Glory in the Morning.

While so much of the country is struggling with the early falls of snow,
and treacherous black ice,
we here at the heart of England woke to heavy frost.

Some of us with the luxury of waking later than many,
woke to dazzling blue skies and that brilliant winter sun
that clarifies every detail so it seems freshly minted for you.

The park was especially beautiful.
( I know I think that every day,
but even gloomy days hold some unexpected loveliness).

Of course I hadn't taken my camera,
and hubby had left the house before me to go bowling,
so I had not been given the usual warning,
- "You'll be sorry if you don't take it."
(O.k. I do usually call it nagging, but you can see I need it).

I'm not sure my lens could have captured the full beauty of it all anyway.

Each leaf newly caught in the sun
had been rhine-stoned over with the finest diamante
and crisply finished to perfection.

And there were so many.

Each shape melded with the next
to make a solid garment for the earth;
at least while the frost seams hold to make them chain mail strong.

The bench in the lee of a tree could have been
a wide throne for the the Ice Queen.
Who else could sit upon such an ephemeral veil
of shimmering crystals without obliterating it?
Who else would have blood cold enough to try?

Enough for mere mortals to see it and move on,
benefiting from the sight of the ordinary made new.

So I walked on,
grateful, and glorying in the beauty of each new detail
assembled under the high blue sky,
with the low sun scrawling long shadows from the trees.
A hidden message, ever moving and changing, written on the earth.

No wonder the impressionists loaded their brushes
with the most vivid colours to capture this
secret, age-old, text.

Then with an inner jolt
I remembered those for whom this glory that I was reveling in
would simply mean more hardship.
Those sleeping in the doorways of the city,
or in some hidey-hole where they might feel a shred more safety or warmth.

I felt the familiar twinges of shame and guilt
that I can do nothing other than open my heart wide in prayer,
and at times my purse in a gesture of care.

Then I remembered that guilt is not productive,
but the offering of oneself is...
In each moment.
As fully as I can.

So joy, and pain, and the bringing together of the two
march on in the park with me, as in so many, many places.

The frost was already melting as the sun
searched out the corners.

The damp leaves
looking a little sad beside their white coated brothers.
Some still wearing on top of their autumn brown,
a fine ribbing along their veins;
a tracery of the glory that was fast fading.

Be Blessed

P.S. The day after I posted this I got the Christmas appeal from the Salvation Army, who of course always offer help and shelter to the homeless. If you would like to make a gesture of care of your own contact can be made here http://www.salvationarmy.org/ihq/www_sa.nsf

Creative Processes

Started a new painting.

It was such a luxury
to climb the stairs to my studio under the roof tiles,
and get down to playing.

The luxury came from the fact that
for the first time I can remember
I let hubby trundle off on foot
to do some shopping on his own.

I usually get behind the wheel and act as chauffeur
for all our errands
other than the ones really near home.
- And here I was not even feeling guilty!

I didn't know what I was going to do.
(Nothing new there then).

Always torn between the figurative and abstraction
I let my choice of materials be my start.

Watercolour and inks to begin;
on top of a an initial sketch made with a pen held loosely
with the tips of the fingers
to allow the greatest fluidity of movement.

That was a joy
for the pure love of seeing the form emerge
through the marriage of colour and line.

Next the joy
comes by letting loose with some gestural marks in acrylic.
Then came the texture,
(laying in paint with the palette knife
-impasto - luscious!)
and the beginning of breaking down the figurative form.

How far will I let this go?
And what is the mysterious process
that will come into action to inform me
(hopefully)
when enough is enough?

The deliberate choice to use both abstract and figurative forms
came at the junction of letting the composition grow freely, like Topsy.

Now the decisions will become more crucial.
I already know that there are some tonal issues I need to sort out.

As everybody knows beginning a piece is easy.
It's the final resolution that's the skillful bit.

So the question when next I climb to my eyrie
will be the same exciting one I always carry with me
when I approach a work in progress.

"What now? What now?"

Be Blessed

Winter's Arch

The bells on the winter
clematis hang from
the arch that stands
over the path leading
from our house
through the
garden.

Despite the gales,
the heavy rain,
and the first of
winter's frosts,
the delicate fairy bells
remain suspended
on their fine curlicued stems.

Each morning I look out
to see them,
survivors all,
still strung beneath
the lessening leaves
of the rose
which also twines
around the archway.




The duller the day, the more their fragile beauty seems to shine.

Trembling in the cold,
they could almost be
chiming some
sweet,
unheard,
music.

Thanks to these pure
little bells our every
trip to the garage,
to the clothes line,
and even to take
our rubbish
to the bins,
is transformed to a trip underneath a bridal arch.

It's the un-looked for little things which transform our lives
isn't it?

Be Blessed

The Hobbit's Garden

I gathered these bits of greenery from my beloved park.

One of the trees had a bough broken off in the storms.

The spikes are what is left when the cones on an evergreen tree disintegrate.

(I can,t say what kind of evergreen tree this is. Though I love trees I am largely ignorant about their particular species, but I think I'm safe in saying this is off a pine)!

Anyway as they were broken off already I couldn't resist bringing a few bits home and I think it was a friend who first called it a hobbit's garden.

If you look closely you will see that some of the cone remnants are still quite brown and fresh.

Others have obviously been hanging
on to the living tree for some time.

May be a winter or two?

They have become quite greened over and pale by comparison to the younger ones.

Still they have hung on.

Tenacious til the final coup de gras.

Still quite attractive too don't you think?

I leave you with that thought!

Green or Brown, Be Blessed !

Never Go Back?

photo courtesy of .walesinstyle.com

I don,t know if any of you read Elizabeth Goudge's novels,
but they are books which,
whatever their setting,
carry with them the fragrance
of some distant sweetness and grace.

A little old-fashioned by today's standards perhaps,
they give voice to our inner longing
for another world,
taking us in,
and for a while helping us
to be inhabitants of that better place.

In all of Goudge's books place is very important,
and almost always the houses in which the action
of the novels occur become
central characters,
every bit as important as
the living protagonists.

I have fallen in love with a good many of the houses
at the heart of Goudge's books,
but for many years I nursed the dream of a house
that seemed as magical as any of her creations,
but which I only half believed I truly remembered
as a real place;
though if it was, I knew where to look for it.
- or so I thought.

Indeed I did go and look where memory
told me it should be,
- but-
my dream house was not there.

Could my house after all have originated
in the pages of a book, and become
interwoven with real memories,
making it as insubstantial as a dream?

I remembered, quite rightly,
the details surrounding the dream house,
but like so much of childhood
when viewed through the increasing distance
of the kaleidoscope of time,
things had become hazy.

My memories of the holidays on an uncle's farm,
and our visits to the village where
I supposed the house to be,
were real enough.

Surely there had been a house called
"The Gentle Jane " as well?

In memory I could read the name of the house,
and feel the mellowed presence
which seemed to beckon me
to try and peep in the windows,
and dawdle round the doorway,
where fishing rods and baskets
were usually in evidence.

Was it invention to have seen it shut up and deserted too,
and to have felt
disappointment and indignation
that anybody could treat this lovely house
in such a way?

I knew I would never have left it had it been mine.

The chance to retrace my childhood steps never came,
and then during my father's final illness,
as I was driving down on one of my visits,
on a sudden impulse
I knew I just had to break my journey.
I needed just a few minutes buffer in my headlong dash
between the two worlds of adult home,
and childhood home.

Without thinking I turned the car
off the main route to Wales,
and followed the once familiar road from Ross,
then over the bridge with the rushing river,
church, and castle,
in the green valley of Skenfrith.

From there I made the steep climb through
the folded beauty of the hills to
ancient Grosmont.

My first surprise
as I came upon the beginnings of the village
was to see that here the castle and church
were on the opposite side of the road
from where I expected them to be.

How could I have got that so wrong, I wondered?
It was unlikely that both buildings got up
and tiptoed across the road just to confuse me.

I parked the car near the Angel
and crossed the road to where "my" house
should have been.
I prowled up and down the hill but nowhere
could I find even a house name similar to
"The Gentle Jane",
let alone the magical presence
of the house itself.

Defeated, and aware of the precious time
I had already taken out of my schedule
I drove out of the village towards
Cross Ash, Abergavenny,
and my old home.

Obviously I had muddled memories of even
the most basic layout of Grosmont.

How could I hope to winkle out details
of some idealized vision that wafted into my mind
from time to time?
Hardly one of life's priorities at the best of times.
- So,
I let "The Gentle Jane" go.

That is, until last week, when, for some reason
the gentle presence drifted into my mind again.
I reached down for my trusty laptop
to have just one more go at my search.

And this is what I found!
photo: walesinstyle.com
"Named after the daughter of one of its previous owners in the 1920's, Gentle Jane is a grade II listed building in the ancient Monmouthshire village of Grosmont on the border with England. It has a history of use as a milliner's, grocer's, butcher's and a baker's premises before being used as a fishing lodge and a private dwelling. In 2004 it was a film set for 'The Baker' staring Damian Lewis and featuring Michael Gambon before opening at a Tearoom and B&B".

If I'd had my thinking head on the day
I'd done my detour to Grosmont
the clue would have been in the fact that in memory
I'd reversed the castle and the church.

When I got out of the car
and crossed the road to look for
"Gentle Jane",
(no "the"),
the house had actually been behind me,
- and I never thought to look!

Now I am looking forward to stepping inside
my enchanted house at last,
although the voice of caution tells me
"the magic will be gone,
never go back".

What do you think?

Whenever it happens that I visit
Gentle Jane
I'll let you know how I get on.

Who knows perhaps you will get there before me!

As my dad used to say,

"If I get there before you do I'll leave a chalk mark.
If you get there before me - rub it out"!

Be Blessed Where Ever You Go

Click on this link to see more of what the Gentle Jane looks like now:-
http://www.gentlejane.co.uk/

Dreams or Memories?

Have you some recurring memory that swirls, like an insubstantial mist in your mind from time to time?

The problem is that though the feeling which accompanies the mind-pictures are real, I am never sure whether some of these evocative memories
are really memories at all;
or merely dreams
that have touched me in some way that causes them to linger.

This little water colour
done on gessoed paper,
is an attempt to capture something of one of my recurring
"dream memories".


My feeling is that I was quite small, perhaps a toddler,
and evening was drawing in.
I was cuddled on my father's shoulder against the cold,
and the sense I get is that there was an urgency about him
as we walked up the path
towards the house.

There was the hint of snow in the air,
along with the a strong wind tossing in the bare trees:
the house sitting in the lee of a steep hill.

As we approach the house the door opens,
light streams out
and I feel some of the anxiety of the moment drain away.
And there the fragment ends.

In some way that I can't explain there seems to be a connection
to my grandmother's death
attached to these impressions.

I have no way to check the veracity of this dream memory,
though I do know the house,
and that it at least is real.

When I came to paint my impressions,
as usual ,the subject dictated it's treatment,
and everything was pared down to essentials.

There was so little to hold on to ...
yet it keeps returning.

Perhaps it is important to me
because my father was away at war while I was young
and my memories of him then are so few.

I don't want to give you the idea I sit around
steeped in nostalgia all day
but there is another dream memory which I had already
decided must be totally devoid of any basis in truth,
but has turned out to be real after all.

And really very nice.

Tell you about it in my next post.

Be Blessed .

November Colours

After such a wordy post yesterday it seems good just to have a feast of colour, so here is a taste of the colour left in the garden this sunny November morning.















Last night was Bonfire night so naturally with fires and fireworks there had to be pelting rain and strong winds!




Nevertheless there seemed to be lots of folk having fun - and the garden survived it all well into the bargain.
































































































































There really shouldn't be this variety still in the garden, but the strange weather patterns are causing all sorts of surprises. As it is I can't upload any more photos as my blog publisher is going mad today.

The over-sized print isn't my idea either,but due to the same problem with the automatic publishing. Some of this type spacing is pretty strange too, but hey! like the unseasonal garden, just another
surprise!

May your weekend be full of colour, joy,
and the sweet refreshing dew of rest.

Be Blessed

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.