Back to the Blog

Today I had a timely nudge to get back to the blog.
It came by way of one of the cards I receive now and then,
- and always previously with a challenge.
( See posts "Space Hoppers and Guinea Pigs - Wild!"
and "A Pig of a Challenge").

This time at first sight there was no challenge.

What could possibly be challenging about a black and white photo
of a knitted teddy bear who,
with broadly beaming smile and widely spread,
ready-to-embrace-me arms,
comes bearing the message,
(no pun intended),

I LOVE YOU THIS MUCH!

Everything about this message,
from the stripy vest stretched over Teddy's round tummy,
to the dimply thumbs of his open arms, exuded

COMFORTING, WELCOMING, LOVE.

So too did the hand written message inside the card.

Why then did I smile
and place it all too swiftly on the mantle shelf and turn to other things?

Why do I find it so difficult to accept that I am loved,
and to let that feeling seep into the very bones of me,
luxuriating in the self-acceptance of receiving
love that I do not in the least feel I have earned
or deserve?

When I said that the the card was timely
I was not merely referring to my nudge to get back to blogging
but also to the fact that yesterday
I was preaching at the mid-week communion,
and my text was from Ephesians 1. -
that great distillation of Paul's doctrine of what is ours in Christ.

I know most of those to whom I was preaching.
Some, I know ,are going through times of intense pain
and struggling with real difficulties of many kinds,
both in their own lives
and the lives of those close to them.

What could be more wonderful then
than that I had the opportunity
to bring the strengthening Word of Life, which tells us that God


"chose us in him before the creation of the world
to be holy and blameless in his sight.
In love
he predestined us"
(Eph 1;4,5)

How can it be that God saw the whole of his creation
before ever it came into being and decided
that without you,
or me,
it would not be complete!

Yet these verses are clear, as is Psalm 139*

You are no accident,
no afterthought,
no fluke.
You and I are here by the deliberate choice of God.

Now at this point I can hear the quibbles beginning,
the many and varied reasons why this just cannot be so,
because it opens up so much that we can see no sense to.

I can hear the voices of some who will be protesting
that the verses quoted from Ephesians are only for believers.
Only for those whom God already predestined to know and believe in Him.
To them my only reply here is that
I neither know who God already has numbered amongst His own,
or who He yet will,
and I am unwilling to make that distinction for Him or them.


Therefore I hold this truth out to you wherever you are,
and offer it to you whether you are a God-believer or no,
and tell you again,

YOU LIVE BECAUSE GOD CHOSE YOU
YOU ARE NO ACCIDENT
NO AFTERTHOUGHT
NO FLUKE.

His love is so great,
so different from ours,
that He does not even insist that you choose Him in return.
He simply waits,
forever if need be,
offering love.

Arms open always,
never turning us away.
Patient
Accepting
Forgiving
Loving

So I preached the glorious truths of Ephesians 1,
of which this is,
(foundational as it is),
only a very small part.

Yet today through the words
of an avuncular knitted bear I heard the words of love re-echoed,
and was challenged again to believe,
to linger and receive,
and not turn too quickly away.

Today and every day
may we turn away from the world's message that we are not
the right size or shape, gender, or colour, or race,...
That we are not clever enough,
stylish enough, popular or good enough,...
and turn back to the quietly insistent voice that tells us that

OUT OF LOVE, AND FOR LOVE,
WE WERE BOTH CHOSEN AND MADE


Be Blessed


*Footnote:- Psalm 139;13 tells us that it is God who "created my inmost being; (and) knit me together in my mother's womb." -
v.16 "....All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."

***
P.S. It is great to get your feedback. Do leave a comment if only by ticking a reactions box. Thank you.

***
(Thank you Kate for sending Teddy to give me a nudge)

Happy Anniversary

Haven't written a blog for a while but yesterday was our 48th wedding anniversary.

To celebrate we leaped into the car and sped down to the border town of Ross-on Wye.

Actually of course to say we are capable of leaping anywhere after 48 years of marriage is poetic license, but we did speed off to have a celebratory lunch at the Bridge at Wilton, Ross-on -Wye . http://www.bridge-house-hotel.com.


Ross-on-Wye has lots of youthful memories for both of us.

It was one of the market towns used by my farmer uncle to shift his stock, and as a child Ross was a magical place for me.


It stands on the border between Wales and England, and if you are looking for a base to explore this beautiful area of rivers, castles, and green wooded hills it is still magical today.


I was just going to embark on a list of all the other magical places, but I'm already sounding like an envoy from the South wales Tourist board so I will forebear, but not before I've added ,

"Go! Take a look!"

Back to yesterday. We booked a lunch at the Bridge at Wilton off the web, having not been there before but trusting that the great reviews were accurate, and they were!

We had a most excellent lunch and enjoyed chatting over our drinks and coffee while looking out over the river towards the lovely town perched on the hill on the other side.

I'm always afraid to recommend a place in case the chef moves on but this was wonderful! Pity we couldn't make it to a full blown evening meal, but we have that to look forward to.
Again I can only encourage you to go for yourselves if you get chance.


It was one of those autumn days when the showers clear and the sun lights everything to glory.
There was an apple laden tree next to the hotel restaurant that reminded me of the orchards at my uncles' farm, and how at this time of year the cider apples would be hanging like glowing Christmas decorations, red and shining, and waiting to be piled onto the waiting baskets.


As we headed back from Ross towards Ledbury we passed wagon after wagon- load of apples being drawn along the country roads by the farm tractors. It's good to know that so many small businesses still make the old fashioned Herefordshire cider and perry.

Even as a small child I was allowed a tiny glass of the golden liquid that had been milled and brewed on the farm, and was brought from the cellar in the special jug kept hanging on the dresser solely for that purpose. I can guarantee you will have a good head for liquor if you're raised on home brewed cider!

Ledbury was lovely to wander around, savouring more memories, and make a few "memento" buys before following the road back to Coventry via the lovely Malvern hills, and Upton-on Severn. (I swear I'm not in any body's employ but do go to these magical places and give your soul time to breath).

The evening sun lit our road all the way home, and the deep colours and long shadows of autumn were beautiful. So much so that I had to leap, (there I go exaggerating again), into the studio and try and capture a bit of yesterday, filtered through memories from further back than that.
























What is true is that I may not leap, but I do throw myself at every canvas as though my life depended on it, and this one is no exception, so it isn't fully resolved yet but I've made a hefty start!

Here's to the next anniversary!

The Hills of Home.

Just looking through some portfolios

 I came across this watercolour sketch of the valley "back home"
 in South Wales, 

as glimpsed between

 the bare branches of the trees 

that line one of my favourite walks.

I think if you have ever

 lived among hills

 you will always miss them.

 

Where else can you get

 so many changing vistas
 and horizons
 than on even the shortest walk among hills?

Then again living amongst hills

 lends distance and perspective to your life 

because it's so easy to literally look down on the small corner

 that usually hems you in.

One of my delights from a youngster was

 to watch the progress of a storm of rain

 as it swept down the valley,

 or made it's sudden dash from the hills opposite 

to directly overhead

 in the matter of moments.

Sometimes I would
watch a small shower move along

 for all the world as though an invisible watering can

 was plotting a route
 specifically over selected patches,

 leaving all else dry.
 

 A handful of rain 

just thrown about for mischief's sake.

At other times 

there's the beauty of the hills
when frosted or snowed over. 
 

Stretches of leafless trees, 

overlaid with their tracery of white;

 giant lace shawls

 flung over the curvaceous shoulders of the hills.

Ribbons of cold air hold the white mantel in place,

 while warm currents of air,

 or flashes of sun may fall,

 leaching the glory
 to a dismal black and grey.

Similarly the frost line can be seen

 receding up the hills
 as the warming progress of the day

creeps in a dark tidemark 

up the valley sides.

Most of all
there's the cosiness of the houses

 tucked in their serried ranks along the hillsides.
 

 Sometimes the hills can accommodate 

whole streets of houses
 strung along the steep banks,

 tier upon tier. 

Here and there folds and bowls

hold just a single dwelling, 

or a few cheek-by-jowl homes, 

peeping, surprised, from their green setting.

Living on a hillside means
 you are either on the sunny,
 or shady side of the valley.
 

Whichever side of the hill you are on,

 you know that to be perched above the valley floor

 is infinitely superior to
 living in the narrow valley bottom 

where the sun disappears early,

 if it gets to you at all. 

Walking the valley from one end to the other 

you track the course of the sun,

seeing where it lingers , 

or where the shadows are most wont to fall early.

Driving around the valley is a different ball game entirely.
 

 The roads are perforce usually narrow and winding,

 often steep,

 Scary to those unfamiliar with valley life.

On one particular road carrying loads of visitors to

 a well known beauty spot in season,

 there is a tight hairpin bend on a very steep gradient.

 Locals know just when to change gear to negotiate it,

 but "townies," having no such skill 

often miss the moment, 

stall,
 slithering ignominiously backwards

 as their tyres fail to gain purchase
on the drifts of gravel
 washed down over the road surface
 by the rain.
 

Now, returning for a visit 

it is I who am nervous,
 as I drive the narrow twists and turns,
 expecting one of my compatriots

 to fling their vehicle nonchalantly around a blind bend 

straight at me

much as I used to do myself

so many years ago. 

Cornflakes and Feet

I don't know what you do at breakfast time.


I guess like us it much depends on how bleary eyed you are and how much time you have as to whether you have a leisurely breakfast or a hurried affair.

Hubby insists on sitting in an easy chair away from the table each morning while he drinks that first cup of tea and eats his cereal.

This morning to complete the picture he was slipper-less, and I was captivated by the shape of his feet.

No, no! not in any erotic sense you understand.
More in a "Oh my goodness they are just such a lovely shape to draw!" kind of way.

It has been such a long time since I've felt the urge to draw I take it as a sign I'm really getting better. Anyway I grabbed the nearest ball point pen and an envelope containing some of the morning post and quickly captured his elegant tooties.

Isn't there something very vulnerable about bare feet? They are such odd looking appendages when seen un-peeled of their coverings. (Especially other peoples feet ! Ugh! Hope hubby's don't have this effect on you!)

Anyway I'm posting my scribbles to proclaim that there's life in the old girl yet, and I'm afraid to say, that left to ourselves our breakfast routine is rather less elegant than hubby's feet.

Holly Berries and Remembered Friendship

The holly at the back of the house is already loaded with clusters of ripening green berries. This morning I watched the blue tits diving one after the other into the trees to swoop onto the berries and then shoot out from amongst the leaves, for all the world like shuttlecocks emerging at all angles from some mad game of badminton. I have no idea what they were doing as the berries are not yet ready to eat, so it was hard to believe that they weren't simply having fun.

The old saying is that when the holly is loaded with berries we are in for a hard winter. In fact there has never been a year when these trees haven't borne a bumper crop, but our winters have rarely been bad ones, so another old wives tale bites the dust.

Each time I see the berries ripen I remember a dear friend of mine who usually wanted sprigs of berry-laden holly to decorate the house for Christmas. We quickly learned that if she was to have them we had to pick the choice branches at the latest by three weeks before Christmas because if left any later the berries would be gone. For some reason it is these weeks when the berries attract the birds most and they quickly disappear, leaving the trees de-nuded of their glowing fruits.

Sadly my friend Fran is no longer with us, but the trees, the berries, and the birds, are all wonderful living memorials that remind me of our friendship and the happy times we shared.

Looking up from the top of our garden I can see the windows of the house where Fran and Paddy used to live.

One day, our own lawnmower being out of commission, I set out to mow the grass with a petrol mower we had been loaned. It was a big old fashioned thing with a clutch lever which was apt to stick and then suddenly release itself, so that it was practically impossible for me to let the clutch out smoothly and regulate the speed of the mower. The result was that the thing kept leaping forward at a rate of knots and I was forced to run to keep up as it careered up and down the garden.

When I at last switched off the wretched machine and all was again quiet after the racket it had made, I was left with only the stink of the petrol it had burned, and the sound of somebody laughing their socks off.

The laughter came from Fran who, leaning out of her bedroom window, shouted over that I had given her the best laugh she'd had for a long time as I'd hared up and down the garden trying to hang on to the mower and keep up with it's rocket-like progress over the grass.

Naturally that called for a cup of tea together, just a few biscuits, and a bit more laughter.

Presents That Fit the Bill

Still more or less idling my time away with another infection,but in the mean time I've been on-line shopping for hubby's birthday present. Oh, the wonders of technology when what you order comes on the day you want it to, and what you ordered fits! By these means hubby (yes, his name is Bill), is now the owner of some smart new grey bowling trousers.

I'm glad to say that unlike when you're a youngster, he's at the age where clothes are a welcome present, and it has benefits for the giver of the gift as well.

Firstly I don't have to nag, cajole, and plead to get him into a shop, I just present him with the item of clothing.

Secondly, he doesn't have the option of saying,"HOW much...?" at the sight of a price tag, and quickly vacating the shop empty handed.

Finally, for a little while he will look really good in a new pair of trousers that he has not yet managed to wear into his usual "just slept in these for a week" shape.

Bowling being his passion, he is doubly pleased that among the other gifts from our daughter was a white leather belt for his new bowling whites. The fact that it is exactly the right length means he won't resort to hacking a few inches off it as he has been known to do in the past, so again it's a double whammy, because I'm pleased about that too!

Younger granddaughter presented him with a white base ball cap emblazoned with the motto," I'd Rather be Bowling", which we all agreed he can wear at any moment of the day or night and it remain true.

As I sit and write he is sitting opposite me in a lovely deep purple shirt which really suits him, and came with a twin in a lovely shade of blue, from our older granddaughter, so he's not always the old traditionalist after all. Good choice!

There were other small gifts as well of course, and a couple of celebration meals together, but all this had to be fitted around the current bowls matches that abound now we are in the middle of the outdoor season.

The only thing he didn't completely fit in was blowing the candles out on his cake. Our young great grandson beat him to it !

God Bless

Space Hoppers and Guinea Pigs - Wild!

If you've been reading this blog you know that from time to time I get encouraged to have fun by means of various piggies. These are photographed on cards and sent by my niece.

This time the card shows two guinea pigs cavorting around on space hoppers, (I kid you not), who are telling me that,

IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO HAVE FUN !

Being of a forgiving nature I will ignore the suggestion of this bon mot that I am really over the hill, because yet again Kate has set me thinking.
She knows me well enough to know that my "fun" is of the old fashioned sort.
Even if I can sing, dance, and make a fool of myself without the aid of drink or drugs I am most probably tame by the standards of today, so, fearful that I may have missed out on something, I looked up just what fun is actually meant to be.

(You can tell me if you feel I'm over-thinking this).

Unsurprisingly "fun" covers those activities that are enjoyable or amusing.
You could say I'm o.k. on that score as there is much that I find not only enjoyable, and amusing, but positively joyous. Still, as a line from a recent television play said," "I was born before pleasure became compulsory".

What I'm getting at I suppose is the question, do I need to tap into some repressed side of myself that should be given an airing before it's too late.

(Yes. I am definitely over-thinking this).

I have been giving the question some thought these last two days as I have been removing the little grey overcoats of dust that have accumulated on every surface whilst I've been poorly.

(Hubby is very good at keeping food on the table and applying a certain amount of TLC but dusting and hoovering come a long way down his priority list).

Horrors!

Perhaps my need to bring my surroundings back to the required standards of house keeping which have been with me from my youth testifies to my inherent dullness; i.e. lack of the desired "fun" quotient.

The result of my thinking so deeply about this is that I was in danger of coming up empty. Just couldn't think of anything attainable that I might still give a whirl to enhance, or even find, my "wild" side .

Hating heights as I do , I can still confess I'd quite like,- emphasise quite like-, to do a parachute drop, or go paragliding, but surely these are on everybody's fantasy wish list. Probably saying that I'd quite like to do these things isn't the quite the right word. Maybe saying I'd be scared s----less and adrenaline rushed, would be a better way of describing it.

Dull again!

Water-wise I find swimming a length in a fairly small pool is a stretch but yes, come to think of it I'd like the chance to go white water rafting. But wait, there's something I know is probably beyond my physical capacity, but seems to me to be a wonderfully exciting fun thing, - wild river swimming!
Saw it on the television and it looks tremendous.

It involves getting into a wet suit, then into a river and letting yourself go with the pull of the current...
Wow! That's my idea of "wild".

(Kate! stop laughing I can hear you from here).

Admittedly you need expert knowledge of currents, water conditions, wild life, permissions from the land owners, ( which in this country means they own the river too and you can't go in their patch of water without their say so), and the ability to survive by your swimming skills.

O.k. It was just a thought. But can you imagine what it feels like...

Oh well, I'll just have to go back to laughing myself silly trying on the fashion wear at Primark I suppose, but for just a moment there I could hear the wild water in my ears, and feel the cold grasp of the river through my wet suit. But no, I know when I'm beaten.

I give up again! I'm too tame by half.

God Bless

Groove On

Here I am after three months, with a diagnosis under my belt, so I can begin to look forward to the grooves of my life opening out into wider circles again. Of course knowing what's wrong doesn't take away the fact of having to get "better", so there's a bit more r and r to go yet but things look good.

Glad to say that the pain and general feeling of illness is apparently down to a very common or garden diverticular disease, with some infection. I will have to learn to be circumspect about what I eat and may emerge a slimmer and more healthy self so that's good.

During all this the feeling of the family closing in for a "cwtch", (Welsh for a really good hug), that goes beyond the physical thing has been tremendous.
Knowing myself prayed for by the church family.
Having a laugh with friends when I needed it.
The unexpectedly warm and caring consultant surgeon, and radiographers.
So many truly lovely people.
As always so much to be grateful for.

I know I'm re-iterating what I say so often, and what I was saying in my last Blog too, but I've just come across the most beautifully written blog that has a "Gratitude Community" amongst it's pages and I recommend you take a look at /www.aholyexperience.com/ and check it out for yourself.
It could open up a whole new way of life for you.

The new "positive psychologies" are based on the simple old belief that counting your blessings actually does make for good mental health, and in a world which seems set on skewing every bit of news towards the negative, we probably need to practice it now more than ever.

One of the many lovely gratitude-making moments for me recently was to watch my great grand son painting in the studio.

Yes, I know that he's special to me because he's my great grand-son, but his innocent absorption seems to me to be is at the heart of what gratitude and blessing is about.






How often are we simply open to the moment: lost in it,
so that
we find a deeper place
within ourselves?


"Unless you become as a little child"... Matt.18:3

God Bless

Coping with the Narrow Confines of Life

The photo is to show you post-vinyl music fans what I mean when I say that I feel as if, yet again, the needle has settled into a tight inside groove in the record of my life. At present life has shrunk to a fairly small circle, where comings and goings are circumscribed by health issues, but with a lot of lovely ordinary things holding it all together.

Like many another my life has followed a pattern of moving back from time to time into the "narrow" times of illness, and can I say for the record that this is something I don't think anybody ever gets used to. I say this because even my mother who had been there through a lot of thick and thin with me, once stunned me by commenting when I'd rung her to say that I was going into hospital , " Well, you're used to it."

No I never am, never will be, 'cos it's not something I will ever settle for, and a large part of me always thinks somehow this is all a great big mistake, and any minute reality will kick in and it'll all be o.k.

All that said I don't want you to think that my life has been all illness. I've had a life far more wide and varied than you would expect if you saw my medical history written down. I still chuckle when I think of the time I took my daughter to see a consultant and the referring doctor had obviously put my medical history in the introductory letter because when he had read it this chap leaned over his desk and asked me sympathetically "Where is the mother now?"
The look on his face when I said "Well I'm the mother", was really satisfying.

So. yes, there have been wide lovely grooves to my life as well as tight ones.

Unexpected journeys of discovery, miracles of healing, (literally), and amazing richness, if not by the world's standards then by mine.

I can't say at times I haven't resented the comparative narrowness of my life, or envied others their wider horizons. For the longest time my biggest regret was that I didn't fulfill my academic ambitions or even finish school properly, but I've packed in as much as I could in later years, and will never lose the thirst to learn while the little grey cells keep firing, so that's o.k.

The gift, and the trial, of the times in life where one is pushed back into narrow confines is the forced leisure to reflect. In all honesty I have to confess that for me there have been times of what seemed like utter despair and loneliness, yet looking back I see that there always was just enough light in what seemed like deepest darkness.

For me as a Christian, that light has been the presence of a God who has touched every area of suffering, and is in this with me, but it hasn't always felt like that by any means. It's not uncommon to find that things are not what we feel they are though is it?

So I'd say the tight circles in life can become deep wells where we can learn a lot about ourselves; about the immense inner reserves of strength that are inherent in being human, and about the astounding fact that nothing viewed up close, is at all ordinary.

The tighter the circle the more beautiful and meaningful do the very small things in life become. Only last week I read about a young man who, when in good health, had extracted the promise from his father that should he ever be dependent on life support, his was to be allowed to die.

Somehow what he had feared came about, and he was on full life support, completely paralyzed and about to have his wishes fulfilled and his life support cut off, when he responded to being asked should he be allowed to live, with an infinitely small movement of his eyes. This perfectly ordinary automatic reflex which in the wider context of normal life goes unremarked became his means to signal, not once but repeatedly, that he did indeed want to live. In the face of what he most dreaded he had found there was still something worthwhile in inhabiting his severely restricted body.

You may be flying in a really wide and beautiful groove just now, or you may be chafing in the narrow confines of your mind or body, but whichever it is do take the time to home in on something, maybe something small and mundane, and open yourself to see it in a new way.

It is rare indeed that there is no small scrap of comfort or of beauty to lift our spirit. Perhaps there is something near at hand that you've been missing.

Be Blessed

The Secret Garden

This is a picture of the gateway to the walled garden in the park, taken from inside to share the glorious canopy of wisteria with you. Sorry the sweet fragrance of the moment is lost to you.

I guess everybody loves a walled garden. Not just for the micro climate it creates, nor solely for the wonderful opportunities for the gardener this presents, but for the delicious sense of a secret, sheltered, place. A sanctuary of sorts.

There was a walled garden on my uncle's farm. It had none of the red bricked splendour that curtains the gardens of the wealthy estates. Rather it was enclosed by a somewhat tumble down dry stone wall, (what else would you expect on a Welsh hill farm), perhaps reaching to the height of an average man's shoulder. Trees had planted themselves along the top so long ago, and grew so thickly, that in summer the height of the screen around us was increased by some ten or twelve feet.

In the centre of the garden was an old cherry tree which made a great castle, or tall ship, when climbed into, as well as a delicious source of sweet, chin-dribbling juiciness at the right time of year. It's leafy layered branches provided an extra veil of secrecy in as much as it hid us from all except the sharpest eyes if we could only keep quiet long enough.

In my memory there was also rich golden globes of soft-haired gooseberries too, hanging like miniature chinese lanterns on the undersides of the low bushes. I remember lying underneath them while we idled the time away absently feeding ourselves as we did so. Whether this treasure was in the walled garden, or the other larger, mainly neglected kitchen garden I'm not sure, but I do know that the rich, pulpily soft, Victoria plums belonged in that larger place.

I do remember that the grass grew long and full of seedheads around us in both places. There was always too much work and too few hands to be sure, and the television-perfect gardens, and the idea of the designers "outside rooms" of the future would have been met with total incomprehension. But oh the joy of rolling in that grass, with it's eyeball contact with the insects, and the deep scent of summer earth. To be sure the itch of the seed heads in ones clothes, and the bites of some of the insects was not so welcome, but a small enough price to pay for getting so close to the common clay from which we all spring.

And all the while there was the sense of being safely held in these secret places, for even as children, (and how much more we realise this now), there is the need for a safe place where adults cannot come, and our dreams can remain unbroken.

Perhaps you have a memory of some safe place that sustains you even now. Would that everybody had.

God Bless