This week, our continued theme, ‘Reflection,’ invites us to reflect not only inwardly but also outwardly, towards society and history. In ‘Mindset,’ reflection is self-directed, exploring the limits we accept or transcend. In The Conduit, legacy flows through maternal love, to ask whether our past choices shape or free the future. Silent Vindication reminds us that truth doesn’t always roar – it often waits for history to catch up. And Rightfully Mine lays bare a national betrayal, reproaching those systems that denied rights, while honouring the endurance of those wronged. Reflection, this week, is not passive – it’s the foundation of change!

Our first piece from Alison Awbery, is an encouraging and insightful reflection on lifelong learning, using the writer’s personal experience and wit to challenge fixed mindsets.

Mindset    

You You can’t teach an old dog new tricks! Who said that, and why? It turns out it’s an old English proverb originating from Tudor times. In John Fitzherbert’s The Boke Of Husbandry 1534, a paragraph within refers to training sheep dogs, and he writes: The dogge must lerne it, whan he is a whelpe, or els it will not be: for it is harde to make an olde dogge to stoupe. That’s a prime example of a closed mindset: the learning has been done, the mind is locked. However, most of us are aware that it’s really easy to train a young puppy: they have brains like sponges, are very eager to learn and want to please their Alpha pack leader.

Of course, this doesn’t mean an older dog, or person for that matter, will have difficulties learning new things at all. With maturity comes a bank of wisdom. However, it may be harder to recall the knowledge you’ve acquired along the way and sort and sift through it at speed, to acquire the answer you need. It doesn’t stop you from learning, though.

Training and learning are never complete; it’s a lifelong commitment. I’ve been involved with training my own Airedale Terriers for many years, and one thing I realised quite early on was there’s never an end point. I attended weekly specialist training classes for Airedale Terriers (and believe me, they are ‘special’) with The Airedale Terrier Training Club of Rushmoor, at West End Village Hall, Woking, in Surrey. The training is always a work in progress; a dog is never ‘completely trained and sorted.’ These clever souls need to keep practising their lessons, just like a concert pianist, or they’ll revert to their default: independent and strong-minded, with very humorous ways!

A growth mindset is an openness to learning new things, acquiring new skills, and the ability to change your mind, about a belief or way of being, as you progress throughout your life. I guess curiosity goes hand in hand with a growth mindset. I sometimes think I’m actually a ‘Jilly o’ all Trades.’ Some may say that I never stick with anything, but for me, I enjoy the process of learning, improving, and acquiring a new skill at a competent level, in many things that I’ve had the opportunity to try. If I’d had the time and inclination, who knows, maybe I would have been a prima ballerina, a top-level tennis player, a writer or poet of repute, or owned and trained a Crufts ‘Best In Show’ winner!

We live in a fast-paced evolving world, where careers and opportunities change with the wind. We all need to embrace a learning and growth mindset at whatever age and stage we find ourselves. Tune in, stay curious, live in the moment as much as you’re able, as that’s where you’ll find those serendipitous chances coming your way. If your mind’s open, who knows what you’ll be doing this time next week, year, or even today!

(c) Alison Awbery, 2025

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 I selected this next poem because, being a mother myself, I know how much reflection plays such a huge part of successful parenting. Award-winning playwright, Lucy Kaufman’s The Conduit looks back on the choices, circumstances and accidents that shaped their child’s life, asking What if? and Suppose? in a tone that blends wonder, guilt and awe. This maternal reflection is raw and poetic: not just remembering events, but interrogating the role she herself played in shaping another’s destiny. Ultimately, offering him a rootedness from which to imagine, create and grow.

The Conduit 

Suppose my life and his life
were just roads converging
and my genes and his genes
were just the perfect mesh
at the perfect time

Suppose I am not me
but merely half of you
the well for you
to gush forth
and make waves

Suppose I am the safe embrace
the holding hand
the fingers on your back
as you toddle forward
the Big Bang
to scatter your stars in the sky

Suppose your brother had lived
and I had done the right things
in the right order
been in my thirties
not lived at your nan’s
not argued for that piano
not played you Lullaby
not shown you Badlands
not taken you here or there
not been astounded by you.

(c) Lucy Kaufman, 2025

Connect with Lucy on Instagram: @kaufmanlucy

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Danny Baxter explores the quiet aftermath of conflict. When time has passed, truths have emerged, yet no one speaks of what once was. This is a powerful reflection examining how integrity can outlast opposition, how reputations recover without fanfare, and how silence itself becomes a kind of justice. This poem speaks to those who stood firm amid resistance, who never received apologies or recognition. It is a testament to conviction, and to the dignity of knowing you were right—even if no one says it aloud.

Silent Vindication

Taking stock of how things played out,
That tension in the air,

The people who said what they said,
Did what they did,

At that time so present,
So in our faces,

The things they said wouldn’t happen,
The places that they said we wouldn’t get to,
The things they accused us of that we didn’t do,
The misrepresentations of us that they broadcast around.

Standing on our convictions when everyone became political,
The resonance of disapproval from the collective,
The people who distanced themselves at a drop of a hat,
The people sporting poker face who privately had our back,

Their deafening silence,

Counting the number who bailed as the heat got too hot,
The friction we caused and the opposition we received,
The intensity of the resistance and the volatility of the chaos.

No going back.
Past the point of no return.
The P.O.N.R.

The outrage we provoked,
The feathers we ruffled,
The hypocrisies we exposed,
The retaliation we received,

Our reputation maligned,
Our notoriety escalated,
The rumours perpetuated.

In a wake of a significant amount of time passing,
After years gone in the by and by,
Decades even,

Returning to the same location,
The scene of the grime,
Encountering the same people,
The same faces that were in our faces.

Braced for confrontation,
Prepared for hostility,
The dredging up of past history…

…And then…

*Nothing*

No scowls or frowns?
No triggered response?
Just general pleasantries…

They say time heals wounds.
But was the injury so great that they choose to not remember?
Amnesia is the new forgiveness?
Forget and forgive?
Or just a convenient code of silence?

Water under the bridge?
There’s still a bridge?
Did I shift timelines?
Did the past incidents even happen?

The people just moved on?
Our reputation restored by default?
No accusation to clear our names from?

What looks like a unified ejection of the outrage of former years,
Like an absence of the animosity,
Strikes me as oddly curious.

Digging further discovering a resistance to be brought back into that previous trend, that former space…
They don’t want to talk about it,
Or think about it.

They don’t want any further digging.
They want our unanswered questions remain unanswered.

When the dust had settled.
And events that played out aligned with our projections.
When we were proved to have been on the right side of history.
When things became clear.
When our convictions that we held to were determined to be valid.

It would seem that the interactions from before, the conflict from yesteryear was placed into a new context.
Relationships automatically sorted themselves into a new configuration, in our absence,
Old narratives retired.

Coming back on the scene and observing this culture change within the collective,
The collective to which we belonged,
The temptation to fit back into the place that we once inhabited,
To re-engage with the hive once again,
Is submerged by the realisation that things are as they should be.

At the end of this sequence of events,
Inclinations have been revealed,
Authentic orientations have been set,
And the influence of holding to our integrity shall neither be compromised nor diminished.

Let the people and the circumstances revolve around our resolve,
As we stand firm in that which we know shall not be moved,

In the truth.

And the wake of such a subdued reception from those previously passionate about our condemnation

Just shows the resistance one faces is sometimes temporary,
And you must disregard such in the service of higher purpose.

It’s okay that we aren’t awarded with recognition for the part we played.
It’s okay that they didn’t acknowledge the mistakes that were made.
It’s okay that we are no longer travelling at the same speed.
It’s okay that they’ve moved on.
It’s okay for our exoneration to be silent.

For all that truly matters is the value of our contribution in and of itself,
And the tide turned that we now inhabit is exhibition of that value enough.

© Danny Baxter, 2025 Xian Force Productions

Connect with Dan on Instagram: @dan_lbbd

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Echoing themes of vindication, I chose our final poem because it highlights the injustice faced by the Windrush Generation, whose rights to stay in this country were denied after decades of service and belonging to the country that is their home. Rightfully Mine is a moving affirmation of belonging, vividly exposing the cruel betrayal faced by thousands, their unwavering resilience, and their rightful demand for dignity. It stands as a powerful call to justice reminding us that these rights were never a gift—they were earned.

Rightfully Mine

I landed in dull, dark, foggy, freezing England,
Why leave sun-kissed sands? Still, I don’t understand.
They swore, “Streets of gold!”—I trusted their claim,
But found gold foil wrappers by the Thames, cold and plain.

Back home, a garden, a house wide and bright,
Here, one cramped room—no space, no light.
“Prosperous land!” Each word seemed so true,
Yet hope drowned fast in this greyish hue.

Fools called me naive, said I played the fool,
Their lies were the bait; I was just their tool.

One hour just waiting,
Three on the bus, hating,
Fourteen with machines, grinding, breaking,
Scraps left for rest—no time for waking.

How dare you demand that I pack and go,
When fifty years back, you begged me to tow
Your industry’s weight, your workforce’s need,
Now ink on my papers is all that you read.

No questions then—just “Work!” and “Stay!”
Now threats and borders to keep me away.

Fifty years serving—still you dismiss,
No grace, no thanks, just bureaucratic spite.
I longed to kneel where my mother is laid,
But chains of your laws keep my grief delayed.

The status was mine—rightfully owed,
Yet Home Office ink left my future froze.

I didn’t choose this bureaucratic mess,
Now I plead for freedom from endless stress.

Years in limbo, all progress denied,
As though I’m the thief, not those who lied.
I won’t slink off—I’ll stand, I’ll fight,
You’ll not strip me of my dignity, my human right.

© Sebastian Elanko, 2024

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Connect with Julie on her website: juliedexterwriter.com, Facebook: @julieadexter, Instagram: @latenightswimmer, Bluesky: @juliedexterwriter and X: @julieadexter

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