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

A Touch of Love

I couldn't resist taking a snap of these dock leaves which grow in such abundance in the park.
They take me straight back to my childhood, when I had a positive talent for falling into nettles.

I used to spend a lot of time on my uncle's' farm, and because of my inbuilt radar for finding them, I seemed intimately aquainted with every patch of nettles which grew there. As I could never get anywhere without running or jumping I usually found myself in the middle of the nettle patch before I knew it, and not for nothing are they called stinging nettles.

In the twinkling of an eye I would be covered in the characteristic raised lumps and reddened patches which were painful fires not just on , but under, my skin.

Invariably I would present myself to my Aunty Gwyneth who would call my cousin to bring some dock leaves because "she's done it again".

The thing was that although my aunty was familiar with the folk remedy (which is scentifically proven to work), of applying dock leaves to relieve the symptoms of the sting caused by the hairs of the nettle, she only used to wrap the sting in the leaves, holding them in position for a moment or so before throwing them aside. To work, the leaves of the dock have to be crushed so that the juice is released and then rubbed into the sting.

Because Aunty Gwyneth's way of applying the dock leaves never brought me relief I grew up believing that the old wives tale was not true. Still, that never stopped me going to her to have the treatment repeated, and I never once let on that the sting burned just as much after her ministrations as it had done before.

In the first instance, even to my young mind, it would have been rude to have gone on complaining when she had done all that she could; but above all it was her readiness to stop whatever she was doing to help, (even mistakenly) , which brought me back to her time after time.

After all these years it seems to me that Aunty Gwyneth may have been soothing a greater
itch for me than purely the nettle rash when, if only for a little time, she put me at the centre of her loving attention.

Remembering her encourages me to feel that I do not need to have all the answers before I offer my help. Having the willingness to wholeheartedly put somebody else before myself, even for a very little while might be enough to begin with.

God Bless

Come to the Park?

I promised some posts back to take a walk around the park with my camera so as to give a taste of where I live in Coventry, at the very heart of England.
Until recently Coventry was a centre of automotive production where great names in the car industry grew and flourished. Indeed my hubby came here to work in the Jaguar Car factory which was only minutes from where we live, but like so many other factories it is now gone.In the midst of what was so much engineering, and factory territory it's wonderful to me that this county of Warwickshire, and especially this corner of Coventry, should still be so green. Here I am only a few miles from the city centre yet as you can see so much is still unspoilt.
Being from Wales where my home ground is a place of wide open hill tops, deep valleys , winding rutted lanes, and the sound of streams pouring down the hills, I need green space. The park is a breath of life to me.
I only have to walk to the top of my street and a few minutes from our home I turn right to get the first view of the park, which is gently draped over the slopes on the other side of the hill I've just climbed. We begin at the top of the park with a view towards the village of Allesley, which is a mix of picture postcard old houses, and urban renewal, lying on the other side of the curve of the valley.

This is the original "stately home" of Allesley Hall which was bequeathed to the city by it's last private owner. You can find out more about the general history of the park and it's beginnings in the 13th century on www.denspages.co.uk/park.








This is one of the delightful spots that have just the right blend of
landscaped trees and shrubs alongside the natural look to make me happy.

In the small photo you might just be able to see the golfers enjoying the course that brings them to the park, and hopefully makes them happy too.
If they were playing behind me they would be far from happy unless "play through" was the order of the day. Sad to say I have no ball skills what soever.


Continuing the "happy" theme the other small photo is a teeny corner of the children,s play area showing the "rocket" as my great grandson calls it.

He is somewhat disgruntled because access to this large slide is designed to keep littlies off and he can't understand why, though he's very happy with the one in the kiddy corner as well.






For me the suggestions of a country corner here and there is what makes an half hour stroll here a real escape. Don't you think these paths invites you to feel you are away from everything?I know it's as yet it's only a brief glimpse of this green oasis but you must already understand why I often think of the words of
Ps. 16 :6 as I walk here,

"The land you have given me is a pleasant land. What a wonderful inheritance!"

I'll show you some more of my favourite corners and the walled garden in the park another time.


Even if you it can only be resting your eyes on a spot of green in your workplace, or a patch of sky through a window;
even if you have to create it or seek it out,
may you find some corner that soothes and refreshes you today.

God Bless

Never too late...

Sorry that there have been so few posts over the last week or so

 due to the fact that I've had to rest up a bit again.

After my last post I felt I'd come to a watershed and wondered if I should carry on with the blog,

 and if so just where it should go.

  My ponderings have lead to the decision to carry on with my day to day meanderings of life and thought on this blog,

 whilst using a second blog to express more in-depth explorations of Christian spirituality and praxis.

  I mentioned the possibility of this way back on the blog titled "Treasures of Darkness",

 and now seems a good time to start.

If you are interested in exploring Christian spirituality with me my other site is:- http://mypathofthewind.blogspot.com/

The title of "Treading the Path of the Wind"comes partly from Ecclesiastes 11:5,

"Just as you cannot understand the path of the wind or the mystery of a tiny baby

 growing in its mother's womb,

 so you cannot understand the activity of God, who does all things."

I chose this because it always speaks to me of the unexpectedness of walking with God,

 not just in the apparent blessings but also through the trials and trouble of life

 we would so much like to do without.

When people talk about faith by calling it a crutch,

  I think "Well if this is a crutch it's a pretty challenging one!"

  because I know that following the "path of the wind" since I was sixteen

 has led me into places and things that would never have been possible otherwise.

  Certainly I would have been too much of a coward to have even attempted most of them.

   It has definitely never been boring!

   Well you get the idea.

  In the blog I talk about what is the real nittygritty for me.

Now to catch up with this blog,

 I've been having real fun with my great grandson who at two and a half

 has been really getting excited about drawing.

Just last week he'd started on the large circle,

 with small circle eyes and a wobbly line for the mouth that signifies "Mummy", "Daddy", etc.

  Over the ensuing days stick arms and legs have been added sprouting from the "face",

 along with many sorts of "noses".

   Then the circular eyes got little circles inside them

and low and behold the pupil was born.

 Somewhere along the way "shoes" got added to the feet

and sometimes there are sort of mittens on the ends of the "arms".

It is apparent that to him these entities are real people,

 (we've all had a portrait done),

 because he stops in the middle of drawing to trot to an invisible bottle

 to get the "sticky" to make the hair that he then proceeds to draw stand on end

, as he sees Mama doing in real life,

 and as the hairdresser does when he gets his own hair cut.

In a short time at the table on Sunday he evolved the single line mouth

by adding another line which he solemnly told me were "lips",

which in a later drawing became a large circle which he filled with jagged lines

 that were the "teeth", accompanied with a suitable very vocal roar.

  There was much deliberation about the brown for the other new developments

 which were the eyebrows.

 Goodness knows what he's up to by now.

What struck me so forcibly was the sheer speed of the development of ideas,

 and their implementation.

  Truly the rate of learning,

 and the desire to learn, is phenomenal at this age.

Of course these early years are exceptional,

 and the pace inevitably lessens but whilst mental faculties remain

 there's no need to ever give up.

  The world is full of fascinating things:

  ideas, people, places...

 Even if we haven't had the chances we would have liked,

or some of our dreams may have been broken or somewhat dented,

 who knows what wondrous new thing waits to claim our attention and spur us on.

Today I came upon this lovely verse by Antonio Machado, (translation by Robert Bly)

Last night I dreamed
-blessed illusion-
that I had a beehive here
in my heart
and that
the golden bees were making
white combs and sweet honey
from my old failures.

God Bless

A walk in the Park

Very unusually we missed church this morning due to over sleeping so we decided to get out into the world by taking a walk around the park.

The morning was warm and sunny so there were families out with their children and it had one of those "God's in His heaven, all's right with the world" feelings about it but sadly the lie was given to this by a woman weeping bitterly as she sat alone on a bench.

Hubby approached gently and asked if she was alright and if there was anything we could do. She assured us twice that there was nothing, and that she was alright, so we passed on,

Grief or pain of any sort is such a private thing in our culture. I guess that I sometimes ere on the side of not wanting to intrude in case of causing greater hurt by that very intrusion, yet it always seems right to give the opportunity for that grief or pain to be shared, whether any practical help can be given or not.

Yesterday we were looking for a new washing machine and the woman attending us began to tell me about the weekend she had in front of her, and the fact of her father's long battle with Alzheimer's before his death last week.

Leaning on the top of one of the machines in the store she talked about prayer and the difficulty of faith in the face of suffering, as well as her straightforward relationship with God. She told me, as people in this country so often do, that she is a believer but sees no need of the church to re-enforce her faith, and that she can pray anywhere, which of course she can.

Thinking of that conversation, during which I mainly listened and prayed, I recalled other conversations, some in shops, pubs, wherever, when prayer and belief in God were talked about. Some of the time I was part of the talk, some of it I merely overheard. Often the fact of suffering is brought up. Sometimes the church is mentioned, but often as a peripheral thing to the general understanding, and of course not always in a complimentary why.

It makes me sad, because as imperfect as the church is, and as much as I too have suffered at the hands of the imperfect people (like me!) who make up the church, I have also found it a place rich in love, healing, and acceptance.

Perhaps because I came to faith outside the church structure myself, my on-going quarrel with the church is this strange sense to be found within it's folds that it somehow owns God, and is therefore the sole dispenser of grace. My own experience and theological studies have only served to convince me that God is alive, active, and not solely dependent on the offices of the church as some seem to believe.

But what about the vexed question of where is God when we hurt, and just how can the notion of a loving God be squared with the deep suffering all around us in this beautiful and terrifying world?

For me the image of the Christ who enters our suffering to the depths of his being, transforming it by rising to new life beyond it, is the only sense I can make of it. Such a God, in my experience can understand, and meet me in my own place of pain whatever that may be, and transformation can happen for me too.

If such a notion is alien to you, I offer the picture from a tree in the park. As the sap of the tree crystallizes on the cone it seems to be weeping, yet the tree continues to flourish and grow.

Should pain or weariness of spirit be part of your life at present, may you be strengthened to grow through and beyond it, to new healing and peace.

God Bless

P.S Writing this blog has made me realise afresh what a privilege it is to live in this part of England and how you might like to know something about what it's like to live in Shakespeare's own county today. Amazingly there is more left of the green and pleasant land of Elizabethan England than you might think. We tend to take it for granted, but writing about it will serve to make me appreciate it and explore more than I might have done. Look forward to you joining me.

Taking a Better Look

I've had few hectic days so no blog, and today's is just a brief thought to keep the kettle boiling. (This must be where the saying "pot boiler" comes from. Oh, um!)

Wandering around the garden as usual, I couldn't help thinking how unprepossessing this flower head looks.


Nothing very eye-catching at all. Even the
colour is somewhat dull

There's a sense that this umbrella form, (whose name I can't remember)
is hanging it's head and not full-filling it's potential.

I almost want to give it a pep talk !

As it turns out it is the plant that has something to say to me, rather than the other way around

Evidently to see the beauty of the flowers you have to bend down and look up at it.
Not very comfortable, but I hope you agree that the effort is worth while.

I wonder how many people I tend to look down on, pass over,
or dismiss as not really worth wasting my time on.

It is possible that if I make a radical adjustment in my attitude,
maybe even going so far as to bend, or even metaphorically kneel down and take a better look,
I might find some hidden beauty that I'll never see any other way.

God Bless

.

A Pig of a Challenge

You may remember my post "Feeling Silly" was prompted by a card sent me with the photo of a pretty little piglet on the front. Today another card has turned up with an equally appealing piggie (this time minus pink pom poms), who is winking an eye and suggesting saucily that,

"The best way to behave is to

misbehave"

with the challenge to blog just how I'm prone to misbehave myself.

Well, in the words of the song,

"Ain't misbehavin' "

Or, in the words of Eliza Dolittle to Professor Higgins in the film "My Fair Lady" , (and for the best effect you have to imagine Audrey Hepburn's yowling cockney accent here),

"Oi'm a good girl Oi am!"

Having only recently watched "Mary Poppins" I could add for good measure, (and spoken in that impossibly crisp and crimped English elocution-ridden voice that reminds me of somebody who has recently been sucking lemons, that IS Julie Andrews),

"You could say that I am practically perfect in every way"

The draw-back to all this is that I am known to the sender of the card to be neither good nor perfect, and my misbehaviour of the mundanely dull variety.

Imagine! Caught out as the most boring person on earth, - and by a piglet!

God Bless

A Whimsy of Wild Flowers and Weeds.

In his poem "To Daisies, not to shut too soon",
Robert Herrick asked that daisies should,

"Shine like a spangle here",

and they certainly do shine in a halo around this tree in the park

which is some five minutes walk from our home.

But if daisies are the stars,

in a wild bit of the park these

common dandelion are a

cluster of small moons

which I think are rather beautiful.


They remind me strangely of the mother of pearl discs
one of my jumior school teachers brought in for us
use in an art class.


I never knew what these lovely things were
until I saw some on Antiques Road Show
and learned that they are Chinese silk winders.

Wouldn't you have loved to be the lucky lady who had these in her work box? 

Isn't it odd the connections our minds we make?

In the instant of looking at dandelion clocks

my mind had accessed the teacher and schoolroom

of so many years back;

the cool feel of the mother of pearl between my fingers;

the mystery and appreciation of these unknown articles at the time;

and discovering what they were from the television.

All brought to mind in a nanosecond.

If only I could access the files,

and bring up the information I need at any particular time 

as easily as my synapses can put together those random connections

how much more organised I would be!

God Bless

P.S. Perhaps you would like to take a walk around the park with me in the next post?

Far from the Madding Crowd

The wet weather did after all 

give way to a dry bank holiday, 

though with little sun here in the Midlands.

All around us the houses and gardens are quiet

as families have taken advantage of the holiday

to be up and away,

and I find myself swamped by a sense of loneliness 

that I find hard to shake off.

(Hubby is bowling).

I know I 've mentioned that I usually relish solitude 

but this doesn't make me immune from the occasional sense

of isolation that is part and parcel of our human condition.

As I write that I remember the words,

"so many lonely people" 

from Paul Mc Cartney,s "Eleanor Rigby",

and it's true that loneliness has been called 

the epidemic of the age

as families split, change, and move on, or away,

and the core of community crumbles and is lost.

One answer for this can be the

"light a candle rather than curse the darkness" 

approach of getting up off your butt

and calling on somebody,

perhaps somebody you know who's experiencing real isolation, 

from illness, bereavement, or some other circumstance.

A phone call will do, 

just to let them know that they aren't completely forgotten,

with the added bonus that you also feel more "connected".

Strange to say just as these thoughts were going through my mind my brother rang,

and it actually made me feel worse.
So much for that then!

The thing is I can visualise where he was speaking from, 

(my childhood home),

and I so wanted to be there with him.

This begs the question how much of my loneliness 

is a sort of nostalgia for something past, or even imagined?

some sort of life that I feel others may have

and I do not, perhaps? 

Am I sitting here with a sense

of all the families enjoying themselves together 

whilst I languish alone?

Am I in fact just having a session of PLOM?

i.e. Poor Little Old Me!

Sounds very much as though I need to snap out of it

and celebrate what I have.

Time for cup of tea I think!

Oh, and to post this photo of one of my favourite

"silent messengers".

As you can see it's a lovely flourishing tree. 

What you may not be able to see quite as clearly 

is that it emerges

from some initial damage

at it's start.

In fact for quite a while

it merely lay along the ground with little sign

that it would ever grow into a tree at all. 

Gradually the sheer life force within asserted itself, 

and low and behold,

a thing of beauty!

Maybe things happen to make us truly know what isolation is. 

A breakdown in relationships.

Loss, and grief of any sort.

I've mentioned my own two years in bed in my teens

in an earlier post.

We may feel broken and prostrate with grief

for what we believe might have been,

yet even as we feel these things life is returning.

Who knows,

without being aware of it we may become

a sign of encouragement too.

God Bless

Spring Bank Holiday at Home

Coming up to a Spring Bank Holiday week-end and the weather is still holding good at present for all those hard working folks who are looking forward to a break.

We usually give these holidays a miss as being retired means we have the option to avoid busy roads and get out and about at other times. Of course the problem with this is that we can get stuck in the rut of not making the effort to really get off the patch very often.
It's surprising how much the routine and habits of everyday life can keep one obsorbed, and though I am very contented with that there comes a time when I have to spread my wings and fly away for a bit.
At the moment then it seems then that I will be spending the long week-end pottering about at home, though I have a hankering to be amongst the hills of my Welsh homeland. (This hankering is never far away, because I love the hills).


Since beginning this post the inevitable has happened and the rain has kicked in for the holiday. No more planting out of my seedlings today then, and even hubby's flat green bowls looks a bit iffy because it's raining so hard.
I will settle for an afternoon with my new pile of library books at my side ready for the moment I finish the one I'm reading at present, which is a fascinating look at mothers, daughters, and grandmothers, by Marianne Fredriksson, titled "Hanna's Daughters". The blurb describes it as "g ripping and gritty... Catherine Cookson with a touch of Strinberg".
No disrepect to Ms Cookson but Fredriksson seems to me to be less trite than that.
I seem to be mining a seam of those sort of generational/relationship books at present and some of them are really powerfully asking questions about heredity versus personality, and time and environment versus heredity too. As a former counsellor, as well as from my own life experience these things fascinate me.

I leave you with a puzzle that you might be able to answer for me.
The photograph at the top is of the verbascum in my garden now.
The thing is that when I bought them they were apricot in colour, so when last year they came up white I thought that they were reverting to type and looked nice and delicate though not the desired original.
So nice did they look I did the watercolour in the bottom picture.
All well and good, but can anybody explain how this year I have two deep pink and one pale?





God Bless