Angels

 It must be hard to be an angel

Wherever, whenever they show up in the Christmas story

they spend the first five minutes saying "don't be afraid"

I wonder, idly, what it must be like to be that intimidating

It's hard, at 5ft, to intimidate anyone - I struggle to get a drink in a bar:

to make my voice heard - this Christmas, my parent tells me "I'm not deaf - it's you"

The angels rock choir turns up, excited and unable to contain themselves for joy

and a tight knot of boys with sheep guarding duties gets a look in on cosmic events.

How like the God I try to worship to tell me "don't be afraid" - he knows I need to hear it

And how like God to spill over into the black darkness of our world in a way that my mind can't handle

Dictates from on high

 Someone in power issues an edict and the ripples and rivulets of this decision

impact a teenage couple and their relations

Pregnant, uncomfortable, not good for travel - I am sure Mary and Joseph had plans for a birth

at home, surrounded with love, somewhere for a loved child.

But, instead after a tedious, unwanted isolated journey, they arrive 

and Jesus is born - laid in the hasty equivalent of a drawer lined with straw.

An animal feeding box, for a treasured boy.

This morning, isolation threatens - again.

Sometime, someone  in power will issue an edict

And the ripples and rivulets of this decision

 will impact families.  Loved ones in care homes,

people in their twenties longing for parties and the relief of some fun.

Lonely and vulnerable people, those who struggle with solitude.

the workers for whom WFH means a cramped space on a sofa in a shared house.

The packers and drivers, small companies and supply chain workers

And their families.  Minimum waged, lacking in paid sick pay.

Many on zero hours contracts.

But the people on high couldn't give a toss.

what is a little decision like that to them?

it's not like they will feel the impact

For them, the party will go on.

Gaudete

 Gaudete.  Rejoice, Joy sunday.  A pink candle on the Advent wreath. And I am grateful,  This Advent, for Jesus, born of Mary, for Mary whose willingness to be part of this at such cost enabled it all.  For the light in my own darkness.  This year, no depression, no SAD.  Beyond a little bit of seasonal grumpiness and lethargy.  For the light of Jesus, which means there is hope this dark season with threats of COVID/Omnicron/rising taxes, rising prices.  Rejoice - and roll up your sleeves and work to make the kingdom come!

Why the explosion of joy?  Quite simply I have a negative covid test despite being pinged by the app, and an eye watering, nose bleeding 24 hours of anxious waiting.  We are surrounded at work by drivers, warehouse staff, trainers, and managers and office staff.  We have strict rules - masks, sneeze screens, temperatures taken, wiping down desks, phones each evening.  But as I had a cold, and my colleague has children in school - it was a possibility.  And now I feel like those TV photos of calves being let out to fresh grass in Spring.  Except - I still have not much more than a squ eak for a voice from oral steroids.

I have listened to Gaudete - that amazing vocal classic by Steeleye Span, both the original 1970s version and a more modern version by them.  Their voices sound even better. Haunting.  For an absolute non musical philistine, this Advent I have discovered "Hills of the North Rejoice" and the song Judith hated - "Lo, he comes with clouds, descending" admittedly awful (aweful?) words but a fabulous tune which even a non singer like me can have a go at belting out at a good volume.

The 24 year old lass who plays the organ at St Marks likes to "make the windows rattle" and it is a good sound.  It's just that I feel I am in a time warp,  But having had a year of online worship, I'm just so glad to be around. Because I will always be grateful to Belmont chapel, my home, who gave me so much.  To whom I must seem so ungrateful.  But, in a congregation which barely tops 50 worshippers, it is a little easier not to drown.

Prophets and Profits

 Today is another candle on the wonky Amazon fake greenery Advent wreath.  As a complete newbie to all things traditional, Anglican and higher than the St Leonards end of church, I have learned these candles have meaning - except this seems to vary, depending on which wikipedia source you read!  Nothing strange there.

Personally I like the "Patriarchs/prophets/Mary/John the Baptist explanation for the three deep red candles.  The third one is, apparently, rose - the "joy" candle.  Quite frankly my candle is Barbie pink! The white candle is the middle is the light of Christ and that I light every morning when I pray as it is any excuse to have some light on a dark Winter morning.  For some reason, this fills me with joy.  I have my fairy lights up in the front room and when my non church going friends from work come for dinner, Emily says "you can't have them up, it's not December" I tell her that they are Advent fairy lights !!!  Any excuse for multi colour living room joy.

At work we have corporate Christmas cutouts of snowmen/reindeer/elves and penguins(?) in the appropriate group colours pinned to our "Sneeze screens" and tinsel around everything.  I've been given an Elf crew mug, and Friday's Christmas jumper for Save the Children day.  I love it, I am not scrooge, it's just there is something in me, deeply, that wants to keep Christmas as that twelve days festival that starts on Christmas Eve.  Ex.cept you know I won't.  I will give in and put the tree up

Beginnings

 Last week I went to my first Tai Chi class. Having wanted to do something martial-arty for years.  So, as Pilates practice made my neck feel worse and the classes were expensive and at times that I coudn't make, I decided to be brave and go see for myself.

It's always difficult being the clueless newbie! Last year, that was me at work, this year it is me trying my best to follow the demonstration of our tutor, who looks like a buddhist monk - shaved head, gentle demenour (he works in a physio as a therapist)  He moves like a crane, dancing with it's wings outstretched.  Flowing and smooth.  But he's the tutor so he should be a master of his craft.

We start with an awareness/breathing exericse to loosen up and I breathe a sigh of relief and wish I'd not had to rush home from work/had so much tea.

45 minutes later I am trying to remember my left from my right - I didn't last the whole "beginners form" class, but sat and watched the last 15 minutes.  It's hard - to focus, to flow, to be gentle and precise, when all my sport has been strength based - swiming, walking, lifting a few weights, cycling in the gym. None of these prepared me for the subtle shifts and transfer of weight and what he described as "moving meditation" although, for me, swimming can feel like prayer.

I will go back again and remember that it takes 36 hours of practice at least - to master the beginner's form. 

Remember

It's good to remember

And I marked it, standing in pitch black, 

listening to an owl relentlessly calling.

Swirling and scribing liquid fire 

Scattering star sparks

And standing in wonder.

Looking at friends faces

wondering like small children

Fully alive.

COP26

 It's hard to listen to the news sometimes isn't it?  Domesday has been the theme for so long - Covid19 and now COP26.  

It's very tempting to stick your head under the duvet and pretend it all isn't happening.  It's such a complicated, inter-connected world after all.  Greta Thunberg is well intentioned, but she annoys most of the folks I have worked with - think it is her simplictiy of vision, her contention that we must act, without any idea of the cost implication of how complex societies will implement the ideas she champions.  She certainly annoys me if I am honest.

This week, I have shouted at my TV - some show on saving money and the planet - listing the changes as ground source heat pumps - but "you'd need a big garden" oh and they are ridiculously expensive, electric or hybrid vehicle - expensive and nowhere yet to charge it in Terrace-house land.  What, I wonder, will they do with all the scrapped conventional cars?  Let alone that most mechanics are, apparently, not trained in dealing with this technology.

I did a quick "carbon footprint" calculator  - WWF, because an article on BBC news tells me that the sustainable footprint is 2.3 - well, no surprise that I am above that, even with a simplish life - I drive to work and I don't think 15 miles by bike is going to happen anytime soon.

But, positive, small steps.  I have swapped to a veg box, delivered on a more affordable plan, and a couple of other changes too.  There are some lovely, positive podcasts on BBC sounds that I would recommend - 39 ways to save the planet and also People fixing the planet which is from BBC world service.. From harvesting locusts for livestock feed, to building multi-storey homes with wood, not concrete and many other innovative and genuinely encouraging things.

There is enough doom and gloom in the world even if it is needed.

Flames

 A friend of mine, Morag Lobley has a book of "poems and wonderings" published.  It's called "Flames" and is available from Bridge Books or I can get a copy.

It's excellent - Morag writes from her heart as she says in her introduction - and she can certainly write!  There are reflections on bible characters, on current events, and on Jesus.  Most touchingly, there is a section on grief.  I don't have experience of loss like this, but for my own much smaller loss, I have found her poem "Steps" very, very resonant, as a friend has said to me, "Judith would have wanted you to enjoy life" - which she would, of course!

"Steps" Morag Lobley (Flames)

He died..

And I said,

I choose life,

Not knowing how big a step that was.

The next day

 I chose life again

and the next....

How

    many     

        steps?"

Poems drive deep into our hearts.  I used to write, but I find that I can't write that kind of thing so well, so will make do with blogs!  There will be a blog soon on my adventures in the South Hams, when I have a bit of headspace.

SAD - for beginners!

 SAD - seasonal affective disorder.  It's not "winter blues" even if I may tell you it is.  I have been doing some reading around as it is something I have experienced, as regularly as the seasons, for about 10 years.

It starts, usually for me, as the light wanes, early September and kicks in as the clocks change bringing dark mornings, dark evenings.  It starts to lift in February - as the light changes.

I read that if you have 2 or more episodes, it is diagnosed.  That would be two years of miserable winters!

The treatment varies - for me, the ususal "have you tried a light box" works not at all.  I take a bit more anti-depressant in the winter - my brilliant doctor and I have worked on a pattern that is effective although the weight gain makes me snarl in total utter frustration.  It is a very miserable side effect.

The best things are simple: SAD makes me want to sit on the sofa, go to bed early and hibernate and not see people.  It is like one of Harry Potters Dementors - it draws the life and energy out of you, leaving you no energy to do the good things that work.

So each Autumn I make a plan.  This usually involves me booking an early swim, and forcing myself to walk for 10 minutes outside even if it is just about light, before work.  Planning meals - otherwise I eat chocolate! And I start to plan a spring holiday - in this case it will be in March, two walking days in Cornwall. St Ives - beautiful in Spring, horribly crowded in Summer.

I'm planning on leaving my trainers by the door, so that I practically fall over them because I work 40 hours and that's a fairly long day.  I need to get out.  I'm preaching to myself here.

Being honest to friends is another good strategy.  And now I'm off to swim!

Shades of Autumn

 "Bereavement" (Ann Lewin"Waiting for the Kingfisher"

Dark place

Where, vulnerable, alone,

We lick the wounds of loss.

Wise friends say little,

But hold us in their love,

And listen.

There are no guarantees,

Only reports from those

Who've been there. 

That there is hope,

And life persists."

The words above say it far better for me than words of my own.  

I lit an early morning candle for Judith in the Cathedral, a place about which, working professionally for the diocese, she had very mixed feelings.  It helped me anyway.  

It's the little things I miss - teasing her that everything has to match - toilet rolls, towels, soap, washing up liquid - who on earth matches their washing up liquid to the colour of their kitchen?  Judith did.

Hearing her voice in my head, quietly and sanely responding.  Walking on Dartmoor - crossing a river on a sluice gate because "the map says there is a path" and me saying "but it isn't on the ground" The retort was a cross "well it should be" I couldn't argue but we ended up wringing out socks and tipping out boots after ploughing through sodden marshy ground the other (safely path strewn) side of the river.

Listening to the endless search for an impossible item of clothing - straight trousers in a year of flappy wide ones, white sandals (!) in a year of navy blue. And wondering who else cleans window frames on an evening when you could be sitting in the garden with a book?

I think it will be standing room only at her funeral.

September ups and downs

 What a September!  A little summary should follow I think.  We have had weeks working in a tiny training room and now we have been unleased on the remodelled new office.  Comments vary from "airport lounge" - blue carpet, white walls, gregory logo obscured glass breakout rooms, lots of space.  It's much nicer but at the moment, oh so noisy!  Myself and Stacey are in the cool, quiet corner but we face three noisy managers who shout at their laptop microphones when they should be using their headseats.

We are surrounded by piled up dismantled desks, emptied cardboard boxes, discarded ceiling light boxes. But it is clean, light and I like it!

Sandwiched in between was a holiday in Cornwall. Most of the week the skies were like this:

The usual mix of some lovely coastal waks, amazing smoked salmon and scrambled egg breakfasts, leisurely coffees and a bit of touristy shopping in Porthleven. And lazy evenings watching sunsets and Netflix.

It's hard to write a blog sometimes.  

This is one of the times, because for the last few months, my long time friend Judith has been slowly losing her fight with cancer.  To put it into perspective, I've literally known Judith half my life.  We walked together in the same walking group, worshipped together in St Leonards church, laughed and, in my case cried together, through my divorce.  And then as she had her first and second cancer diagnoses.  Through losing her parents, through losing my job - several times, redundancies are common these days.

I'd been to my aunty and uncles. A long day, a long drive.  I poured a tin of G&T.  The phone rang - Judith. "I have spine cancer" I remember saying to her "did you just say...." Hard to take it in. 

Cancer is such a bastard.  It takes the gentle, wise, stubborn friend.  Who hated floppy trousers - wide legs - such as I will wear to her funeral.  Whose warm smile and enthusiasm and cry of "mmm" when presented with anything she liked, I am sorely missing. Who had to have all film and TV references explained as she was too busy being kind to people.

September is a lovely month.  But I will remember Judith with love.

Playing with Fire

This week I have been for one of those box ticking exercises inflicted by the NHS - a health check.  I have a suitably bruised arm from a fairly novice blood taker, and an instruction to walk more - despite being in the "active" category which apparently very few are!! Madness.  Didn't need any encouragement - I swam at 8am and then went to Knightshayes to walk.  The kitchen garden is always the best bit - lovely shapes and the fragrances of herbs.  The weird and twisty shapes.  The bright dahlias and sunflowers lifted my heart.  Quiet trees and needle strewn paths and an avoidance of the honey pot of the tea shop!

Afterwards, I helped my friends in their project of a garden: I was their bonfire warden, after telling them last time that I wanted to be the one to light the fire:  I left too long between visits so the fire was a damped down, smouldering ash heap with blackened stumps but a heart of glow and embers.  My job to wake the dragon!

Fire. Warmth, light, danger, safety, flickers of orange dancing up around green mottled wood. Feeding it air and fuel to awaken it. 

The hissing and crackling as green leaves and fir branches went on.  Explosions of sparks from the giant fire cones - nature's fire lighters, resinous and eventually alight and blackening.  I couldn't stop staring into it's depths as the tiger flames hungrily curled into the green wood. White smoke curled and billowed up and out, drifting across the grass. Ashes swirl around the firepit.  

Standing and watching, feeling the warmth on shorts and bare legs, sign of the spirit, life and unpredictability, holiness and an edge of challenge.  And because I am overthinking as I write, what I actually thought was "other people invite you to a barbecue, here it's me being barbecued"  It was a shame we didn't have chocolate biscuits and marshmallows to toast - it was reminding me of being a guide, and building fires to cook on - going home reeking of woodsmoke and happiness.

Tarka Trailling

 

Yesterday I kicked myself out of a cosy-duveted bed to walk in North Devon.  I think I drove on auto-pilot, fuelled by Tesco chocolate milk from the meal deal I picked up as I had a couple of small glasses of red wine the previous night and that is more than enough to make me feel fairly seedy. Enough not to want to make a packed lunch at 6.30am.  

Parked up in the train station carpark at Barnstaple, the lure of a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich called to me.  It's been a tough week.  An old friend from St Leonards died from kidney and lung failure - I found out, by text, at work. And a long term friend is slowly losing a brave battle with cancer.  Steadfast friend that I am, I find it hard - it's the August that does it - the same month as I lost another friend 6 years ago.  Memories!

Fuelled, and fortified and very slightly more awake I walked up to Fremington Quay.  North Devon is like Cornwall - full of holiday folk ; Tarka shared his trail with a huge rush of bikes - families with little kids on bright bikes, elderly folks on electric bikes, and lycra clad men who thrashed past at speed.  

And the occasional walker. I passed one flagging couple as I walked back and we had a little banter about tea and cake - his knee looked dodgy but I hope he made it as the cake is very nice.

It set me up for an epic battle with the weeds, grasses, and most of all the brambles of Kathy/Peter/Morag's overgrown "secret garden"  A very warm battle, indeed but so mind altering in a good way.  Hard work digging out a border with good company and a very huggable labrador who likes to share her beautiful blonde fur with me.  All over my navy shorts!

It's the time of year that nature goes spectacularly to seed.  Weeds and wilds.  People are like grass - they don't last.  Not forever.  Not on this earth anyway.  Not for now.  But in nature I know nothing goes to waste.

Gay Lego and why we need other people

 

Back in June I bought my first set of lego for many many years.  Diverse, respectful of Trans and non white heritage, beautifully striped, neatly made, it has sat on my shelf with the figures all orderly and sat on their right coloured stripes.

It feels like a brave and happy thing.  I don't see being made in God's image as a problem to be solved, or something that I need to hide or cringe about anymore. If Exeter had had Pride this year, I  would have donned a purple "Christians at Pride" T shirt and joined in, or been a steward if allowed to volunteer.  What an incredible transformation those words are from the person who would have argued that God's will was singleness.  I still opt for singleness, but know that this is a happenstance, a chosen option, not a forced decision because of who God has made me.

Yesterday my lego got rearranged. First the figures waved - that was the total extent of my tranformation.  My spiritual director, delighted at seeing the completed set, which she had first seen as heap of little plastic shapes tipped out on her table, moved the black lady to the pink spot.  And vice versa.  I felt slightly uncomfortable. Change very rarely comes at my hand!

"Leave it on your shelf" she said "your visitors will play"  Not just the visitors but the homeowner. It occurred to me that transposing the colours and the wigs would be far more fun.  

And so it is.

At work, I make tiny modifications, ususally when prompted.  Today, doing church felt awkward, happy, strange and encouraging - singing - weird - talking over tea and excellent sticky pastries to celebrate our vicar going on maternity leave.  I'm still trying to work out where an overthinking, friendly person who would prefer to blog and to read fits in. But in all contexts of my life I am very slowly and hesitantly learning that as much as I need other people maybe they also need me.

Hillsong

 Last night I caught up on watching a documentary on Hillsong church.  My colleague Marcus had mentioned watching it.  It followed the development of the brand, the mega church, the power and influence of the main pastor and his all white, mostly all male leaders through many nations.

It was very difficult to watch, in that I am middle aged, a follower of Jesus, and I was never, ever cool, one of the in crowd - I always felt an outsider at school.  When I was a teenager, I was part of a church that edged towards this level of control, power encounters with God, a family who led and still lead the church.  It didn't do much for my young faith except lead to one incredibly unwise decision that I wasn't equipped to make.

Occasional forays into a scaled down version of Hillsong would be the women's conferences held by my friend's church in Cheltenham racecourse.  With lights, big screens, smoke machine, powerful speakers, prayer ministry, and the gimmicky and expensive goodie bags and merchandising.  I felt uncomfortable, awkward, manipulated, yet I found it a memorable experience because my good friend loved it so much. It was time spent with her where she found God at work. That meant a lot to me.  

So I can see the appeal.

The young pastor, tattoed, with "fedora, leathers, skinnies and boots" the hillsong brand "starter kit" was incredibly passionate about living all out for Jesus.  It is so hard to question that, it is an attractive thing.  But the film did make me think - this is all about image, all about numbers, "insta" and selfies - particularly the selfies and filming at the holy sites in Jerusalem were awkward - other christians were lost in devotion, these cool young guys were like tourists with little understanding of their faith but so much enthusiasm. 

Despite all the abuse - a history of sexual abuse not reported, abuse of power, control, money irregularities, I felt conflicted.

Here is a church which gets young people committed to Christ, to reading the bible, to bringing their friends to church.  It provides a home and family for the lost and lonely, the city kids, the damaged.

It is smart, it is definitely somewhere you would not be ashamed of attending.  It has amazing music, quality drama, plaform speakers whose rhetoric is easy to digest.

And yet, and this is a criticism levelled at me, it seemed so far from the Jesus in the gospels. I know I hide my faith too often, I know it is isn't centre stage sometimes and these extrovert guys just want the world to know they love Jesus - what is not to like about that?

Like the young pastor, I pray I will have Jesus' integrity, his honour, his love and ability to sacrifice.  I just wonder if that is what my colleagues see, worked out day by day.

On middle aged reading

 This morning I met up with a friend for tea and cake.  We shared a lemon muffin chosen on the basis of eeny-meeny-miney-mo, or however it is actually spelt.  Sharp, sweet, light and very good but how you eat an entire one on your own I am not sure.

My friend loves books - we used to be in the same bookgroup.  She likes the kind of books where nothing happens but there is lots of meaningful dialogue and deep and intensely thought provoking ideas floating around.  I like thrillers, murder mysteries, nature books, history and straightforward biographies.  It is a good thing we are different, as it allows our ideas to cross-pollinate.

Currently I am reading Monty Don "My garden world" which is when my friends tells me I am becoming very middle aged.  She has a huge crush on Monty Don - I once tried to find her a calendar featuring him, but obviously I wasn't too successful. Firemen, footballers, nature scenes but not BBC2 style garden show presenters.  I tell her that I am a one woman weed destruction machine, having spent several hours clearing what friends jokingly call "Armegeddon" - a patch of nettles, thistles, grasses and the odd gnome and dog toy that ramps joyfully at the back of their equally generously built house.

I like the book.  He has a gentle countryman's style, and it is written as if it were a series of seasonal blogs, describing the flora and fauna in his extensive garden and Welsh hill farm. It feels soothing after a day of staring at screens.  Some of the plants I know, most I don't so it is slowly educating me.

As for the fauna - I loved reading that Pine Martens are more common these days. I remember my delight in seeing a stoat on the footpaths around Lee Abbey and the thought of seeing this beautiful little predator with it's neat creamy chest, compact ears and chocolatey back makes me very jealous indeed!

I enjoy his writing on birds the most.  Woodpeckers, sparrow hawks, cuckoos, garden birds.  Lots to enjoy.  It has been a busy few weeks.  I realised, today, sitting in the garden with a glass of rioja and a decent sausage casserole, that I hadn't had a spare Saturday for a while. Even going round Morrisons felt like normality.

Edward's demise

 There is a folk legend that King Edward 2 was murdered, unpleasantly, with a red hot poker inserted somewhere you don't even want to think of having such a thing.  Gruesome tales have a way of making a visit to a castle very exciting.  Maybe for small children but also for me.  Berkeley Castle is privately owned and I am sure that pre Covid it was a lot more fun to visit.  But restrictions meant that a lot of the attractions seemed to be closed.  The castle didn't seem to make much of the legend either - advising me, soberly, that he was probably smothered with a pillow.  Oh dear.

My temper hadn't been improved by being unceremoniously dumped on a small road by my Sat Nav, announcing "you have arrived at your destination"  Which I clearly hadn't. The castle is very straightforward to find if you use the road atlas!

 But it was a beautiful day, windy and bright, with a lovely view and plenty of wire sculptures to give a sense of atmosphere.  I really like sculpture.  The texture and that you can walk all round it. That you can imagine it being a living being.  Once I reached the kitchens I felt a little more amicable towards the castle.  Clearly the table and sinks were built for persons of short stature - as serving folk would surely have been in days when they probably weren't so well fed.  Being the granddaughter of a cook in service, I noted the fixtures were fine for a five foot lady but if you were much taller, you would have developed a very sore back from bending all day at the sink.

The cellar has a collection of vast casks and barrels and I think that this family would not have been short of a few well earned drinks!  On the whole it was a good place to visit, but I missed the very National Trust-y signs, guides and information

Nettles and the Karate kid

 Yesterday, I had an epic 120 mile round trip, collecting parents from holiday in Barnstaple, driving them to Sidmouth and breaking for a quick leftover cold meats and salad lunch at my house so they could see the new double glazed windows.  They thought the rapid appearance of a feast fairly miraculous!  Mum calls packet salad "dandelions" - she ate the spinach leaves I threw in from another pack without realising.  "I hate spinach!!" Fair play, the salad leaves do look like dandelions.

I drove back to go to Thorverton for spiritual direction.  Sometimes my planning skills go awry like this. Taking show and tell was a good idea.  At the moment I am reading (as part of the "big church read) with a couple friends, Pete Grieg on prayer. His quote that I had read that morning was about slowing down and being quiet with God.  Regarding our heads, he says we find it is "Like some wild cocktail party of which we find ourselves the embarrassed host" That is an exact description of my head at present!

So, when asked what I want to look at in spiritual direction, I say "how to be quiet" And think that this is like climbing snowdon for me. Challenging, kind of exciting?  Basically I absolutely need some time away and what my friend Lynn calls a "mental holiday"  Relaxation. Exercise.

Many years ago my friend Sandy and I watched the "karate kid", original version. The trainee karate kid goes to his master, and he is asked "paint the fence" clean the car, "wax on, wax off" Phrases that people of a certain age trot out when giving someone something tedious to do. Turns out that the moves you need to perform karate well are the same actions the kid has done over and over again whilst being practical.

What's the point of that?  Well, Kathy the spiritual director has a house with an acre of garden. It's an outside gym really, keeping that from descending into chaos. So I asked if I could help.I am grateful for the time and listening.  And I either put a bit back via foodbank or this time, muscle power.  Because I am both grateful and like being there. 

My task?  Clearing nettles.  Huge 5ft nettles.  Lots of them.  With a full size fork and wheelbarrow. Wearing shorts and borrowed leather gloves.  They sting.  Even when you pull the buggers up and stack them on the compost heap.  You can tell I am not a gardener can't you?  My grandad was a "jobbing gardener, my dad hated but did gardening, and I can't tell weeds from flowers (according to a gardening friend) 

 But funnily enough and I have absolutely no idea if this was the aim or not, the plodding work for an hour calmed me and my head down. Listening to blackbirds whistling and singing, smelling fresh cut grass and clippings on the compost pile. The stamp and wrestle with the fork.  Sunshine dappling through.  A cuddle with the beautiful, brainlessly affectionate labrador and hauling the cutting and clippings to the compost heap and the bonfire pile.  

I will definitely go back and have another nettle battle some time!

LLF & G&T

 LLF & G&T? The power of acronyms! 

This morning in costa I listened/watched/read the first session of the "Living in Love and Faith" in the booklet that goes with the course that the church of England is doing on modern relationships in all their glorious complexity! I have never liked to turn up to a session of anything unprepared and this starts on Thursday night.  Wednesday night is my "book group" for the Big church read which I seemed to have volunteered to lead - 3 friends, one book, one easy-peasy cheat sheet of questions...

Then I picked up the parents for their big, excellent adventure - a much anticipated and welcome break in Barnstaple. They love the hotel, the staff look after them well and, as they are increasingly tottery I am quite glad that they can potter around, enjoy some nice food and wine and raid Marks and Spencer and the local bookshops.  They love to sit in Queen Anne's cafe most mornings and play scrabble in the evening.  But how are they going to do the crossword without their crossword fiend - me?

How to scare a nervous passenger? Overtake a very dodgy motobike and sidecar combination that was weaving in and out the lanes, by hitting the gas and driving in the outside lane.  Mum says, fearfully, from the Command Chair next to me "what speed are we doing?" Um, 80ish at that point, but usually a nice steady 70.  I do try to be legal.  She says she is shutting her eyes!

We hit the link road and having asked Mum what the legal speed limit is (it's 60) so one up to me as she thinks it is either 50 or 70....glad it is me driving.  I teach her "car snooker" while Dad dozes happily in the back.  Spot a red car, colour car (pink/green/blue/brown/black/white(cue ball) red car etc until you either get bored or reach Barnstaple.  Dad is counting caravans/motor homes.

Bless them, I hate watching their tottery progress.  Getting back, I down 2 pints water, 2 cups of tea and a  tin mix of G&T before church. It's a frying hot day and I feel totally dehydrated and in need of fizzing bubbling low level alcoholic sustenance!

Randomness

 This morning was one of those lovely fresh, clean blue sky mornings.  I don't have blackout curtains - they are certainly pretty but the light leaks round the edges by 5am.  Irks me on a Saturday, so I retrieved my phone and listened to the radio until the more decent hour of 6am.  As it was so early, booking an 8am swim seemed a nice Saturday possibility.  The joy depends on the ratio of porridge to stomach. If I judge it wrong, then the swim feels like swimming against a bellyful of lead!

This morning the swimmers all seemed to know each other, a Saturday splash of slow in the medium lane.  I'm not really fast enough to overtake them, but too fast to swim behind so I duck, weave, cut short circuits round them and build a nice 20 lengths or 500 metres to my English Channel swim virtual challenge. This one of course doesn't really have much streetview.  But I did trawl around the virtual map and found myself "virtually" in the gents toilets in the cross channel ferry.  How totally bizarre.  It is a great way of ensuring I count my lengths rather than aimlessly drift along. Although I have, before, done a charity swim of 26 miles in 12 weeks, that was ludicrous and I'm too sensible these days.

Afterwards I met a friend who is a good birder and we walked from Darts Farm to Topsham, looking through the cutouts on the wooden cycle bridge, and spotting a patiently fishing  heron and some kind of bird of prey.  Fabulous day!  It circled lazily, running the sky, hovering, dropping down to grass level, fighting the air currents.  I personally have not a clue what it was- friend says probably buzzard. It didn't cry out like a buzzard but it wasn't sparrowhawk grey.  A fan tailed brownish bird who brought joy.

I'm reading Monty Don's book on garden wildlife and flowers through the year.  It is a stress busting evening or before bed read. Not that I am stressed but it does mean that I will sleep.  He describes plants with love and a naturalists eye.  It's not the kind of book I usually pick up - Gardeners world isn't really my kind of show - but it was cheap in Tesco and is a lovely read. I also have chapters of "The big church read" book - Pete Grieg, how to pray to work through.  So far it is good, he has a poets knack of creating memorable images, and crafting the chapters so that I feel I am learning in a small way that doesn't kick off the oh so easy to kick off guilt and failure cycle.  That wouldn't be helpful at all.

As I type I can hear seagulls wailing but can't see them. I bought a water pistol of my own but so far it has been far more useful to clean their mess off the nice new windows.  I would so love to surprise them with a quick, watery blast!

Rhubarb cheese and tipsy tarts

 I went for tea with friends, but, finding the road blocked and diverted, I took a very long tour down "country roads".  I have a colleague whose Spotify feed locked out on the classic John Denver hit below.  He says he likes John Denver - (how times have changed - no one his age would have admitted that the first time round!) but he is useless to work out to!

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, growin' like a breeze

Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads

All my memories gather 'round her
Miner's lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye

Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads

I hear her voice in the mornin' hour, she calls me
The radio reminds me of my home far away
Drivin' down the road, I get a feelin'
That I should've been home… 

so, after a couple of false starts, reverses, large puddles and tractors I found myself singing what I could remember of this song.  Which was not a lot really.  

I've been listening/watching the "Living in Love and Faith" video clips (this is a church of England course on the varieties of different modern relationships and how we listen to each others' viewpoints) St Marks is doing this in June so I thought I could watch the clips while washing up.  Each seems to start with your own "superpower" or what you are good at/known for.  This evening, having dropped a whole carton of extra thick double cream which landed without spill, and with the lid tI he correct way up, I reckon my super power is obvious.

Everyone at work seems to be yawning.  I know that I am also tired, as I have provoked hilarity at work and with friends, by unfiltered comments - my colleague has a young son with "growing pains" - I tell him I had those, I sympathise.  He looks at me and laughs.  You can see why.   Later, after the cream incident, I'm told; "you don't have to put the cream away" How to confuse a tired brain.  They meant, I think, you are welcome, you are a friend and a guest. Me, I just like having "fridge rights" When I go to my friend in Gloucester I always raid the fridge - and do the washing up.  I do that at my parents, only it is more like do the washing up and tidy the fridge, and at work,where it is "put on the dishwasher and throw away the mouldy food"

It's a form of love I think.  

And the title: an amazing pudding and a taster of a special cheese.

 

Urbanity

 I've just had a quick shop before work, buying cherry tomatoes and crisps, picnic fodder for a couple walking days with my friend Sandy from Gloucester.  To say I am looking forward to it is a bland understatement!  My first "holiday" (at home) with actual company for a while.

Last year I was wearing shorts, definitely. Today I am wearing a work jumper and a hoodie and my hands are cold.  I look ruefully at the walking shorts and think no for tomorrow! I will need to pack rain kit for sure.

I was surprised one morning last week to see a grey squirrel running down the middle of my extremely narrow road - there are no trees, unless you count the ones in Heavitree park and a couple of weedy specimens by Tesco. This one looked out of place. Squirrel was risking life and limb due to the road's aggressive cats. That quirky appearance made my day- the usual fare of the road is sparrows, crows, seagulls and the aforementioned cats.

Today's delight was of a different order - a thin, red brown delight - an urban fox with a beautiful tail:

https://www.bbcwildlife.org.uk/urban-fox 

He streaked out across the road in front of me and disappeared between parked cars, obviously enough food to sustain him or indeed her.  I really apreciate seeing wildlife and it has made my day and given me reason to blog - another chance to practise something a bit creative before a day of booking hotels, arguing about the price of hire cars and trying to be patient!!

 I once saw a sparrowhawk sitting on my backyard wall and this has been a similar delight - something really unexpectedly wild in a very cramped urban setting.

Through a glass darkly?

 Then we shall see face to face?

Have I lost the plot?  Probably.  This famous quote from the bible book of Corinthians was read in "prayer for the day" yesterday morning - which means I had a fairly early breakfast or was still in bed maybe!

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m000vq6w  It was an interesting interlude to a morning and Fiona Stewart who was presenting, mentioned losing herselfj in Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel's brilliant Tudor study of Thomas Cromwell.  There is a link here - the third volume is the "Mirror and the light" It's just arrived with me now - a well used birthday online voucher!  Can't wait to start it!

Other things this week link to this oh so Transparent a theme - final snagging to my beautiful and very transparent new double glazing, It has only taken me 23 years to replace the windows!!  It is somewhat inevitable that the seagulls have now crapped all down the new back door and one of the kitchen windows.  Out I went, with soapy water - I kn'ow I will get used to it, but currently they are just too new to leave besmirched. The seagulls also dig moss out of all our gutters and trash the rubbish bags.  Wish someone could cull a few of them. I cannot believe how quiet it is with windows that fit, and how the curtains don't stir in the gap above the ill fitting front room window now it is a snug fitting double glazed unit.  As you can tell, I am very pleased.

It's a good job I could work at home, as two days ago I picked up a stone chip in my windscreen, which has widened to a crack.  Right across my sight line.  Too unnerving to risk going up the motorway.  I have booked it in with Autoglass but, narrow roads like mine mean I have to take it to the depot.  That is a whole weeks' wait but mercifully I have time off walking with a friend next week.  I will bribe her with coffee and bacon sarnies so that she drives.  That is my kind of currency..

Cream Tea sort of day

 

What an utterly lovely place to share a one scone cream tea (height of indulgence!) with a friend you haven't seen for a while and to catch up.  What a shame that "here be dragons" should be the lasting impression of the tea shop lady!!

Homage to a brilliant writer

 My friend and I walked and talked today, feet in the ripples of chilly seawater, sand ridges hard under winter-soft feet.  We talked, books we had read, my leaving one church, trying another.  Our life details whilst skirting around pebbles and breakwaters. And we shared our love of the "Prayers of life" by Michel Quoist.  I read them as a new Christian, she read them to home group.  I find this one so heart-challenging.  When I was 35, it felt so poignant to me.  A single person with a hidden "secret" I couldn't share. And at 56, it feels less raw, just sad. So here is his beautiful "The prayer of a priest on a Sunday night"

                                                            "    Tonight, Lord, I am alone.

Little by little the sounds died down in the church,

The people went away,

And I came home,

Alone.

I passed people who were returning from a walk.

I went by the cinema that was disgorging its crowd.

I skirted cafe terraces where tired strollers were trying to prolong

the pleasures of a Sunday holiday.

I bumped into youngsters playing on the footpath,

Youngsters, Lord.

Other people's youngsters who will never be my own.

Here I am Lord,

Alone.

The silence troubles me,

The solitude oppresses me.

Lord, I'm 35 years old,

A body made like others,

ready for work,

A heart meant for love,

But I've given you all.

It's true, of course, that you needed it.

I've given you all, but it's hard Lord.

It's hard to give one's body; it would like to give itself to others.

It's hard to love everyone and claim no one.

It's hard to shake a hand and not want to retain it.

It's hard to inspire affection, to give it to you.

It's hard to be nothing to oneself in order to be

everything to others.

It's hard to be like others, among others, and to be of them.

It's hard to always give without trying to receive.

It's hard to seek out others and to be unsought oneself.

It's hard to suffer from the sins of others, and yet

be obliged to hear and bear them.

It's hard to be told secrets, and be unable to share them.

It's hard to carry others and never, even for a moment, be carried.

It's hard to sustain the feeble and never be able to lean on

one who is strong.

It's hard to be alone.

Alone before the world.

Alone before suffering,

                   death,

                sin.

Son, you are not alone,

I am with you,

I am you.

For I needed another vehicle to continue

my Incarnation and my Redemption.

Out of all eternity, I chose you.

I need you.

I need your hands to continue to bless,

I need your lips to continue to speak,

I need your body to continue to suffer,

I need your heart to continue to love,

I need you to continue to save,

Stay with me, son."

 

(Michel Quoist, Prayers of life)

This time last year

 Brrr, this time last year I was on furlough and starting to think about wearing shorts on my morning Boris walks.  Yesterday and today I was plying the de-icer and scraping away at a furry windowed car.  Which didn't stop me taking advantage of 50p (10p to me with birthday giftcard) costa coffee outside in the sunshine before work.  My colleague told me about this impressive deal and I realised - how much I love morning sun, coffee and a chance to read - it felt like an extension to my weekend (in fact it made today feel like Friday) 

There were "no grown ups" as my colleague calls the managers, in today. There seemed to be a lot of work made easier by some manager-free laughter! And a few calls on teams to learn a new process - naming tests.  I remembered it from my lorry place days - I didn't like to let Emily know there is an easier way to do it!! She's on holiday next week and, bless her, stressing that everything should be in order so I can cover her job.  What a contrast to where I used to work, where going in on a Monday meant that there would be one crisis after another. 

Football at Night

 Football at Night

A brilliant title from another classic Michel Quoist prayer. I remember it because yesterday was Dad's 88th birthday.  Amazon having lost his real gift, I had to hastily get another - a Manchester United diary.  Turns out they played last night - hence the title - and won - and Dad is delighted with his very modest gift!

Poor Dad, Mum made a very lovely chocolate cake and she and I cried with laughter as we tried to find candles that fit the holders in the dodgy tupperware box, And a random selection of sportmen figures - footballers, cricketers.  Good job I had bought matches with me so we didn't do "let's pretend I am blowing out the candles" as we did with my birthday!  Which was surreal anyway.

Poor Mum, she makes amazing cakes but she managed to embed the candle holder so deeply in the cake she was afraid Dad would find it and eat it!  Dad tends to eat anything he can find! Excavation by me followed, so I had that rather cratered and battered bit of cake.

A lovely day.  But exhausting.  Elderly very deaf parents make me want to lie on the sofa and watch bad TV. The prayer, quoted below, feels apt, I am struggling to make sense of my choices and decisions, but as long as the team advances I guess that the result is up to the team manager.

Michel Quoist -  Football at Night - wish I wrote like him!

This evening at the stadium the night was stirring, filled with ten thousand shadows.
And when the flood-lights had painted green the velvet of the great field, 
The night was filled by a chorus of ten thousand voices.


The master of ceremonies had given the signal to begin the service, 
The impressive liturgy moved forward smoothly.
The ball flew from celebrant to celebrant, 
As if everything had been minutely planned in advance. 
It passed from foot to foot, slipped along the field, and flew away overhead. 
Each was at his post, taking the ball in turn, passing it to the next one who was there to receive and pass again. 


And because each one did his part in the right place, 
Because he put forth the effort required, 
Because he knew he needed all the others, 
Slowly but surely the ball gained ground, 
And made the final goal! 


While, at the end, the immense crowd flowed laboriously into the narrow streets,
I reflected, Lord, that human history, for us a long game, is for you this great liturgy,
A prodigious ceremony initiated at the dawn of time, which will end only when the last celebrant has completed his final rite.

In this world, Lord, we each have our place. 
You, the far sighted Coach, have planned it for us. 
You need us here, our brothers need us, and we need everyone.


It isn’t the position I hold that is important, Lord,
But the reality and strength of my presence. 
What difference whether I am playing forward or back, as long as I am fully what I should be?


Here, Lord, is my day before me... 
Did I sit too much on the sidelines, criticizing the play of others, my hands in my pockets?
Did I play my part well? 
And when you were watching our side, did you see me there? 
Did I catch my team mates pass and that of the player at the end of the field? 
Did I co-operate with my team without seeking the limelight? 
Did I play the game to obtain victory, so that each one should have a part in it? 
Did I battle to the end in spite of set- backs, blows and bruises? 
Was I troubled by the demonstrations of the crowd and of the team, discouraged by their lack of understanding and their criticisms? 
Made proud by their applause? 
Did I think of praying my part, remembering that in the eyes of God this human game is the most religious of ceremonies? 
I come in now to rest in the Pavilion, Lord, 
Tomorrow if you kick off, I’ll play a new position, 
And so each day... 


Grant that this game, played with all my brothers, may be the imposing liturgy that you expect of us, 
So that when your final whistle interrupts our lives, we shall be chosen for the championship of heaven.