Send Out Your Light - Part 2



Continuing my testimony of transformation, hope and healing from earlier post.

“You must have shadow and light source both,
 Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.”
                                                                     Rumi
 



 Before I can begin my story proper I should fill in some of my back story

 and let you in to at least some of the darkness.

I promise not to linger here any longer than necessary;
just enough to set the scene in preparation for the extraordinary,
 demonstrably powerful,
light of healing.
 

The part of the story that matters here began when I was around five years old

 and developed a tell tale butterfly shaped rash on my face,
 which with other symptoms, signified
 lupus erythematosus
 

I only retain three vivid memories of this time.
 

 Above all else I remember the intense burning of the skin on my face,

 then there is the picture of a bevy of white coated men standing in a semi circle around me

 talking about me as I sit perched on something that feels a long way off the ground

 in the middle of a shiny sort of room.
 

The third memory is to do with Miss Protheroe.
 

 She was our fearsome infants' school head mistress

 and I can see her now on the day she bore down on me as I played in the sunny school yard.

 Her mighty bosom billowed over my head as she caught me by the hand

 and wordlessly stumped me along to her office.
 

 I wondered what I was in for.

 

The shady room was a cool caress to the red hot patches on my face,

 even as I quaked with anticipation of what was to come. 

 To my surprise she sat me down and produced a large fluffy powder puff

covered in some white dust she explained was boric acid powder

 to soothe my "poor face".

Far from being soothing, the boric acid powder
seemed to increase the scorching irritation of my skin;
    my fear of Miss Prothereoe it forever eased.

Thinking of it now I realise there is a fourth memory.

Forming a background to everything else was my mother's distress.

I don't know what she had been told back then,

 but time was to tell that lupus pointed to a faulty immune system

 which could not be mended.

I have no memory of my recovery or the disappearance of the rash,
I do know how the subsequent years were marked with frequent illness.

My mother used to joke that

if somebody with something wrong only passed the end of the road

I would catch whatever they had.

For  me it as no joke to miss week after week of school,
returning to find the intensive grammar school programme had moved on so fast
I was forever scrabbling to catch up.

As hard as that was,
harder still was the constant sense of isolation when
on each return
hard won friendships were
lost to newly formed cliques.

The desperate exhaustion, and painful joints
 which had become part of my life

 flared into something more serious
when I was sixteen.

I was diagnosed with sub acute bacterial endocarditis,(SBE),

whisked into hospital, and began what I did not then know was to be
 two bed bound years.

 

These days an intensive course of  medication would probably
 be deemed enough to combat the infection,

 but back then as well as the antibiotics, analgesics, and steroids,

 complete bed rest was believed to be necessary to alleviate heart damage.

 

I think most patients on a public ward would agree 

 above and beyond our own symptoms and fears for ourselves,

 being surrounded by the sickness of others
 is the most scary and depressing thing of all.

  It certainly was for me.

At first I was in the feverish stage of SBE,

  too sick to know or care about where I was

 or who my fellow patients were.

 

Despite the large doses of analgesics the intense pain in my joints was ever present,

 and through my haze of fever and medication

 I could hear a constant metallic syncopation going on in the back ground.

 Then it dawned on me
 my heart was racing so hard

 it's rhythm was carrying through the rigid hospital mattress to the metal bed frame,

 setting up a constant clacking. 

 I had my own personal castanets!

To be continued

Send out Your Light - Part 1

Acrylic on Canvas

It seems that everywhere I go the conversation turns to how bad things are.

The sense I get is that people generally feel let down by the powers that be,

and the old certainties that have failed us.

Around us are the catastrophes and instability of the world at large,

and in our own backyard,

our own lives,

 we experience need we at a loss to know how to deal with.

In spite of this evidence that the world is a dark place,

 down all the centuries there have been voices assuring us 

that behind it all the force of creation, 

of life itself,

 is one of light,

 and of love.

In all honesty we have to say from what we see around us,
 this doesn't make sense.

In the deepest part of my heart though,
 like most of us I guess,
I always peered into the darkness and suffering I saw,
with the yearning that somehow there would be the light of healing, love, or freedom.
 

The question always remained,
"How could love let this darkness be?
 

All too often my own answer has been 

"If there is light and love behind all this I can't see it"
 more than that,
"If it is there and allows this,
I don't want to know!"

Yet, here I am,
despite myself and my own cynical and doubting nature, 

joining my voice with those who speak of

 the abiding presence of light and of love,
simply because I have seen and experienced it.

 I admit to being apprehensive as to how much to say,

 or what is appropriate to tell because it will mean going back into dark places which,
though healed,
are not places I like to re-visit.

What I do know is that I need to tell it like it is, 

(perhaps in fits and starts,
 or in a torrent,)
however I can),

 so I can give others the chance to hear about
 the light that came into my darkness.
and therefore can come into anyone's.

You need to know before I begin my story that I will call the light "God",

but you do not need to subscribe to that name if it doesn't sit well with you.

I have become convinced
the light is there for you under any name or none. 

Blessings

The Dark of the Year

Here we are

 with the dark evenings

suddenly having taken that leap forward they always do

when we put our clocks back an hour.

 

The curtains are closed early.

 

Some of us embrace the darkness
 at Halloween;

disguising ourselves,
 in an ancient attempt to fool the dark forces,

and pass unrecognised and unharmed

 through it's ranks.  

 

I write this on Guy Fawkes Night and the bonfires are blazing

 and the fireworks cracking the night open

 as we take another tack,

arming ourselves,

 defiant against the dark

by gathering to warmth and light of our own making.

 

 

I was reared in the blackout nights of the second world war,

when we scurried between our neighbours houses and our own

on the unlit Welsh hills.

Family ghost stories engrained in us,

 lending panic.

 

It seemed to my child's mind that God must be other than this fear and darkness.

 

Somehow or other grace led me to long for the Light I knew must God,

and to be filled with this Light.

 

In my childish way I pictured a lantern,

 and asked to have "clean glass" 

for His light. 

 

Amalfi lanterns

 

Many years later I found the words which confirmed His nature and His promise.

"I am the light of the world.

Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness,

but will have the light of life."

John 8:12

 

And, incredibly, his promise to us of our share in His light and life.

"You are the light of the world.

A city on a hill cannot be hidden.

neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl,

instead they put it on a stand,

and it gives light to everyone in the house.

In the same way let your light shine before men,

that they may see your good deeds

and praise your father in heaven."

Matt 5:14-16

 

The offer is complete. 

 We so imperfect, and ordinary in ourselves can be part of the light in a dark world.

 

Knowing myself as I do

It seems impossible

 but we are not meant to measure ourselves by our own yardstick,

but by a light of love beyond measure.

 

It is for us simply to give ourselves to the Light and Life of God

as much as we, by grace, are able.

 

I love these words of Tagore, and have often prayed them.

 

Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.
-----Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every side,
and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment.
-----Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.
-----Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will,
and thy purpose is carried out in my life - and that is the fetter of thy love.

 Gitanjali  Song 34

 

I cannot think of a better way to face the dark of the year,

or the dark of life

can you?

 

Blessings

 

 

 

 

Visiting The Public, West Bromwich

Today I went to view a friend's M A ceramics exhibition being held in an

 exciting open gallery/ entertainment/ meeting place in West Bromwich.

This wonderful place is called The Public

Sadly it is closing in November to become a college,

 but even more sadly the interior is to be completely gutted

and all the lovely design destroyed.

To find out the history of The Public you can go to

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Public

Here is how it looked today in all it's glorious pinkness.

I lost track of the number of floors when I got inside.

Was it three or four floors I climbed through from the reception area?

The thing is, you can take the lift,

but the way to appreciate the building and the art work fully is by
climbing the winding ramps and suspended walk ways.

 With the reflective surfaces, changing light patterns, sounds effects, and open drops, 

this was not wonderful for my vertigo but
 rich in stimulation of the senses.

(I know it's very tame compared with Frank Gehry interiors
 which I've visited and found more challenging).

 The labels attached to this ramp are tied by local people who were invited
 to catalogue their appreciation of the building

 and what has happened in it since it opened.

 There were lovely interactive art installations on the ramps,

 though this great photo of mine shows none of them.

 I made electronic music,
 watched videos,
 shared laughter,

sent an animated bird-like creation flying around the ramps
 by dancing on an electronic pad,

and much more.

  

Here I am becoming part of the art work.

Fortuitously I was wearing toning pink which fit in with the décor!

Back on the ground floor
 and gravitating to a welcome little tooth full of something in the restaurant

 there were more yellow labels on the chairs.

 

The one at my table said

"It's good that people can come here,

have a snack,

 and meet other people".

I think that says it all really.

The Public

 has provided a magnificent space for the people of West Bromwich.

A focus, and a platform for them,

 and for folk from further afield.

 Where will the knitting group meet

 when this community space is closed I wonder?

The decision to lease the building to a local college

 has been taken by the local government authority

who created a trust to run The Public.

Despite the increasing volume of visitors

 no doubt the cost of running it has prompted the decision.

I wonder if it has taken a while for local people

 to begin to realise the full potential

 of this courageous venture?

  Now it is buzzing,
 and appreciation for it growing,

 alas, too late.

Money aside, are we too conservative,

 too timid,

or too quick to look for possible negatives,

 to take up new experiences,

allow them to mature,

and make the most of them

I wonder?

 Blessings

Just walking.... P.S.

The sense of tears turning to joy
 is written in
 the dying of the year at autumn
which holds in it's heart

 the seed for the rising of the new life of spring.

 The whole resurrection story is here

 written in creation for us to read.

 

And if for the grass of the field how much more so for us!

Today the rain,

 tomorrow the sunshine.

 

Today the letting go and the dying,

tomorrow the receiving of the new, and re-birth.

 

Truly
 "To every season there is a time..."

Listen to Judy Collins and Pete Seeger sing his timeless classic,
"Turn, Turn, Turn".

(It's got a bit of a cheesy intro but that only takes a moment!)

 

Be Blessed

 

Just Walking in the Rain

This Sunday my walk around the village and it's by- ways

 could not have been more different from last week.

 

The golden autumn has given way to rain soaked grey,

 but don't you think the sodden colours of the greenery is wonderful?

 

 

 

 Truth to tell the weather reflected my own mood.

 

You might know the feeling

when it's as if the rain drops are tears

 you are trying not to shed.

 

We live in a world where the pressure to be

"HAPPY"

all the time is pretty constant,

yet how many of us actually arrive at this state of bliss?

 

Sometimes we walk in the rain and not the sun,

and I think that's alright,

don't you?

 

Of course I'm not talking about a state of depression

 which is an illness asking to be taken seriously. 

I am thinking of

 those odd times when melancholy calls us

 to a place of reflection,

perhaps of rest and withdrawing for a while

 to re-evaluate.

 

 

 Losses or hurts of all sorts, great or small, accrue in our lives,

 which we need to come to terms with

before we can set our sights

 on a clearer path ahead.

 

It's good when there is

 a friend ready to walk this bit of rainy path with us,

truly listening,

and helping us find

 that bit of light and healing

 we need to speed our way.

 

I have been privileged in my counselling days

 to accompany many on parts of their journey,

even as I have been helped many times myself.

 

Times of sadness

 rightly used

 can be the spring board to seeing

the brighter colours and clearer light

waiting to enter our lives.

 

Be Blessed

  

A Sunday walk

Today was golden with a June-like warmth, and sweet, mellow, autumn sunlight.  

A perfect day to go for my first real walk for months.

 

You can come with me, courtesy of my phone camera.

 

  As ever I start from my beloved park,

 where the trees at the edge of the golf course are beginning to turn their

 various shades of autumn auburn.

 

 On, over the footbridge and into the village , this handsome Georgian house sits on the corner,

 next to some older, but up-dated houses.

 The hand rail on the right runs alongside the footpath to the church,

but I walked up Church Road which lies alongside the house. 

 

Two horse riders,

 (of which there are many in the lanes and roads in and around the village today),

amble companionably along. 

The sound of  hooves breaking the afternoon silence of the lane

 lent a timelessness to the moment. 

 

  The field which is usually full of horses is empty.

The usual tenants must be part of the increase in equine traffic today.

  The village allotments,

(plots of land which are rented by the year to grow vegetables, fruit and flowers),

are being given their pre-winter tidy up.

Fruit and veg is harvested amid the blaze of dahlias,

 chrysanthemums,

 and Michaelmas daisies

 

 Back in the main village,

 the old houses straddle the street in front of the church.

 These cottages date from the 1680s. 

In those days this road, (still called the Birmingham Road),

 was the main road between Coventry and Birmingham,

 and was probably much busier then than it is on this sleepy Sunday,

 when the main artery is the A45 which by-passes the village.

 These cottages on the opposite side of the road were built approximately a century later,
around 1760.

The Old Stone House dates from 1600,

 and I have heard stories that it is haunted by the ghost of a roundhead soldier,

 but as Emily Bronte says in Wuthering Heights,

 it is hard to believe in unquiet spirits on a day such as this.

 

 

Back over the footbridge which links the village with the park.


 






The beech trees are still freckled by the buttery sun,

and as the afternoon shadows lengthen and tea time calls,

 families linger to enjoy the last rays before the autumn dews begin to fall.

 

My own street is much more mundane than the historic village centre but,

 despite my love for my native Wales,

 I still feel greatly blessed to live in this lovely part of England.

 

May your own place on this beautiful planet

Be Blessed

Today

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