Art and Dusting

 

  

Another little break from the blog, and I've found time to pick up the oil paints again,
and as somebody said they would like to see more of my art work here is one of
Streptocarpus Contre Jour
I'm working on.

It's interesting how I often can see where work is needed
 through the eye of the camera better than straight on.

It's also interesting how much I've managed not to see at all!

I seem to have been oblivious to the grey felt coat that had settled on the furniture and fittings

 during my poorly patch.

 

Against the grain I tackled this slowly,

 one room at a time,

 instead of in the usual whirling dervish swoop through the house I like to do.

 

It was suddenly seeing the cobwebs wafting languorously from the ceiling

 that opened my eyes to the state of things. 

Then I saw that I was sitting, like Miss Haversham,

 in a positive spider-fest of delicately spun, dust- enhanced drapery.  

 

Our spidery friends had been so busy

 that delicate filaments ran from the large jar standing at the top of the stairs,

down to the carpet it stands on,

 for all the world like a mini hawser anchoring it to the floor.

 The corners of rooms

 provided opportunity for long artistic loops and criss-crossings of great complexity.

 Triangular sails fluttered elsewhere.

 

 How come I hadn't noticed?!

 

I admit to feeling somewhat guilty as,

 feather duster and long reach vac attachment to hand,  I removed them,

 wondering how long they had taken to spin,

 how many times they had been repaired,

 and how many  spider families they had supported.

Still I reasoned,

 one of us had to go,

as to paraphrase the old Western movies,

 "This house ain't big enough for both of us." 

 

 - Well yes it is big enough for both of us

 as spiders don't really take up that much room. 

 It's just that I'd rather live without the evidence of their company; 

 or even their company since a large one dropped between my neck and my collar. 

 But that's another story...

 

*

I've also been re-thinking the blog again as bloggers tend to do from time to time.

Asking myself all sorts of questions

 and knowing that one of the answers is certainly that

 each day holds small, seemingly inconsequential wonders worth remarking.

 

There is one much larger wonder from my life I have not shared,

but which I think I should.

 

That too is a story for another time.

 

Many Blessings.

The Flower and The Rock

Sitting on the patio today reading "Awake Mind, Open Heart".

 

The end of the introduction said something to the effect that 

seeking or gaining wisdom can be likened to holding a flower against a rock

 and hoping the flower will grow.

 

Apparently this image is to console us

by pointing to the fact that we may be like the rock

 but we can be patient and hopeful because even with us,

 something will happen over time.

 

As if to underline the point

next to me on the patio was a pot of stones

 into which a single flower from the hanging basket had blown.

 

 

All too often our view of ourselves isn't a true one,

and we incline to listen to the critic within,

 who is always so busy pointing out

 how much better we could and should do,

 or be.

 

Who knows what wisdom, truth, love, or beauty,

 garnishes our spirit even at this very moment

and we haven't even suspected.

 

Perhaps this weekend we can find time to befriend ourselves and begin to realise

 there is more to us than meets our own critical eye.

 

Blessings

Lovely Bit of Life - No3

 

One of the great joys of the two days in Devon with the family

was spending extended time with our great grand son Zachary. 

Having given in to his insistence we have our photo taken
 in the middle of his beach fortress.

 I'm trying not to show how much my aged hips are
 screaming at me for
getting down there. 

 

It's the sort of picture repeated over and over again in every generation,,

 reflecting the great British holiday tradition of sitting on the beach with the children all day.

 

 My childhood memories are of single days out,
 not week long holidays.

 

Weeks before we would actually get to the beach,

 preparations would begin when two neighbours would do a tour
 of the row of houses perched on the Welsh hillside where we lived.

It was their self-appointed job
 to see how much support there was

for an "outing"
 to the sea side for the day.

 

As even this modest excursion was enough to stretch the budget,

 each week leading up to the outing these same two ladies

 would tour the little community collecting instalments towards the cost,

 until, all paid up,

 the longed for day would arrive.

Sandwiches duly cut and packed, thermos filled with tea,

 swimming costumes, bathing caps, and towels packed into everyday shopping bags,

 we would scramble into the bus ready for the off.

 

Once the obligatory head count was over off we would go,

with two adults to a double seat as you would expect,

 but and in those pre- health and safety days,
 three children to a similar seat.

 

It wouldn't be long before the a big bag of sweets would be passed around the bus;

 the result of pooling sweet coupons in those days of post war rationing.

 

It always seemed an age before somebody who knew the route and thus where to look,

 would begin the chant,
 "I can see the sea!  I can see the sea!"

 until it seemed all the bus had cottoned on
 and having glimpsed a bit of the longed for water somewhere,

was able to join the sing-song.

 

Once out of the bus, and the queue for the toilets behind us,

 we headed en-masse for the beach,

where one or two would "bag" our place on the sand,

 not too close to the water's edge,

 to allow us to
 remain in the same place all day

without having to move back when the tide came up.

 

The remainder of the party would hire and carry the stack of deck chairs for the adults,

 which would be arranged
 in one large arc facing the sea.

We kids would sit in the centre of the semi-circle under the eagle eye of the grown ups,

 so all our castle building, squirming in and out of  "cozzies",

 wandering up and down to the sea, and communal paddling,

 was supervised and commented on.

 

Our lunch of sandwiches would be liberally seasoned with sand from our fingers

 and I can still taste the hated cold egg and grit, and the stewed thermos tea. 

 Still, eaten with friends,
 (and if possible swapped for their tit-bits),

with ones toes buried in the cold, wet, sand,

and the smell of the sea in ones nose,

they still went down well. 

 

Our return home at the end of the day would pass

 oh! so much more quickly than our journey to the sea,

and far too soon the old music hall songs we sang all the way,

would come to an end
 as we would tumble out of the bus in the gathering summer dusk,
say our "Good nights",

and go our separate ways.
 

* 

I am slightly sad Zachary will not have these memories of community,

of neighbours who seemed like extended family,

 but he will have his own treasured moments to look back on.

 

He obviously has his own way of collecting these,

and perhaps his drawings of the family,

done on post-its

and stuck to his pyjamas to carry to sleep with him,

means he has already begun.

 

 
Learning to hold those you love close can't start too young,
or last too long can it?

 Blessings

Lovely Bit No.2 -. Up Above My Head

I hope you will forgive this device of "Lovely Bits of Life",

 which seems a bit superfluous given the whole blog is dedicated to

 the wonderful in the everyday.

The reason I'm employing it is to pick up on the fact that

 so much of my recent time has been spent resting and feeling ill,  and then

 "Bingo!"

 there have been extreme contrasts

 of something really beautiful and "other" in between.

For instance, this photo was taken from the patio of a beautifully restored fisherman's cottage hubby and I got to share with our family, a couple of weeks ago.

I hadn't been well enough to spend the whole week there

but we had travelled down by train the night before to spend two days,

 and arrived after dark.

The morning brought this sight of the water front from the patio,

 with the bobbing boats practically at our feet.

  (That's my coffee cup in the lower left hand corner.)

 Above our heads was a blue, blue, sun-filled Mediterranean style sky.

Thinking about the uncertainty, and sheer randomness of life's happening

 it was this palm tree and deep blue sky,

( which could have equally well have been snapped last year
 when we were in Turkey, or Greece),

which somehow spoke to me,

bringing to mind as it did words from the old song,

"Up above my head I hear music in the air".

We may be familiar with the words,

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning .    Ps 30:5

but we never can know the how, or the where of it:

never can know when our mourning will be changed to dancing,

but we can keep faith with the music,

 and the strangely weaving dance of that faith,

which is uniquely ours.

I've included two versions of the song "Up Above Your Head",

(both by women as it happens),

just to emphasise how important it is to

 sing your own song,

in your own way.

Without your voice creation wouldn't be complete.

Who knew Sister Rosetta was such a rocking mama!

Blessings

Lovely bits of Life - No1.The Perfumed Path

 In between feeling lousy I got to feel life was possible a few weeks ago,

 so we pell-melled down to Devon for a few days

 because it is just awful to go so long without glimpsing the sea.

 

We stayed in a small apartment literally across the road from a path which

 linked onto the coastal path.

 

About one hundred and fifty yards down the road was another path

 leading down to the steep drop to the sea.

This is it viewed on the climb from the sea.

 

 

Can you see that for some two or three hundred yards or more

 the path ran between buddleia bushes?

 

 

As the path plunged down amidst the greenery,

except for the occasional glint of blue below the horizon,

the sea was lost to us,

and we were cocooned amongst the sun-hot,

 blue, perfumed, branches waving around us.

 

With the butterflies thick about us,

it felt as if we had stumbled into a timeless place,

where summer was the only time imaginable,

 

 

then as the trees became storm twisted,

 and the nature of the path more rugged,

 the spell was broken. 

                                                                                                                                                 ;- Eddystone Inn,  Heybrook Bay

Passing through a gate,

 we found that conveniently enough the path emerged

near the pub which sat perched over the bay .

Beautiful though they are these coastal paths don't just wander about willy nilly you know!

 

 

May the week ahead offer you some version of a perfumed path,

or the awareness that the one you are on leads to a lovely bit of life of your own.

 

Blessings

 

Lovely Promising Bits of Life

 

Isn't it amazing how often a stony place can bring forth unexpected new life? 

 

After so much time off line I still don't really have anything I can say accept that,

 just like the photo,

there is still  lot of contrast going on between comparative barrenness

 and

some lovely refreshing bits of life for me.  

Just now I am waiting for more test results and hoping there will be indications of what is going on. 

(For those who were kind enough to ask, and I said I was o.k., - I was wrong!)

When I feel more able I will post some of the bits of loveliness,

 but until then how about this? 

As the title suggests it really is a song I find difficult to end once I start to sing.

How about you?

Blessings

Chaos (continued)

Recently, each time I have thought I am getting my life back on track
something has happened to throw me completely.

It's as if I'm being taught some in depth lessons on
chaos and un-predictability.


 

Not that it's all there is,

just that I am being forced to see anew how necessary it is.
 

 

It is the space where we are forced to look and look again.

To make priorities.

To sift the dross,

finding what to discard and what to keep.

 

 The precursor to new discoveries,

new creation,

even resurrection?

 

It's not that I like being unreliable,

or being uncertain whether I will be able to finish what I start.

I certainly don't like being wary about whether
I'll be able to get away for the week we've booked,
or even how we will travel;
but this too is part of the whole.

 

“Chaos is what we've lost touch with.

This is why it is given a bad name.

It is feared by the dominant archetype of our world, which is Ego,

which clenches because its existence is defined in terms of control.”

                                                                      Terence Mc Kenna

Blessings
 

 

 

 

More of the Same, but Indooors

 

I think things are getting back to normal re. my strength and energy levels

 as this morning I went for a foray around the ground floor with my friend Henry.

 

Despite his look of coy invitation,

it is over a month since my home received Henry's ministrations.

 

Hubby had offered his services

 but our floors hadn't reached a sufficient level of crunchiness to risk

putting his "that'll do" attitude to cleaning,

versus my pernicketyness,

 to the test.

 

I admit that as my energy levels have risen this week

 Henry has not been my first port of call.

 

First dibs on my energy went on two oil paintings I re-started.

Here's one that still has quite a way to go.

 

Strange I should think of vacuuming ,

and not going into the studio and picking up my brushes.

as

 "getting back to normal",

 

Well, not so strange when you think of the strict housewifely rules

which were integral to so much of my growing up. 

 

Perhaps I really am learning to "accept the chaos"

 (mentioned in the post My Father is the Gardener)

 in ever more ways.

 

It would be great if a decrease in my pernickety inner ctritic

 could mean an increase in the acceptance of myself and others.

Maybe an increase in such tolerance might even lead

 to an increase in internal or physical energy...?

 

*

 

We all have

 this critical voice,

 so internalised ,

we have long accepted it's demands as our own.

I pray this weekend you will find new freedom to

silence any such harrying voice,

and to hear,

 and make your own,

 the sweet acceptance of all you are;

messy bits and all.

 

Eph 1:6 He has made us accepted in the beloved.

Blessings

 

It's no good looking at me like that Henry,

I don't know when you're coming out again.

 

 

 

 

My Father is the Gardener

 This year, after a late start,

 I am overwhelmed by the lushness of the garden.

 

More than ever

 I am aware of the layers of foliage and colour.

 

 

 So much is in a state

of becoming. . .

 

 

New delights are being formed

by the layers growing from underneath.

 

The fullness of the layers

which have sat so long in place

are pierced and pushed aside

by things I have hardly been aware was there.

 

 There are still the patches where

things haven't really come to growth of course.

 

 

There are other corners

as thick with weed

as the the rest is full of verdure.

 

There they are,

deeply rooted,

and as much part of the whole as what sits on top.

 

 

Almost in the same instant I spy them I remember,

my "Father is the gardener."
 

I remember the urgent need of clearing and pruning.

 

 

Still and all,

I guess I am changing along with the garden,

because

I find myself relaxing.
 

I can forgive the chaos, and accept it,

along with the beauty. 

 

Just the way the Father of our spirits does.

(Heb.12:9)

 

 

 

Be Blessed

 

 

 

The Ups and Downs

Been off-line again due to my health being up and down,

 and my absurdly disappearing energy levels.

 

If I had to visualise the way it feels it would be something like

 this photograph taken from inside a crevasse.

 

 

                                                                                         photo:- Times.co.uk
 

There are times of strength and energy when I feel great,

then suddenly I fall through the hole into utter weakness and weariness.

 

My emotions follow the graph. 

Up and down I go.

Full of joy

t

h

e

n

crying with exhaustion.

 

Sure I've been in similar places before,

 brought by different routes.

 

The heart's anchor appears not to hold.

Discipline which once stilled the soul

 becomes a circle of chattering thoughts.

 

I know the temptation so well.

 

Do not believe.

There is nothing,

nobody.

 

I am not strong

 or even faithful

as I twist and turn in the whirlpool of unresolved thought.

 

The Word comes easily to my memory,

seeming to be neither shield nor sword.

 

I repeat what I once believed,

and not believing, add

 "Help Thou my unbelief"

to the litany.

 

 The prayer of His name sits in every breath,

and still I do not believe.

 

In the end it is a choice.

I remember how it says He set His face like flint...

 

Still not believing

 I set my face to believe.

 

"Fool".

The unrelenting thread goes on,

"Worse,  I am lying to myself..."

But truly I have been this way before.

 

As I make the choice

I come home. 

 

The crevasse is still as deep.

I choose again...

 

"If I go up to heaven you are there,

 if I make my bed in Sheol you are there."

Psalm 139:8

 

Blessings

 

 

P.S.  If you can recognise any of this read http://blueeyedennis-siempre.blogspot.co.uk/ new post

         Blessing in the Chaos.