds and she can sense my energy anyway.
I let my friend in and she wrapped her arms around me, uninvited.
We stayed there like that, quietly, just some sobbing, some sighing and a little silent crying.
Without saying a single word, my friend gave me three things.
She gave me a hug, she gave me some ice-cream (my favourite kind) and most of all, she gave me back my hope.
I had lost it again you see, outside somewhere.
And she found it, like she always does.
And brought it back to me, uninvited.
I hope you have an uninvited friend, like mine.
I can’t imagine life without one.

Donna Ashworth

This poem is from my new book ‘wild hope’ and I wrote it because so many of you send my books as gifts to one another, in the hope of reclaiming that hope. What a thing ♥️

Art by the wonderful The Art of Jennifer Yoswa ❤️

UK: https://amzn.eu/d/2j0Nquu
US: https://a.co/d/h6FEaTv

13/01/2023

A woman who was fed up with fly-tipping in Gloucester discovered a letter amongst a pile of rubbish and dumped it at the address written on it.

Holly Smith packed all the rubbish, found on a country lane in Upton St Leonards, into her trailer and delivered it back to the address.

Full story: https://bit.ly/3CG4Onz

25/12/2022

What today's youth will look like in 60 years....lol

21/10/2022