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Healing. Part 2





This is part two of my response to Reena’s Exploration Challenge Week 11. You can find part 1 HERE.

The first part of my post covers the first question – although it doesn’t do so until you reach almost to the end of the poem. 🙂 Now for my answer to the second question:

I described my daughter as an angry fox. I chose the metaphor to match her hair; some of you will know it has a lovely red glow to it. Also, owing to my surname and the colour of my own hair (which has since faded to a lighter colour) I used to go by the nickname of Basil Brush. Basil Brush was a fictional fox in the form of a puppet that starred in a popular children’s comedy TV show in the ’70s.

It wasn’t the best metaphor I could have chosen, but once I started, I decided to run with it. The most accurate thing about my story is its ending. The night my youngest daughter came to me, broken and bleeding after a violent attack, from a man who tried but failed to break her neck (the memory of which still makes me cry), I knew there had been a change in her perspective, and if she could hold onto it for long enough to make that change a reality, I knew it would change my life.

Has my perspective changed? Yes, it has. Laura has risen far above my highest expectations. She’s made me more proud than I ever thought possible, and more than that, she’s been instrumental in my son’s recovery from addiction. Paul’s journey has been hard; he’s undertaking his recovery in his home town, learning to avoid the triggers which must pop up daily. Even the staircase to my flat is a trigger. I don’t often speak  about Paul; his addiction stripped him of all compassion, leading him to  hurt me deeply throughout those torturous years. The wounds are slow to heal, but we’re making good progress. He switched to a vegan diet a while ago, so lot of his attention is concentrated on food. He and his girlfriend have offered to cook me a meal next week. I look forward to it with relish. He’s a good cook, but more than that, it will be another step towards healing.

Now it is time to turn my mind to the rest of my family. My two elder daughters have suffered too, but through their suffering, I have always known I can count on their support. My oldest grandson has been witness to things he should never have seen, but he’s come through like the champion he is. It’s been difficult to maintain close relationships with my four younger grandsons, so I have a lot of ground to make up.

(Life is not always easy for the siblings of prodigal children. I must tell them that my pride is not limited to those who have recently returned to the fold. I must let them know that they are magnificent.)

Looking back at my life, I can see how my strength has increased, along with the increasing difficulties I’ve faced. It’s a bit like weight lifting – as the weights get heavier, your muscles split and heal continuously.  My mental health has suffered, but I do my best to keep on top of it, constantly reviewing and learning.

I’m stronger than I ever thought I could be, and happier than I had come to expect.

Yes, yes, yes; my perspective has changed, but only for the better.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Healing. Part 1





There was a separation between my life before the angry fox arrived, and all that followed.

She – for it was a she – brought pain, but that was not the fault of the fox. How can I lay blame on carnivorous nature, or demand perfection to reign amid the complexities of this, or any, era?

Like an orphan, she cried out for love, but with no blueprint for such emotion and no clue of my sentience, she mistook the empty space in her parched heart for hunger.

Dancing around my legs like a feather-light, fleet-footed boxer, she easily evaded my amateur parry, taking every opportunity to bite chunks out of me. Whether growling or wheedling, she always succeeded in beating me.

Repeatedly I silenced my screams as her teeth sank into me.

The wild fox fed voraciously until she had her fill — keen for the meat, but shy of the kill, leaving me still breathing, her foxy instinct needling her, telling her she needed me, even as she misconstrued the shape of that need.

Friends advised me to drive her away; to hide within my walls, lock and bar my doors, or to flee, but I could no more do that
than amputate a limb;

I would not
give up on my
beloved fox.

Soon, my meat was too scant to satisfy. She sought more dangerous fare; creeping where wolves prowl and hyenas leave only the crunched
bones of small creatures.

She hid in the wasteland, chasing chameleons, in the expectation that they could make up the insufficiency – following those deceivers, letting them lead her into the fray where my wounded fox could only lose.

Damaged and confused, she often came back to me, each time more battle-scarred and emaciated, yet still too blind to seek sanctuary.

Like a blubbering fool, I described the bludgeoned depths of my mothering soul, showed her safe roads where hunters never lifted a gun, drew pictures of the sun warming olives in Spain, painted all sorts of possibilities, describing every style of happy ending to our story, begging for release from her ravening teeth.

But foxes don’t speak the same language. As if in retribution for my insufferable, indecipherable noise, she took another bite, chewed, then limped away,

to dredge the depths for dread, grinning enemies; beasts who fought for grim death in that killing place, unknowingly swallowing themselves whole, all of them escapees from hope.

Years passed. The day came when I knew I had to refuse her entry; she’d almost eaten me away, yet she still hadn’t learned where the hunger lay. Maybe if she found a lesser place to feed, she would come to see the truth of her needs. Only then would she be free.

She prowled around my grounds, growling. If I left the house, sometimes she’d find me, and take a brief nip before I fled.

After a while I became a source of confusion; she’d sniff the air, then wander away, a bemused look of longing bending her frame. I watched that longing become an ache, and the ache become an agonising pain.

I saw her from my window when she trotted up with a bunch of white flowers in her mouth. After she’d gone, I plucked them from my doorstep. Tears fell on them as I placed them in water.

I began to leave small treats for my grieving fox – making sure she wasn’t around, placing them a distance from my house and scuffling away.

One day she came to me, dragging the metal jaws of a familiar trap. She was beaten down, ready to chew off her leg. Pitiful whimpers dribbled from her bleeding mouth, dripping down her jowls, as she clung on to the failing embers of her life. Running to her side, I checked the trap; rusty from age and misuse, it took no more than a glance; an undisguised look of love, to prize it apart. This time, she didn’t snap.

As her shocked eyes sought mine
the picture melted into an end and a beginning;
she’d found what she never knew she’d been looking for;
surprised to realise that it had been there all the time.

Behind us, wild beasts wallowed and sank in the dirt that they made, their frail veins freezing beneath the heat of failed dreams.

Ahead of us lay a welcoming road, banked by hedgerows laced with early sun-kissed blooms, part-shaded by green-budded trees that dappled the track with pink shadows. A short way ahead a simple dwelling beckoned – my home, her sanctuary, Beyond was a crossroads, its sign draped in wild roses and honeysuckle. On each arm was written the same word: freedom.

She licked my skin, nuzzled me, and gently, she wrapped herself around me.

Softly she spoke:

“I love you, mum.”

Sensing a shift in my body, I glanced down and saw that my scars were already healing. I had become strong.

Turning to her, I noticed that she had grown taller than me.


This story spans almost thirty-two years. It’s hard to find a metaphor that covers the essence of it, since there have been so many twists and turns in that time, and – like all of our lives – my life consists of a mass of tangled stories, many of them mine to a greater or lesser degree, while there are others in which I have only a walk-on part, or act as understudy to a secondary character. Therefore, I present this as a work of fiction, inspired by Reena, who has thoughtfully chosen to continue her Exploration Challenge.


As this is such a long-winded poem, I’ve split my response to the challenge  into two parts. This part of my post covers the first question – although it doesn’t do so until you reach almost to the end of the poem. 🙂 You can find Part 2 HERE.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Mumbling Sheep


At the start of the end of the heady hippie days
I briefly dipped my toes in the sinking hippie ways.
I floated in long dresses and I jingled as I walked,
I used the hippie lingo every time I talked.
I tried smoking cannabis, but not for very long;
it took all my sense away and made me feel wrong.

I never fancied LSD – I liked to see the world
in its organic gorgeousness, not twisted and unfurled.
I disagreed with half the things the lippy hippies said;
they thought they were original, but their minds half dead.
They told me I was brainwashed because my ideas
were far too well-considered for their dippy hippie ears.

They said that they were breaking out of mediocrity,
they said their way of life was a better way to be,
they said they wanted peace and an end to all the killing,
but when I asked for action, few of them were willing.
They spoke of demonstrations, but they always missed the train,
or they couldn’t be bothered, or they feared that it might rain.

I was often irritated by their inconsistency;
the only thing they stood up for was brewing cups of tea.
Most of them were stoned from smoking Mary Jane,
a few of them were tripping, and one had gone insane
from swallowing blues, snorting speed and smoking weed —
to put it very bluntly, they had all gone to seed.

It’s true that their culture had seen some better days,
but I met a lot of mumbling sheep, slumped in a fuzzy haze;
while I was a thinker, and I let my thoughts run free,
they were more concerned with the psychedelic creed.
They agreed with whatever concepts stood at odds
with all the world’s hard working, deep thinking bods.

It was interesting at first, and fun for a bit,
but it wasn’t very long before I had to admit
I didn’t fit in with my drug-loving friends
who spoke of new beginnings, but never tied up ends.
I looked like a hippie, but I felt no passion
for the pseudo hippiedom in local fashion.

Written for Reena’s Exploration Challenge #Week 10.

©Jane Paterson Basil


They remember
marveling at their child of light
stirring beneath quilt and blanket,
perking up to see them,
wakening each day
with a perfect smile.

Without a sound,
the chill,
like a stir in the air,

A  shower gel smell,
steamy fresh,
wafts from the bathroom,
trails through his bedroom into the kitchen,
collides and is swallowed
with the coffee.

He rifles through the closet,
argues about which shirt,
which pants.
There is no coaxing him.
He takes to debating when
the T.V. anchorman
tells his news.

he punctuates every need,
before he goes
to the basement,

a fresh little rebel
waiting in his lair, poised
to march forward

and away.


I took Calen’s lovely poem, Mornings,  and cruelly twisted into another shape. Thank you Calen, for inviting me to corrupt your words.

©Jane Paterson Basil