ELLISON

Several times, when I've shared a piece of literary creation, people ask " Who's Ellison?" referring to the named strategically placed at the end of the work along with the date. I don't write as often as I might want, and it's not always work that I want to share but when I do put pen to paper, or in this case, fingers to keyboard, I do so with intention.

I write for myself. For the me that has been, since childhood, and before, and for the me that will be in the future and forever more. In doing that, though, I also write for all of the aspects of me that I hold dear.

I write for my Mum, for her legacy, her origins and the things unsaid. As an only child, my mum didn't speak of her parents and when she did, it wasn't with overwhelming fondness. Kathleen and Tom, my maternal grandparents are long since gone. I write as a tribute to that belonging that is no more and that died with my grandparents- the Ellison name. In doing so, I feel somehow connected to a part of history and I install in myself a smoldering bit of pride combined with love and sorrow. It's a feeling I enjoy. I must, because I go there often enough. It's like a warm remembrance of days past, like how smelling a warm pie in the oven reminds one of carefree days. For me, it is the thought of bright blue kitchen tiles, appropriate manners and a cupboard with Maltesers in it. It's trips that Mum took to my college and walks around the grounds. Silliness and connections; boundaries being smeared and bonds being formed. A wonderful relationship that I almost never had, but that was generated despite the odds.

I also write for the child I've always wanted and that wistfully lingers in the maybe someday land of my mind, knowing full well that it is unlikely. She's a girl, my child- a daughter. I affectionately call her Lily, after my paternal grandmother- my Dad's Step-Mum. Her name is Ellison Elizabeth. Named after that nostalgic love that I keep contained inside that's on the fringes of bursting free. Lily is a relationship that I never had but that has been generated in my dreams.

I write for the part of me that roars womanhood. The connectedness with creative energy, drum circles, women's groups, girls' nights out and Bunko babes. For Friday wine nights, long conversations on the phone and for knowing that sense of being and belonging that is always there. That we are one, as women. I am sure men have a similar sense. I am a woman so can't be sure about anything man- you'd have to ask one. I am proud to be a woman. Intrinsically proud, to my core. Proud of what it takes to be who we are as an entity, as a force, as a holder of all things nurtured, and generated. The emotional beings connected to the moon cycle, the tidal waves and the heartbeat of Mother Earth. The gentle hand that wipes a tear, the laughter that cures a frown and that determination that brings down walls.

In this, and all things that make me who I am, where I've come from and who I hope to be...I write.
For Ellison. My past, my future, my sense of self. With Love.