exponent/tinyc4 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 9 94.9k
Art making sessions provided a means of expression and containment when difficult memories and challenging feelings surfaced in the exploratory journey each of the students embarked on. Feedback from the participants reported that art-making provided a way to deepen their self-understanding, and they were also surprised to have found a new skill that they were able to utilise, with regards to seeing how they felt through their art making.
Modelling with clay helped articulate feelings of anger, body mapping brought the group together forming bonds and trust, and each of the students created art with boxes to explore the inner and outer self, with vibrant and memorable outcomes.
The second week of the programme took to the historic path of Camino de Santiago trekking 100 kilometres from Portugal to Santiago, Spain. The aim of the programme was to increase the young people’s leadership knowledge, therefore each of the members led the group each day through the winding paths and hilly forests of the Camino trail. I accompanied the group on the trek and daily art making was a part of the experience, which helped the group members affirm a deeper sense of self. Art was a constant a companion on the journey and I invited fellow pilgrims we met on along the way to participate. Collating the images at the end of the journey created a visual diary of the trek, with symbolic references to the resilience and determination to complete the journey together.
Looking back on my time with the Altemus Programme, I feel very grateful for having the opportunity to facilitate art making in such a beautiful and adventurous location. I met a wonderful group of people whose life histories, openness and wiliness to partake positively impacted on my experience as the art therapist on the programme. I hope the process of art making will enable them to build on their leadership skills to help those less fortunate in their communities.
I would like to thank the Altemus Programme and wish the programme every future success for a worthy cause. For more information about the Altemus Leadership Programme, please visit the website.
Fylingthorpe Methodist Church is at the centre of the small village of Fylingthorpe, a mile from Robin Hood’s Bay, six miles from Whitby, at the crossroads opposite the shop and near the Primary School. Built 1891, it has a worship area seating 80, church hall with modernised facilities and is the only community building in the village. We meet for worship on a Sunday morning and, once a month in the evening. Worship is led by a music group and an organist.
“Sharing the love of Jesus with the community through worship, caring and service”.
circles by the shop and every hour is vital.
into light, or dark, or some other other.
Your dead may travel with you but they don’t interfere.
of your own messes and try not to let anyone know.
I wanted her to get over the excitement of a boy with a motorbike.
she took her own direction. Were the dead watching?
then turned away as if she could hear the dead chuckling.
but much swearing and shouting.
where their pack leaders herd them.
to meet their eyes, thank them.
to hear what’s being said.
the lasting tint of amaranthine grains.
of a pair of garden shears.
in his case-notes and Wisden.
he’d edged between the slips.
from the crease to the pavilion.
‘Mum’. It's a word I've never really known how to say.
a mouth full of rocks onto a wet beach.
from the kettle. Swearing as he looked at his watch.
hanging loose and unfilled before bathtime and bed.
over my dad's eyes under the war of his cracked face.
Do not enter. Danger ahead. Cracking save, son.
and plead for one more hour in the sun.
that she now proceeded to fence off with kohl.
that pearl was no longer mine but someone else’s.
In just a few minutes, we’d arrive at the usual address.
(even if she’d already gone on ahead in spirit).
there’d have to be a trade-off).
as pockmarked as the dartboard attached to it.
with hot and furious orange ink.
as much into the hearts of Tommies as Jerries.
and damaged as the wood.
about keeping the family close.
by leaving her body to science.
until they released the remains.
like a game of un-musical chairs.
where once a railway ran.
as if to herald Spring.
so far into the distance.
the pickings small and dull.
Where have you two been?
followed by your silly stroke.
to throw a stick to get them.
Your carrier’s thin as mine.
We drift along the field’s edge.
And just a few feet, you note.
We pinch out glossy threes.
Our palms brag the fattest.
Bags have put on weight.
our way dotted by a robin.
barbs pricking under the skin.
the surface, the current, the stalling clouds.
the touch of each droplet from first to last.
the hazel, the spruce, the Scots pine, the aspen.
skyscapes and treescapes that frame the season.
the bracken, the cabins, the pathways of water.
the hollows, chill soil, ice air and snowfall.
angular boulders with ashy thin grasses.
the scent of just-rained-on expanding the stonework.
pine martins, red deer, herons and osprey.
shell-shapes of supple islands of shingle.
the mirror of shadows, fern fronds on hillsides.
the bend in the loch we can’t see beyond.
No. 8 is left parcels.
Opposite, tabby cat and green Fiesta.
A ghost plays Paradise late at night.
wake to blue lights and a siren.
No. 20: shapes at the window downstairs.
by the tabby cat’s drive.
from the supermarket’s chill cabinet.
I recognise her pain, then her face.
as sharing was with Alan.
to come over for tea and cake?
in this blaze, no marinade to this fire.
a trill is a trill is a thrill.
nor dusk, an atmosphere of first causes.
He goes on: filial piety, mating for life.
not wanting to be spoken.
his green path feels innocent, untried.
for all ages, persuasions – lost and found.
the garden shone beneath an April moon.
an evening wind blew dust in from the fields.
or lych gates. Yew trees, I mean.
do so many on their weekly outings.
“Auntie Olivia Oblivia” as they sometimes call her.
Bloody hell. Something boring’s always tumbling out.
but she knows two dozen George Formby songs by heart.
The boys wonder: What kind of a home has a “the”?
Ooooo! Off we go! Isn’t this just grand?
gives them that don’t-you-dare-say-it look.
Their eyes roll and cross, starved of screen.
Pagans started it. The Christians took it up.
they do, those yews. Evidently.

Art making sessions provided a means of expression and containment when difficult memories and challenging feelings surfaced in the exploratory journey each of the students embarked on. Feedback from the participants reported that art-making provided a way to deepen their self-understanding, and they were also surprised to have found a new skill that they were able to utilise, with regards to seeing how they felt through their art making.

Modelling with clay helped articulate feelings of anger, body mapping brought the group together forming bonds and trust, and each of the students created art with boxes to explore the inner and outer self, with vibrant and memorable outcomes.

The second week of the programme took to the historic path of Camino de Santiago trekking 100 kilometres from Portugal to Santiago, Spain. The aim of the programme was to increase the young people’s leadership knowledge, therefore each of the members led the group each day through the winding paths and hilly forests of the Camino trail. I accompanied the group on the trek and daily art making was a part of the experience, which helped the group members affirm a deeper sense of self. Art was a constant a companion on the journey and I invited fellow pilgrims we met on along the way to participate. Collating the images at the end of the journey created a visual diary of the trek, with symbolic references to the resilience and determination to complete the journey together.

Looking back on my time with the Altemus Programme, I feel very grateful for having the opportunity to facilitate art making in such a beautiful and adventurous location. I met a wonderful group of people whose life histories, openness and wiliness to partake positively impacted on my experience as the art therapist on the programme. I hope the process of art making will enable them to build on their leadership skills to help those less fortunate in their communities.

I would like to thank the Altemus Programme and wish the programme every future success for a worthy cause. For more information about the Altemus Leadership Programme, please visit the website.

Fylingthorpe Methodist Church is at the centre of the small village of Fylingthorpe, a mile from Robin Hood’s Bay, six miles from Whitby, at the crossroads opposite the shop and near the Primary School. Built 1891, it has a worship area seating 80, church hall with modernised facilities and is the only community building in the village. We meet for worship on a Sunday morning and, once a month in the evening. Worship is led by a music group and an organist.

“Sharing the love of Jesus with the community through worship, caring and service”.

circles by the shop and every hour is vital.

into light, or dark, or some other other.

Your dead may travel with you but they don’t interfere.

of your own messes and try not to let anyone know.

I wanted her to get over the excitement of a boy with a motorbike.

she took her own direction. Were the dead watching?

then turned away as if she could hear the dead chuckling.

but much swearing and shouting.

where their pack leaders herd them.

to meet their eyes, thank them.

to hear what’s being said.

the lasting tint of amaranthine grains.

of a pair of garden shears.

in his case-notes and Wisden.

he’d edged between the slips.

from the crease to the pavilion.

‘Mum’. It's a word I've never really known how to say.

a mouth full of rocks onto a wet beach.

from the kettle. Swearing as he looked at his watch.

hanging loose and unfilled before bathtime and bed.

over my dad's eyes under the war of his cracked face.

Do not enter. Danger ahead. Cracking save, son.

and plead for one more hour in the sun.

that she now proceeded to fence off with kohl.

that pearl was no longer mine but someone else’s.

In just a few minutes, we’d arrive at the usual address.

(even if she’d already gone on ahead in spirit).

there’d have to be a trade-off).

as pockmarked as the dartboard attached to it.

with hot and furious orange ink.

as much into the hearts of Tommies as Jerries.

and damaged as the wood.

about keeping the family close.

by leaving her body to science.

until they released the remains.

like a game of un-musical chairs.

where once a railway ran.

as if to herald Spring.

so far into the distance.

the pickings small and dull.

Where have you two been?

followed by your silly stroke.

to throw a stick to get them.

Your carrier’s thin as mine.

We drift along the field’s edge.

And just a few feet, you note.

We pinch out glossy threes.

Our palms brag the fattest.

Bags have put on weight.

our way dotted by a robin.

barbs pricking under the skin.

the surface, the current, the stalling clouds.

the touch of each droplet from first to last.

the hazel, the spruce, the Scots pine, the aspen.

skyscapes and treescapes that frame the season.

the bracken, the cabins, the pathways of water.

the hollows, chill soil, ice air and snowfall.

angular boulders with ashy thin grasses.

the scent of just-rained-on expanding the stonework.

pine martins, red deer, herons and osprey.

shell-shapes of supple islands of shingle.

the mirror of shadows, fern fronds on hillsides.

the bend in the loch we can’t see beyond.

No. 8 is left parcels.

Opposite, tabby cat and green Fiesta.

A ghost plays Paradise late at night.

wake to blue lights and a siren.

No. 20: shapes at the window downstairs.

by the tabby cat’s drive.

from the supermarket’s chill cabinet.

I recognise her pain, then her face.

as sharing was with Alan.

to come over for tea and cake?

in this blaze, no marinade to this fire.

a trill is a trill is a thrill.

nor dusk, an atmosphere of first causes.

He goes on: filial piety, mating for life.

not wanting to be spoken.

his green path feels innocent, untried.

for all ages, persuasions – lost and found.

the garden shone beneath an April moon.

an evening wind blew dust in from the fields.

or lych gates. Yew trees, I mean.

do so many on their weekly outings.

“Auntie Olivia Oblivia” as they sometimes call her.

Bloody hell. Something boring’s always tumbling out.

but she knows two dozen George Formby songs by heart.

The boys wonder: What kind of a home has a “the”?

Ooooo! Off we go! Isn’t this just grand?

gives them that don’t-you-dare-say-it look.

Their eyes roll and cross, starved of screen.

Pagans started it. The Christians took it up.

they do, those yews. Evidently.