Searching for clues

 Years ago I produced a slim paper cover A4 booklet called "searching for clues" A little bit of poetry for friends to read and ponder.  I was an earnest soul I think but people seemed to like it.  A few more equally slim booklets followed, each Christmas in lieu of fancy gifts.  I seem to have lost that gift of thoughtful, biblical reflection or maybe it was just a season in life.  Now I blog and have learned and am learning the magic art of writing laments.  I've just read church "focus" bulletin and seen a fellow wordsmith has written his own well crafted lament.

So I thought I would have a go.  I notice that Job, Jeremiah, Habbakuk and many others produced the most wretchedly downbeat songs when things got tough and God didn't seem to mind even if he did tell Jeremiah to get a grip - well maybe not in so many words. I've been really struck by Habbakuk's lament - the words are so pictorial and evocative- even though the fig tree does not bud, and there are no grapes on the vines etc, but he is describing large scale hardship and harrowing famine. We don't, here, have the same but:

I miss normality - whatever that was, when with uncovered faces we could chat

and laugh and read each others' smiles, not just their eyes.  Even as one whose hands do the talking.

Words embodied, not remote and artifically lighted.

Even as an awkward rook I miss singing - factory men whistle and sing why must we be silenced?

Everything feels awkward - I don't know the rules, don't particularly care either

I know it is important, but was it important enough?

To ruin the economy

To finish the careers of older workers

To blight and stunt the growth of those who are low paid

To feed the bloated online retailers - I share that guilt.

Yesterday there was a rainbow arching rain soaked motorway sky

A covenant promise but a promise that is not necessarily a soft option

For those who wait

 

yes, it's choppy prose but I need to keep writing after a relentless day of shivering with the warehouse door open and scanning sick records.  And in every workplace, "flu" seems to be a Friday/Monday thing!!

Tinsel and Turkey?

Rant warning

It's September.  I know Turkey farmers need to calculate how many birds of what size to raise, and toy stockists were ordering back in June - I used to work for a toy supplier.  But it is September, just past the first day of Autumn and despite last night's miserable Prime Ministerial performance Radio 4 is asking if Christmas will be affected/cancelled.  I admit to having bought most presents and some of the food but that is just usual prior planning.

If only.  I cannot see that encouraging home working and effectively trashing the economy, not to mention the shambolic farce that is Brexit will help us.  We don't know what will happen at the end of the week let alone at the end of 3 months.  And I guess that is biblical, today is all we have but finding thanks at the end of the day is sometimes a little bit of a strain!

I'm tired, and so it would seem are a lot of people. 

 

Escape

 

I am not good at taking selfies.  So the above is an attempt to be a bit "arty"  I think I've succeeded in looking a bit wistful and very grey! It's been a steep few weeks really so escaping to my "happy place" Lynton and Lynmouth after the window fitter had been and replaced the rotten bathroom window felt so good.  I spent the Friday afternoon trotting down the hill into Lynmouth and having a cream tea.  Which certainly hasn't done my waistline any good but it cheered me up.

I stayed at an old house turned B&B in Lynton, mainly because it had space and was cheap.  The bed was memory foam and felt ridiculously soft after my "block of concrete" orthopaedic mattress. Surprisingly it was a good way to sleep.  Finding a working and available plug socket was a challenge - the one where the kettle had been optimistically placed was so dodgy I moved it to the gang extension socket under the bed!  Definitely an old house! But there were biscuits in a "Pirate Chest" and a cafetiere - I couldn't cope with sorting that out after a longish day and stuck to decaff.

The lovely owner had brought me tea on the outside lawn so I watched the evening chill and fade whilst hearing the story of Hazel the rescue Russian Blue cat.  She looked like Smoky - our old cat and had a playful sense of fun and gloriously soft fur.  Clearly she ran the place as she had her own chair in the breakfast room and went for a cuddle and a play with all the guests.  Even cat-allergic me.  Hard to resist something that purrs and wants to play even if it isn't quite what I expected in a guest house. Glad I wasn't staying much longer or ventolin would have been the order of the day.

This morning dawned damp and dreary in Lynton but perked up over breakfast with lovely sunshine.  But massive mounting fleece grey clouds loomed over the valley of the rocks.  The little South Sea Islander left abandoned on the bench at the start of the cliff walk had only her solar powered dancing to keep her warm.

Usually the goats are culled at some point but today they were out in force as were the runners chasing times and distances.  So not wanting to risk trekking down the sticky mud into Lynmouth again I went to Charlie Friday's for a coffee and a read amongst the orange, pinks and kingfisher blues that make it such a cheery and award winning place.

Up close and beautiful

 

The very nice thing about online church is that you can listen and worship later in the day than the stated service time! So this morning before the rain set in I walked along the Tiverton canal to "get my steps up" and get a little bit more distance walking.  Well that was the intention pre pouring rain and being totally distracted by the wildlife.

Wildlife camera people must spend hours and even days to get the perfect shots we so casually watch - my limit was shamefully five minutes watching this juvenile, non plumed heron tentatively stabbing the water with his fishing spear beak.  He wasn't very good - mostly he seemed to catch weed.  Originally I thought he was a plastic garden ornament he had been so motionless. Far nicer and more tasteful than a gnome.  Beautiful dove grey with neck ruffles of palest pearl grey.  And blame Dulux if the colours are the wrong way round - I have just spent time looking at paint charts to find the right descriptive words for him!  And black under his wings, with yellow rimmed eyes.

As for the moorhen I suspect he/she was avoiding the youngsters!  The canal was positively a moorhen youngster playground with them swimming in circles, running up and down the banks and plaintively cheeping at their parents. Or anyone's parents perhaps. This moorhen's deep red eyes, bright scarlet and bold yellow shield and smooth, dapper plumage were so close I could have stroked them.  Big yellow paddy feet.

And as the rain started to stair rod I saw that elusive electric blue arrow flash jet past me.  Yes, a kingfisher moment.  Not one moment, but two as he returned ten exultant minutes later.  So today's sermon was on generosity.  And I feel God's smile as I raised my hands in a victory shout of joy.

Small things large hope

 Small things, seeds sown, mustard seeds growing into leggy plants, doing your bit and maybe others seeing the growth.  I listened to the Lee Abbey Summer sessions while doing tea prep.  Bishop Jackie Searle was preaching on the parable of the sower.  Somehow it trickled hope into me that anything I may have done or contributed isn't in vain. It certainly made producing a "spanish style" (sort of) fish stew - olives/fish/left over homemade tomato sauce and leftover veg go more smoothly.  Leftovers - because I sat for an hour last night in the mother of all traffic jams when I should have gone to Morrisons!  So because I had an early swim I did a hasty online delivery for today.

I miss Lee Abbey.  I miss real live church.  But Bishop Jackie used the example of the suffering and persecuted church and their faithfulness.  And somehow that helped.  As does the returning hope of being able to walk longer distances. (small victories)  Today was the first time I put my (empty) walkers rucksack back on and cinched the waist belt, tightened the chest straps.  I know I can fit into my walking trousers - and today for the first time I had no pain swimming.  I'd forgotten the joy of being able to kick hard and also to walk normally without realising it.  My heart goes out to those for whom restriction of movement is life long and for whom pain is a constant.  Realising this week for the first time that I have slept and woken up without pain is a sweet thing.  And I know that in six months time God willing I will have forgotten what serious physical weakness feels like.  At least I hope so.  It's going to take a bit of patience rebuilding the ability to walk up hills.  I'm re reading the Salt Path before going to sleep and what a superb writer Raynor Winn is.  Homeless, with a death sentenced husband, cash strapped yet they walked the South West Coast Path.  I will wait for the sequel the Wild Silence to come out in paperback!