One joy shatters a hundred griefs
Another coincidence concerning those angels.
This morning as I lay in bed drinking my honeyed tea, I draw an Angel Card , the one that falls out as I shuffle is labelled ‘Joy’ and coincidentally M is downstairs playing music, a Roxette CD and guess which track is playing? ‘Joyride’.
A few days ago I drew a card which said the angels would leave signs for me (coins, white feathers etc) to show they are helping me. This does happen to me when I am troubled so it was nothing new to hear. However, on the same day, it was when I was unwell earlier this week, I was eating a meal that M had cooked for me. I had helped him dish it up so I knew exactly what was on the plate. When I had nearly finished eating the meal I looked down, there was about one mouthful left and lo and behold (that phrase again) there was a white feather on my plate!
There was quite a lot of joy in the cottage yesterday afternoon and evening as both Wales and Ireland won their rugby matches. Much whooping and clapping went on.
But in two weeks comes my dreaded fixture, Wales versus Ireland. Then I am drawn in two ways and painful it is too!
So are there even more joyous blessings for today?
Firstly M has woken up feeling better, miraculously so he says, maybe those angels really are working overtime.
Also, two Purplecooers have brought joy to me this week.
Artistic angels I shall call them.
I have always disliked matching tiles and have all different ones in my kitchen so discovering Un Peu Loufoque’s art has been a joy. Today the set I bought entitled 'Washing Line' is going to be fixed on my kitchen wall. I treated myself to it, I deserve it and all that.
It’s especially wonderful as I have a ‘thing’ about washing lines. I started taking photos of them actually until I thought I might get arrested for being a pervert, spying on people’s underwear and the like! I like nothing better than the site of real washing blowing in the wind on a long old-fashioned line. They are disappearing from the landscape actually so I may well carry on capturing those images.
Dear Pipany is another gifted artist and she brought me joy too in an unexpected parcel containing some seeming-to-be magical lotion and some surprise Cornish delights. Also a lavender bag which I popped under my pillowslip last night and its effect was to make me sleep like a baby.
I think some human folk are really just angels in human form don’t you?
M is feeling better - miraculously so he says, perhaps all those angels are working overtime.
Before I go, a poem.
Joy and SorrowThen a woman said, 'Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.'
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, 'Joy is greater than sorrow,' and others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
It’s Sunday, a free, blank-canvas day.
I wish you joy,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
PS I have been asked to pass on the name of the author of the poem The Crabby Old Man posted on my previous blog entry. I am afraid it is Anonymous.
This is the story attached to it.
When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Tampa, Florida, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
Some doubt its verity but I care not whether it is ‘genuine’ or not. The truths therein are for all of us to digest, nurses or otherwise.
Have a great Sunday.