Living with Wholeness

On the turn of this new year, I came across the quote "Tomorrow, is the first blank page of a 365 page book. Write a good one." It made be think about what a good year of life might be.

I recently listened to a radio interview with Hugh Mackay, a sociologist and author, talking about his new book "The Good Life". He writes about how to live a good life, in which he means living a life of wholeness, including the full range of human emotion not just happiness and fulfillment but "sadness, disappointment, frustration, and failure; all of those things which make us who we are." He argues that the current social pursuit of happiness is actually a dangerous idea, as "happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much." Indeed, in Buddhism, suffering is considered necessary for learning.

I didn't get much sleep last night, as we saw the new year in with friends and family. But I did manage to sleep past my usual waking time, which is early enough in the summer weather for a reasonably comfortable running experience. I looked out the window. The sun was already bright and shining. Not much shade lined the streets. Hmm... did I really need to go this morning? I didn't want to have to run with my dog Rosie. Going back to bed and pretending I could sleep some more seemed like a much more comfortable option. I did not fancy the suffering a run would create today. I would be hot, and after a late night with champagne, my body would probably ache.

But then I remembered how good it can feel, even after a tough run, knowing you had succeeded despite it seeming like a hurdle too big to overcome. And I thought of Rosie, how happy she would be, and how much she needed it. So up I got, pulled on my running shoes and off we went.

Rosie and I have been running most mornings now for nearly 3 years, apart from a few blocks of time when I have been sick and getting back into the routine has taken more than it should. Running has been a wonderful time for mindfulness, and I've done a lot of thinking, and a lot of learning as a result.

Today as I ran, I thought about the idea of living a life of "wholeness" as Hugh Mackay would suggest. My struggle to get going this morning, my initial desire to avoid the suffering I knew would ensue, became a metaphor for his theory. Yes, we do try to avoid the suffering that life sometimes brings us; sadness, anger, frustration, and anxiety are emotions that often fill us with fear and dread. They are far from pleasant, and if we listen to the world around us, we could easily assume they are not good for us at all. Happiness and feeling grateful for the good things in life are what we should be striving for...yes?

If I had avoided the suffering that I did inevitably experience this morning on my run, I would have possibly had a nice time lazing in bed, but would never have experienced the joy in turning that last corner knowing Rosie and I would be home soon, the pride in knowing I had achieved something I didn't want to do, the thrill of jumping into the water of the pool to cool down my hot body and soothe my aching muscles, and the feelings of love and connection between me and my beautiful dog. I reckon she knows that some mornings I find it really hard, so she gleefully tries to pull me up the first hill by grabbing the lead in her mouth and grinning at me to follow her. We don't need to experience suffering on our own.

Allowing others in to our suffering isn't always easy. For many, this just doesn't come naturally. And why should it, when we are constantly getting messages that imply we shouldn't feel bad; "Get over it", "let it go", "chin up" are common responses to another person's feelings of sadness, anger or worry. But if we are open to others, then someone who is not afraid of suffering isn't too far away. And if we are open to our own suffering then what we can experience through such discomfort is sometimes incredible. It is only through the experience of contrast that we can can truly know something. Consider the saying, "You don't know what you've got until it's gone", or "It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all."  If you don't allow yourself to experience something, you don't get to learn how important it may be for you, even if that learning occurs through suffering.

If we allow ourselves to experience the negative things in life, to embrace them as part of our human existence, as a necessary part of living an enriched life, then we are living a life of wholeness. We are living as a whole being. And sometimes, just sometimes, through the suffering comes not just an experience of happiness or gratitude, but a richness of experience that we could not have imagined.

So, may we not be afraid of the unknown paths, including paths of suffering, and may 2014 bring wholeness to our lives.

from: http://wholeartiststudio.com/seeking-perfection-or-seeking-wholeness/

Loving You

Loving you, dear Finn,

Holding you

in the fantasy of my arms,

Missing you

in the ache of my heart,

Wondering

about you.

Loving you, dear Finn,

Visiting you

in the cold, wet earth,

Mourning you

in dawn of each day,

Dreaming

about you.

Loving you, dear Finn,

Seeing you

in the eyes of your brother,

Honouring you

with the words that I speak,

Forever being

with you.

In memory of Finnian Charles Smith
 ~ born and died, 17 July 2005 ~

 

 

On mothers and mothering

Today is Mother's Day. For weeks now, the shops have been full of merchandise and marketing, telling us to be thankful for our mothers, to celebrate them and the things they do for us. And of course, this is a joyful thing to do. But not for everyone.

Most of us grow up believing that mothering is an intuitive thing. You have a baby, and you are automatically granted 'mother' status. You will love this child, care for it, do the best for it, never stop loving it, and would fight for it unconditionally. Perhaps even give your life for it. But no, sadly, this is not the case.

Life is much nicer if we ignore the fact that some women are just not good at mothering. But it exists. And today, while many of us celebrate our mothers with love and joy, there will be children and adults who grieve. They grieve the lack of mother love in their lives, re-experience the trauma, past and present, that is a result of someone not mothering with intuitive care, skill, and consistency. Something that so many of us often take for granted. Our mothers have always been there. Loving us, protecting us, supporting us, sharing our lives with us. Mothering us.

It may seem foreign to try to imagine not mothering a child in this way. For me, it really does feel intuitive at times. At least the loving bit does. But I also feel lost in my mothering, and confused about what to do at times. In the end though, I find that love and it's consistency allows me to find my way. I think I learned this from my own wonderful mother.

So why do some women not feel the intuitive sense of mothering? Why do they make poor decisions, allow their children to suffer, disregard their needs, control or ignore them, or worst still, dis-own them? Perhaps these mothers didn't have good role models themselves, they didn't feel loved as children, or now other life circumstances prevent them from being able to carry out the kind of mothering they aspire to; illness, difficult or dysfunctional relationships, economics, and so on. It's not a straightforward answer I'm sure. Our world has a complexity like never before.

Some children I have worked with, who have not experienced intuitive mothering, who grieve the constancy of love and care from their mothers, often say "It would be easier if my mother was dead...". They imagine that this would allow them to package up their grief and trauma, and try to move forward in their lives. But it's not that easy.

There's a book written for children called "The Invisible String". It is a great tool to help young kids deal with separation anxiety as it explores the idea of constant connection between mothers and children, or between any two people who love one another. You can tug on this string and send your love all the way down the line to the other person. And when you feel their love in your heart, it means they have tugged on the string in return. This piece of string can go anywhere and everywhere, even to heaven, and it is stronger than anger. Nice in theory.

But I think in many ways this invisible string does exist. Unfortunately, for some children (and some mothers too) they keep tugging on that string, but struggle to feel the tug in return. For some, the string continues to be attached to their heart, even when it seems to be floating freely at the other end, unattached to the intended other. That's when instead of feeling the return tug and love in their heart, they feel pain and loss.

Today, I hope that for all those people who feel their mother-child invisible strings, not pulled taut with constant tugging, but loose and lost at the other end, they feel love and connection with others; fathers, brothers, sisters, friends, neighbours, teachers, or someone who lets them know they are loved. So that today, rather than being full of sadness, it can have moments of hope, kindness, and guiding experiences for how to mother one day themselves.

from: http://overthefencewithem.com/the-invisible-string/

The Power and Healing of Empathy

It seems fitting that today, ANZAC Day in Australia (an annual memorial day to Australian soldiers who have fought and died), I have been thinking a lot about empathy.

Apparently I have always been a very empathic person, although I haven't always seen myself in this way, and certainly not necessarily as a positive attribute.

My mother tells me that back when I was in Grade 1 at school, my teacher told her I was a compassionate child. There was one boy in my class, a difficult student, likely with an intellectual impairment or developmental disorder, whom no one would play with or much tolerate. But as a six-year old child, I cared for him.

In my teenage and young adult years, I always described myself as 'over-sensitive', thinking that what I experienced was a problem, a handicap of some sort. I chose not to continue my original career path after my undergraduate degree and become a practicing psychologist, because after some work experience I thought I wouldn't be able to handle the suffering that I would witness in others. I wouldn't be able to distance myself from other people's pain. I became an academic instead.

For several years I avoided dealing with these experiences in my life, as much as I could. I deliberately constrained my contact with sadness or pain. I stopped watching the news. All doom and gloom. I chose not to see violent, scary or particularly sad movies. Though not always very successfully. I remember reading the book "The Bridges of Madison County" when I was about 24 years old. The sadness and longing of the characters stayed with me for weeks. I became a 'greenie', and an amateur vegetarian, not really because of ethics or philosophical viewpoints, but because when I ate meat I would physically feel the pain of the animals who have died, and when I saw a tree being felled, a deep sadness would weigh on my heart like as if I felt the grief of Mother Nature.

Then I suffered myself. I felt pain that was so intense I thought I would stop breathing. My baby daughter died. And then one year later, my baby son died too. On the first anniversary of my daughter's death, I remember waking and feeling such sadness, such desperation that I didn't want to open my eyes. I wanted to stop. Everything. I was tired of living, each day with a stabbing pain that wouldn't go away. I imagined not being alive. And then in that moment I had the thought "This is what it is like, for all those people in the world, who think about death, who want to end their life". I felt a strange sense of oneness, of connection, understanding, and peace. I was feeling what they were feeling. A whole bunch of strangers, people I'd never met, but with whom I felt somehow linked. For some reason, this gave me a sense of relief. It helped a little.

I've learned a lot in these past 8 years. I've learned to be comfortable with death, with sadness, with pain and suffering. I realised that I didn't have to avoid sadness and tragedy anymore. That in fact being over-sensitive or over-empathic was an important part of me, and that it could actually be a strength. I remember the moment that I finally decided to go back and finish what I'd started nearly 20 years ago, to work in counselling others. A student of mine contacted me for an extension on an assignment. Her grandmother had died. She told me how she had been there in the hospital on her own when her grandmother drew her final breath, and how terrible this was for her. When I read her message, I imagined what it would be like. To be lying there beside my grandmother, witnessing her life and death. I thought of how painful that would be, but also how amazingly beautiful and precious it would be to share this moment with someone that I loved. I shared this reflection with my student. She was very grateful, as it helped her see the experience in a different way; not so traumatic, something that she would treasure rather than a memory to be avoided. I don't really remember anything else about that semester of teaching. This moment between me and my student was the most important. So I resigned.

My over-sensitivity was in fact a strength. A strength that had always been with me, but something that my daughter and son helped me to experience differently, something to be thankful for rather than wishing it wasn't a part of who I was, as I had done in the past.

This week I gave a guest lecture in an educational psychology course at a local university. I talked about motivation, and how in teaching it is important to have an understanding of the broader factors that impact on students' motivation in the classroom. I don't know why I decided to do this, but I planned to do some role-plays. The idea came to mind in thinking about how to provide the students with an opportunity to really 'get' what it's like for some children who they will find in their future classrooms. Children who are experiencing the pain of a separating family, or who hunger not only for food but for love and a sense of safety, and for whom concentrating on maths or reading is so far from their immediate needs.

So I borrowed some school uniforms from my step-children, and wrote a couple of character dialogues, a 9 year old boy and a 17 year old girl, drawn from the life histories of several past clients. The boy's older brother had died and he was struggling to deal with his emotions at school; anger and fear. The girl had been kicked out of home by her mother and was missing her family very much. I chose some melancholy music to help set the scene, and off I went. At the chosen moment in the lecture, I donned the first school uniform, took my place in the front of the lecture theatre, and began to recite the boy's inner dialogue. I had barely begun before I could feel myself choking up. I was relieved to have my back to the students so they couldn't see I was upset. "What on earth are you doing!" I said to myself. "Get a hold of yourself". It didn't work. I also fought back the tears and battled the lump in my throat as I went through the girl's character half an hour later. Perhaps my sobs appeared part of my acting of the characters, perhaps the students knew I really was sobbing. It didn't matter. My over-sensitivity helped to produce what I really wanted. Empathy. For those few minutes in the lecture, the students were able to connect with the characters, and imagine what it might be like for that boy and girl.

The power of empathy is hard to quantify. But I reckon the world would be a much better place if we could somehow infect people with it. Connection with others is theorised to be a basic human need (such as in Abraham Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs). Connection occurs when we feel some kind of understanding or oneness with another being. If only we understood each other better there would be less violence, hatred, and fear in the world. Not only between countries, but between individuals, neighbours, work colleagues, strangers in passing.

The power of connection is expressed well by Rachel Reiland in her book "Get me out of Here: My Recovery from Borderline Personality Disorder".

"For all these years, you’ve lived under the illusion that, somehow, you made it because you were tough enough to overpower the abuse, the hatred, the hard knocks of life. But really you made it because love is so powerful that tiny little doses of it are enough to overcome the pain of the worst things life can dish out. Toughness was a faulty coping mechanism you devised to get by. But, in reality, it has been your ability to never give up, to keep seeking love, and your resourcefulness to make that love last long enough to sustain you. That’s what has gotten you by".

Now back to the beginning. ANZAC Day today. As I think about my 21 year-old step son joining the army next year, I hope that through whatever difficult experiences he may endure, he is able not just to be tough but to be connected with others, feeling empathy for his fellow human beings; and that these are the things that not only keep him going, but are what he strives for in his service.

http://cultureofempathy.com/

http://cultureofempathy.com/ 

Creativity and Grief...

Who'd have thought that there could be any similarity between creativity and grief? This may seem like a long shot, a creative mash-up gone wrong, but somehow it makes sense to me.

Last week we attended the Sunday service at the church located at our son's school. My husband regularly plays the drums in the church band and it was one of his playing days. I didn't know it in advance but it also happened to be the special Year 3 service, where these students actively participated in the service, with singing, talk and drama. About 40 little 8-year-olds and their families flooded the chapel. The girls were wearing their favourite dresses and looking very much like, well, little girls. Bright eyes, smiling and nervous faces, hair bows and shiny shoes creating a wave of glitter as they rushed by.

At one point all the students were on stage, and I could see the full array of little girls. I wondered to myself, "What would Lillienne look like now? Would she be like that girl, tiny and shy, or like that other one, seemingly proud and confident. Would she love to wear sparkling sandals and a flowing dress? or would she rather something else?". Lillienne, my dead daughter, would be the same age, in the same class, as these girls. As we began to sing a hymn, I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. They rolled down my cheeks and I covered my face with my hands. "No, not now!" I thought. So I gathered myself together in the moment, and steeled myself for the rest of the service. I lip-sync'd the rest of the hymn. I was unable to get any words out, especially anything to do with love, longing, suffering or goodness. Unfortunately pretty predictable themes of most religious songs.

As the service ended, I avoided the gaze of anyone, knowing that if someone were to say 'Hello, how are you?' I would burst into tears. And that would not be good timing. After 8 years of experience, I've learned that it is unlikely for people to handle another person's tears very well. Even less well when they discover that not one, but two, of my babies have died. What does one say to that? Usually not much, followed by an uncomfortable silence, and muddled segue to some other topic of conversation or a need to leave. I truly feel for anyone who has unknowingly walked into this with me. Of course they don't know what to say. Why would they? Grief is one thing that all humans experience, but it is one thing that we rarely talk about or learn to be comfortable with.

So my grief, when it comes, is not often timely. In the middle of a church service, or driving in the car. Not good timing. Tears and driving are a particularly unsafe combination. Like sneezing repeatedly. Both could potentially lead to a crash. Tears and being in public are just plain uncomfortable and inconvenient, for everyone. So I've learned to 'suck it up'. Suck up the tears back to where they came from, suck up the pain and cover it with my invisible armour so it cannot be seen. And hope that it returns at a more opportune time. When I'm alone and have the time to be with it.

Because I do hope it returns. At least most of the time.  It is through my grief - the pain, the memories, the longing - that I am able to connect with my daughter and my son. Love and pain are inextricably entwined in grief. Especially grief that follows the death of a child.

But the inspiration, or trigger, for my grief is not something I can contain or control. Just as is the inspiration for creativity it seems. And here's the link. Finally! I hear you say. Famous creative individuals have often talked about the process of inspiration being something you can't always control, that it often happens out of the blue. For example, Leonard Cohen the musician and songwriter has said:

"I can work, I can go to my desk and work every day for a year and nothing happens...Whereas, sometimes just a waitress handing me a sandwich can...touch me very, very deeply and suddenly everything will open up - the heart will open up. It's very mysterious how the heart opens up."

And Elizbeth Gilbert (author of "Eat, Pray, Love") recounts how Tom Waits once described driving down the freeway in LA when all of a sudden he hears a little fragment of melody, coming to him in that often elusive way, when there is no way to capture the inspiration as it comes. In this story, Tom apparently looks up to the sky and says, "Excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving...do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you...".

So I wonder what the underlying similarity is for this triggering experience in grief and creativity? Perhaps it is that both involve our emotional memories and processes in the brain. Perhaps that is why creative approaches are often used in therapy, such as writing, art and drama. But here's another thought. What happens to creativity if you ignore it? With grief, it inevitably comes back to you, and often in waves much stronger than those you've tried to repress. Or it finds other ways of seeping through you such as with illness, depression, anxiety, or an inability to be free to feel anything.

But what of creativity? Would it matter if you repressed those inspiring moments, those urges? Abraham Maslow (early proponent of Humanistic psychology) suggests that humans have a innate need for growth and self-actualisation, "the full realisation of one's potential". Perhaps for some individuals, creativity is part of their potential and therefore not to fulfill their creativity would be not to fulfill their potential. According to a humanistic view, feeling stifled in one's personal growth leads to mental ill-health. So, like repressing grief, perhaps ignoring the need for creativity would also have a negative impact on one's well-being.

Later that day, after coming home from church and entertaining family for the afternoon, I was still feeling the heaviness of my held-back tears. But I felt like the moment had passed, and I thought "What good would it do me now?" as I climbed into bed. What was the point of sharing this with my husband, when there was nothing he could do? But as I turned to say goodnight, I couldn't get the words out before I began to cry. Through gut-wrenching tears I told him about seeing all the little girls at church. I don't know how long I cried for. But I haven't cried like that for years. I cried so hard it hurt my ribs, my eyes, my head, my heart. I cried for all the times I couldn't cry. For all the times I held in my tears, too embarrassed, exhausted or guilty to shed them. For all the times I wanted to show the world my pain but didn't. For all the times Lillienne's or Finn's spirit had come to me at an inopportune moment, and I had wanted so desperately to be with them but couldn't. Afterwards I felt a little lighter. Relieved to have allowed the inspiration to come and be processed.

A friend of mine, a writer, academic, musician (and just all round very creative person!) recently wrote of her experience of creativity. She talked about how she engages in her own creative processes, allowing herself to take moments of inspiration, and that her well-being, personal and professional, is so much better when she does. It was reading her reflections that inspired me to write this. So there you have it. Creativity and grief. Perhaps a perfect combination.

Oso Blue: without you Paula Swenson ©2013
   (from: http://seekyourcourse.com/blog/2013/02/creativity-as-self-care-in-times-of-extreme-need/)

                                                                                           

Place, belonging and home: I love a sunburnt country...or do I?

As Australia Day came and went this year, I found myself thinking a lot about what this really means for me. It's never been something I feel compelled to celebrate, beyond enjoying time with family or relaxing away from work. I see the total engagement by others each year, flying flags from homes or cars, gathering in hordes at the beach or city park to enjoy what it is to be Australian to them. It isn't because I am not an Australian. I was born here, part of the 4th generation in my family. But I just don't "feel" particularly Australian, whatever that may feel like. Why is that?

At the beginning of a new year, I often go through a time of yearning, searching, longing for something that I can't quite put my finger on. The new year brings thoughts of change, as we consider our resolutions, ponder the merits of a new job or what other project we might begin. For me, it always brings a sense of restlessness and wistful feelings that leave me unsettled for a while.

It wasn't until I attended an amazing workshop about 18 months ago called The Literary Therapist, in Castlemaine Victoria, that I began to make sense of this experience. The workshop presenter, Karen  Masman, talked about the feelings of sadness that we sometimes experience, and focused particularly on a sense of 'soulful sadness' (see her book, "The Uses of Sadness"). She explored the idea of longing or yearning in other cultures and languages. These concepts spoke to me (pardon the pun), and I began to make sense of my own feelings.

In the Welsh language, hiraedd or hiraeth means something that is longed for but cannot be obtained, homesickness, a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness for Wales, or as one woman describes "the call of my spiritual home". Similar and yet different, is the German word fernweh which means homesick for abroad, and the Finnish word kaukokaipuu which translates as faraway yearning. But perhaps they are not so different. Perhaps what is essential in both the Welsh homesickness for Wales and these other concepts, is that notion of yearning for the home of one's heart, wherever that may be.

My experience of longing, hiraedd, fernweh or kaukokaipuu is often triggered by the environmental aesthetics around me. Instead of the sweltering heat, dry earth and brown grass, I yearn for green, wet and cool. British or European architecture, cottage gardens, autumnal leaves and rolling pastures, rather than a rambling Queenslander, gum trees and grevillea shrubs. Don't get me wrong, I love the beach, but I'd probably prefer snow or mountains or a forest with babbling brook.

As a child I always had my head in a book. I loved reading. It was my sanctuary, my escape. I remember with love reading stories of Enid Blyton, Beatrix Potter and the like, about fairies and other such fantastical creatures and places, surrounded by greenness and flowers, village life, four distinct seasons and a mix of cockney and aristocratic language and culture. I had a longing even then, to live in this environment. I remember being 3 or 4 years old, and driving in the Landrover with my father on our property, probably to check on the cattle. In my memories, there was a small winding creek at some point, which created the need to drive through the dry bed and up onto a grassy mound a number of times. Taking this route generated the illusion of being on a circular, grassy knoll as we emerged each time from the creek bed, especially in spring when these openings were often full of tiny bluebells. I imagined all sorts of wonderful things about this place. Fairies, elves, animals, toadstools, butterflies, all living together in a comfortable and idyllic existence.

Why have I always been drawn so strongly to a particular environmental and cultural aesthetic? Part of my developing understanding of this issue came a few years ago when I read about the genetic transmission of culture. We are all a unique combination of genetically inherited traits, physically and psychologically. But this idea goes further to suggest that we may also inherit a connectedness to land or culture. I also recently read about the genetic transmission of ancestry memory. I'm not so sure about the latter, but I do think there is some potential in the idea that along with our physical and psychological makeup, is a spiritual element that may be genetically transmitted over the generations. Why not? Stranger things have been found to exist.

A dear friend of mine, who was born and bred in England but is originally of Viking descent if you go back far enough in her genealogy, has told me of her experience when she first spent time in Denmark. She was both unsettled and inspired by a strong sense of connectedness, a sense of being at 'home'. She didn't want to leave.

This is what I have experienced whenever I've visited Britain, and to some degree Tasmania, or even Melbourne. It is certainly what I feel when I read about or see images of these places, as well as northern Europe. And like in the Japanese poet Basho's haiku, "Even in Kyoto, hearing the cuckoo’s cry, I long for Kyoto", I have a deep longing for these places in anticipation of my inevitable leaving, a sense of grief of what I have not had, and may not ever have. Now, to take a genetic or genealogical perspective, this makes complete sense. My ancestry is strongly connected to these places. My maternal grandmother's family came from England, and my maternal grandfather's family came from Scotland and Denmark. My paternal grandmother's family came from Denmark and Germany, and my paternal grandfather's family came from Denmark and England. No wonder I don't like the heat!

Although I acknowledge, with gratitude, my being born in Australia, the lucky country, I have never felt really at home here. My goodness, I wonder how first generation immigrants feel?! There is the sometimes jarring of culture and ideas, of environment and surroundings; a sense that I do not relate to being 'Australian', indeed to not even really knowing what that means. But perhaps that doesn't really matter. Perhaps for me on Australia Day, I can just be grateful that my country is not (yet) at war, that as an individual (man or woman) I have freedom to make choices about my life, I have lots of wide open spaces to look at out the window rather than cramped high-rises blocking my view, I have the capacity to travel to another place that I feel connected to rather than being refused a passport or not afford the fare, and I have the foundation of a good education on which to ponder all these things.

Ok, so I don't like cricket or football, steak and prawns on the barbie, beer at the pub, or whatever it is that seems to symbolise being Australian (I don't include 'mate ship' or giving people a fair go, because to be honest I think you find that no matter where you go, and we could do a darn sight better on this score than we do). But I do respect the decisions that my ancestors made in coming to Australia all those years ago. And I do appreciate many of the wonderful things about Australia, especially the diversity, of people, culture, land, and opportunity.

My heart will always yearn for somewhere else, my spirit will always have moments of wistful longing, grieving a past never known. But as Karen Masman says, being sad is no reason not to be happy. So, Happy Australia Day everyone!

House once owned by Enid Blyton - Buckinghamshire, England
photo from: quaintgarden.blogspot.com