Where I Live

Dear Diary,

Marged


I think of her sometimes when I lie in bed,
falling asleep in the room I have made in the roof-space
over the old dark parlwr where she died
alone in winter, ill and penniless.
Lighting the lamps, November afternoons,
a reading book, whisky gold in my glass.
At my typewriter tapping under stars
at my new roof window, radio tunes
and dog for company. Or parking the car
where through the mud she called her single cow
up from the field, under the sycamore.
Or looking at the hills she looked at too.
I find her broken crocks, digging her garden.
What else do we share, but being women?


Gwyneth Lewis

I have been asked by In The Mud to write seven random or quirky things about myself.
That will be my next task, later on in the day hopefully. First I have another piece of homework to hand in for Purplecoo. I have been asked to write about Where I Live.

Perhaps my Where, will be intermingled with Why I live here, as we chose to escape to Wales eighteen years ago when we had had enough of life in the south-east of England. I was born in London and moved out to rural Surrey and then Sussex but even though the countryside was lovely, there were different values surrounding us, ones that felt unreal to me. I guess we dropped out really, feeling totally disillusioned with the way things were going at that time in Thatcher’s England. The area was full of yuppies (remember them?) and what I can only describe as pretension. We felt our values were becoming ever-more different to our contemporaries who were caught up in making fast money and the Thatcher’s me-me philosophy.

We looked at properties

(sorry I hate that word, it just slipped out)

in Ireland too, but much as I love Ireland, at that time I felt that the children’s prospects would be better if we stayed in the UK. How wrong I was as Ireland’s Celtic Tiger was soon to rise up and make that country the most opportunistic of all. More importantly it also brought with it a new freedom and positive social changes that I had felt previously were lacking. I still feel a pang that I did not return to my true homeland but it was not meant to be and as things have turned out in my personal quest it was definitely the right decision.

We sold up and moved here having no idea of how we would make a living and we bought a smallholding deep in the Welsh hills with no electricity and with its own water supply. All Hovel in the Hills stuff. It was a dream come true really because for ten years we had dreamed of owning such a smallholding, having chickens, ducks, geese, goats etc. Growing our own vegetables, drinking our own milk. Getting back to nature.

Our dream came true and we moved with our two children, our daughter V, aged twelve and our son S, aged nine, into an old Welsh stone farmhouse which stood , in seven acres of land, well off the beaten track, down an unmade and many-gated road. Our nearest neighbour was a farm, half a mile away. There were fields, a little stream and plenty of woodland. Views to die for. Pretty idyllic really, apart from the many gates we had to open and close to get there! (I don’t miss those I can tell you). I could write a book about it, perhaps I will one day, though let’s face it there are loads of books about with the Escape to the Country theme.

Nowadays though, escaping to the country is a kind of a fashionable thing, more about the Country Living lifestyle and the décor that goes with it though to be serious there are many more pressing reasons nowadays that cause people to strive to escape the city life. Different ones to ours many moons ago. We were probably labelled more of the so-called hippyish variety I suppose. We followed our dreams and took a big step; it was a risk, it is only now that we look back and realise that. But we learned a lot and had many wonderful experiences.

We lived there for five years or so and wished we had moved earlier when the children were younger. It was the right thing to do, the best move and we have no regrets but now the children have flown the nest we live in a little old blacksmith’s cottage about ten miles or so from our original house. There are many, many reasons why we gave up the smallholding which I can save for another time, maybe. I can say though that where I live now is a very special and magical place, there are no bad vibes and everyone who comes here comments on its relaxing atmosphere. I just love it.

Where I live there are hills and mountains, delicious valleys, lakes and streams. We sit surrounded by hundreds of scattered hill farms, all hidden amongst the hills and valleys. Sheep far outnumber people and my cottage is set by a little mountain river. Indeed the love of the river caused me to buy the cottage in the first place. We cannot see another house from ours as was also the case when we lived in the remote old farmhouse.

I exist in a near-constant state of appreciation and wonder, such is the peace and beauty of this part of the world. I am however not part of this land, I am not Welsh, I am proud to be Irish but I chose to live here. I am still an incomer to this country and probably always will be.

I have waxed lyrical in so many past blogs about the country life and the view from my window that greets me each morning. About the beasts and the many species of birds who are my much-loved companions around my cottage.

What else made me move to Wales? To answer that I could tell you what this part of Wales lacks.

Traffic, pollution, crime. People.

Pretension.

(It also lacks shops but that’s a blog in itself.)

Wales is favoured by tourists but this area is still relatively ‘undiscovered’ - it has been called the secret Heart of Wales which is a very good description.

I have an excited feeling in my tummy as Spring and Summer move ever closer because just one glorious day of summer here can make up for all the cold, wet, grey Welsh winters.

I do feel closer to nature here. OK it’s a cliché but it’s true. I don’t need to go away on holidays as I am content to just sit by my little river, wander in the field, walk in the hills, or potter in the garden. Peace comes dropping slow. Talking of which it could be Ireland, it resembles West Cork which is, along with County Kerry, the home of my soul. Perhaps I could explain it by telling you what I miss when I go away from here. I miss the purity of the air, the mists, the hills, the sense of freedom and personal safety. There is no frenzy in the air which is almost tangible when you go back to the Otherworld where we used to live. I feel overwhelmed now when we go to cities or built-up areas.

The downsides are those that probably affect rural folk all over the UK nowadays and that is our slow ‘dismantling’. The fragility of our existence, our feeling of powerlessness and helplessness. Either lost and gone forever or under constant threat are our public services, our post offices, pubs, schools, public toilets, banks, schools, libraries, transport systems etc etc. So, apart from all the beauty which one hopes and prays will always be preserved, (though even that is not guaranteed in some areas!) we are a shaky community at the moment as we feel our democracy is crumbling. But this is probably UK wide, a perception felt by town and country folk alike. However, here we are in a minority, a poor one to boot and the poor relation is being ignored.

But that is the shadow side, let’s not dwell on that. We look forward in hope and with certain unity of purpose. I have not touched on the ‘C’ word yet. The sense of community is a strong one and we get on well here, locals and incomers alike and we shall fight for our rights, of that I am sure.

I am daily inspired living here. Inspired so much that I am often moved with such passion I just have to write about it and I am sure this would not have been happening so much if I lived elsewhere.

They say Nothing is Perfect but even so, Where I Live is pretty damn-near so.

Perhaps all that is missing is the sea………….

Bye for now,
Caitx

Why? Tracy Chapman

The Week Before War

The Week Before War
March 2003



This day I shall remember,
when all was light and bright about us.
The girls and I, beneath the sun,
were hunting daisies.

Like the twin lambs and their own kin,
they were playing, bursting forth with new life,
such was their joy.

Each step was filled with wonder
as I spoke to them of the magic that is Spring,
And we looked for fir cones, pussy willow and sweet catkins.
and signs of those small creatures: rabbit-holes and tiny paw prints.

The Red Kite, he was soaring high above us, like a symbol of my Hope.
And in his flight we spied the Moon and Sun together.

Though it was the Week Before War,
(or should I rather say Invasion),
the Anger which had erupted on my skin, was,
for just a while, forgotten.

And the thoughts of those poor children in Iraq
were cast into small shadow, like the Moon.

But, later on that night when She was Full
I knew that Full scale bombing would begin.

Yet while She had been high and partly hidden,
in a blue and sunlit sky,
Her innocence so gently shone.
And my fears were briefly buried
on the Dark Side of her face.



©Cait O’Connor

Written on 15th March 2003

Kristian Leontiou - Shining

I just love this guy's voice and this song Shining is from his excellent album Some Day Soon.
I believe he is now in a group called Eskimo and there is an album in the pipeline. I will check this out.

Just a Poem and a Song

On Words

This blog is dedicated to Exmoor Jane.







Killing Me Softly by Roberta Flack


Dear Diary,

Tears are words that the heart can’t express

Author unknown

First of all here is the promised pic of our dear Finn, he is eleven now; no he is definitely not a labrador, he's always been a bit of an overweight lurcher, M feeds him rather too well but he still races round. (Finn that is).


Apart from eating, this is another of his favourite occupations, resting by the hearth.







It was World Book Day yesterday. A storyteller came to the library and she read to a group of young children whose ages ranged from one practically new baby, several toddlers from the Toddler Group up to a few of the younger primary school children. There was much interaction with the children using the senses; it went really well and all the children were given free book vouchers as they left.

We can’t call the group Mothers and Toddlers any more as they get quite a few Dads with their pre-school children coming to the weekly meetings in the community hall. Very nice to see fathers sharing the daily hands-on parenting role.

Talking of books and children, I am reading a wonderful book at the moment. It is Blue Sky July by Nia Wynn and is the story of a mother (and a father) bringing up a child with severe cerebral palsy. I will say no more as I haven’t finished reading it and hate revealing all, I much prefer people to discover the joy of a book for themselves. All I will say is if you are a parent of a disabled child you should read it, or even if you aren’t as it is beautifully written.

I heard Blue Sky July on Radio 4, it was Book of the Week a few weeks ago read aloud by the author but I just had to read it for myself. One of my borrowers is a young teenager taking a year out before she trains as a children’s nurse; she ordered this book as she had also heard about it. I was impressed as she is obviously already demonstrating signs of an honest dedication to her future profession.

I have been thinking a lot about language recently, about how writers mix up their words and paint a palette as it were. They can create a beautiful piece of art (or not), be it a poem or a piece of prose by using just the raw material that is after all just a random selection from all the words in existence.

Words can be ’arranged’ in the lyrics of songs, in poems, diaries, letters, plays, novels, books of non-fiction, biographies, newspapers, magazines. Even graffiti. Even blogs! Words are therapy, often both for the writer and the reader and often simultaneously. How could we live without words? They soothe, they teach, they inform. I am an addict of course, I’ve always been a sauce bottle/cereal packet reader, I just can’t get enough of the things.

The spoken word of course is everywhere, we cannot escape from it sometimes, though if you are like me you probably like to, occasionally. I may blog about silence at a future date and also about meditation but even in those two states words will lurk beneath the surface as they float around inside our heads. Well they do in my case, how about you? Have you ever reached a wordless state?




Alison Krauss, When you say nothing at all.



Time for blessings today methinks, it is Friday after all.

M is feeling better, he was a bit poorly in the night. His new Hotter shoes have arrived, ordered on the Internet yesterday afternoon, how’s that for service? And they fit too! We’ve never ordered shoes online before but it was a risk that has paid off.

The sun is out although its appearance is deceptive, I took the dogs for a walk this morning and it was bitterly cold still and snow is forecast for these higher regions of Wales.

Rugby tomorrow, that is something to look forward to though I shall be pulled in two directions as Wales are playing Ireland. I have to support Ireland but I don’t want Wales to be beaten. I wouldn’t be happy with a draw either. How difficult is that? And mad? Don’t answer that.

My dear friend and hairdresser who lives down the road. She has cut my hair into a proper bob again and coloured it for me so I feel much more like me, better somehow and ‘lighter’. Funny how a hairdo or something new to wear can cheer one up isn’t it?

Daydreaming will be my special blessing today. It is one of my favourite pastimes after all but it was my Angel Card that I drew this morning telling me I must do it if I am to be inspired. Never one to argue with the angels I did a bit while I was walking round the field but then I saw the delivery man arrive (with the shoes) and the dogs were racing off to check him out so my reverie was quickly brought to an end. Perhaps I will try again later.

Finally……those especially gifted artists that I love, those authors and their paintings of words. No need to enlarge on that one.

I’d better add a poem by one of my favourite poets and then I will leave you. I have another project on the go and it involves, you’ve guessed it,

much mixing up of WORDS.


INTRODUCTION TO POETRY.



I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a colour slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
And feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Billy Collins


Bye for now,
Caitx

Daffodils and a Poem

Dear Diary,




It’s only a short one, don’t worry. A sort of follow-on from yesterday's really.

It’s just that listening to Woman’s Hour this morning has inspired me to write another blog again today. They were discussing blogs and bloggers but I only caught half of the interview with one of these women bloggers. Her blog is called Petite Anglais and she seems to have produced a book deal from hers, good luck to her.

After Woman’s Hour finished I was keen to get to the keyboard as I wanted to show you my two Mother’s Day presents, firstly what seemed like hundreds of daffodils from my son S and a Carol Ann Duffy poem from my daughter V. V does write beautiful poems herself, but this one of Duffy’s was well chosen and full of meaning for me.



A Child’s Sleep

I stood at the edge of my child’s sleep
hearing her breathe;
although I could not enter there.
I could not leave.

Her sleep was a small wood,
perfumed with flowers;
dark, peaceful, sacred,
acred in hours.

And she was the spirit that lived
in the heart of such woods;
without time, without history,
wordlessly good,

I spoke her name, a pebble dropped
in the still night
and saw her stir, both open palms
cupping their soft light;

then went to the window. The greater
dark outside the room
gazed back, maternal, wise
with its face of moon.

Carol Ann Duffy



But first this morning I had to go round spreading out those daffodils, S has given me so many





there are enough for nearly every room in the cottage. The colour yellow is uplifting of the spirit and is M’s favourite hue; it is also the antidote to depression and the colour of sunlight, there must be a link there. Let’s hope its bright glare will scare away and dissolve the blackness of the Black Dog that seems to be living in so many people’s homes and hearts at the moment (not mine luckily). If he calls by here I will beat him with a Big Stick for sure.

So before I sit down to write I flit round with the hoover and steadfastly ignore the freshly illuminated dust that is everywhere to be seen on the higher levels in the cottage. Having two real fires, the ancient Rayburn and the woodburner makes for a lot of dust around. But today I just about show willing where chores are concerned.

The yellow sun is calling me from outside so the dogs and I go over the rickety-rackety bridge to the field and as I walk I watch them race round and round. I get such vicarious pleasure watching them do this, especially as Finn our gorgeous honey coloured lurcher is now eleven years old. I will try and post a pic. of him.

The wind is bitterly cold though and I don’t feel like lingering outside. As we make our way back the snow starts falling.
I love snow but don’t hold out much hope for much of a covering.

So indoors I go, a mug of hot lemon and ginger tea is called for and then I am free at last to escape upstairs to the little study and pen a few words. Molly, my white cat is on my lap, she loves to watch the mouse dart around on the screen! She is fine even though has a nasty wound on her neck, a bite from some creature or other, it could be a rat, a mink or polecat

I will sign off now, this was not meant to be a long account but I look forward to being with you again soon.

Hope you liked the poem and the flowers.

I am well into colour therapy and so in my mind I am sending you all lots of Welsh daffodils with all their magical yellowness.

May your spirits be lifted too.


Go mbeannai Dia duit
Caitx

To Irish Mothers

Dear Diary

Happy Mother’s Day
Lá an Mháthair faoi shona dhuit

This is a tribute I accidentally stumbled across while surfing the net. However, I don’t believe for one minute in accidents, only synchronicity.

As well as to E my dear Irish mother who was taken from me when I was so very young I dedicate this blog entry to C, my dear sister, an Irish mother too, who shares with me the loss of our mother. If I could have chosen a sister I could not have found anyone more perfect than she.



I haven’t a clue who Joseph R Biden is but the words speak for themselves.

And it was hard but I have left the American spellings unchanged.


Tribute To An Irish Mother
By Joseph R. Biden

My mother Catherine Eugenia Finnegan Biden is the soul, spirit, and essence of what it means to be an Irish American. She honors tradition and understands the thickest of all substances is blood.

She has taught her children, and all children who flocked to her hearth in my neighborhood, that you are defined by your sense of honor and you are redeemed by your loyalty. She is the quintessential combination of pragmatism and optimism. She also understands as my friend Pat Moynihan once said, there is no “point in being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart eventually.”

But she is more. She measures success in how quickly you get up after you have been knocked down. She believes bravery lives in every heart, and her expectation is that it will be summoned. Failure at some point in everyone’s life is inevitable, but giving up is unforgivable. As long as you are alive you have an obligation to strive. And you are not dead until you’ve seen the face of God.

My mother, I believe, is a living portrait of what it means to be Irish –- proud on the edge of defiance. Generous to a fault; committed to the end. She not only made me believe in myself, but scores of my friends and acquaintances believe in themselves. As a child I stuttered, and she said it was because I was so bright I couldn’t get the thoughts out quickly enough. When my face was dirty, and I was not as well dressed as others, she told me how handsome I was. When my wife and daughter were killed, she told me God sends no cross a man is not able to bear.

And when I triumphed, she reminded me it was because of others.

I remember her watching through the kitchen window as I got knocked down by two bigger guys behind my grandfather’s house, and she sent me back out and demanded that I, to use their phrase, bloody their nose, so I could walk down that alley the next day.

When my father quit his job on the spot because his abusive boss threw a bucket full of silver dollars on the floor of a car dealership to make a point about his employees, she told him how proud she was.

No one is better than you. You are every man’s equal and everyone is equal to you. You must be a man of your words, for without your words you’re not a man. Her pragmatism showed up when I was in eighth grade, a lieutenant on the safety patrol. My job was to keep order on the bus. My sister and best friend Valerie acted up. At dinner that night I told my mother and father I had a dilemma. I had to turn my sister in as a matter of honor. My parents said that was not my only option. The next day I turned my badge in.

I believe the traits that make my mother a remarkable woman mirror the traits that make the Irish a remarkable people. Bent, but never bowed. Economically deprived, but spiritually enriched. Denied an education, but a land of scholars and poets.

When I think of my mother I think of the Irish poem ‘Any Woman’ by Katherine Tynan,

A native of Scranton, Pennsylvania, Joe Biden is Delaware’s senior Senator and last night was honored by the American Ireland Fund of Washington.


Any Woman



I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.

I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!


Katharine Tynan


I have posted that one before, it is also a favourite of mine.

Here are a few more poems.




In Memory Of My Mother


I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily

Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday-
You meet me and you say:
'Don't forget to see about the cattle-'
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life-
And I see us meeting at the end of a town
On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us - eternally.

Patrick Kavanagh








The Little Irish Mother


Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street,
Where the roses swing their censers by the door?
Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet
As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor?
Did you wonder why the viree* comes to sing his sweetest song ?
Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall?
Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?--
There's a Little Irish Mother there; that's all.

When you watched the children toiling at their lessons in the school,
Did you pick a winsome girleen from the rest,
With her wealth of curl a-cluster as she smiled upon the stool,
In a simple Monday-morning neatness dressed?
Did you mark the manly bearing ofa healthy-hearted boy
As he stood erect his well-conned task to tell ?
Did you revel in the freshness with a pulse of wholesome joy?--
There's a Little Irish Mother there as well.

There's a Little Irish Mother that a lonely vigil keeps
In the settler's hut where seldom stranger comes,
Watching by the home-made cradle where one more Australian sleeps
While the breezes whisper weird things to the gums,
Where the settlers battle gamely, beaten down to rise again,
And the brave bush wives the toil and silence share,
Where the nation is a-building in the hearts of splendid men--
There's a Little Irish Mother always there.

There's a Little Irish Mother--and her head is bowed and gray,
And she's lonesome when the evening shadows fall;
Near the fire she "do be thinkin'," all the "childer' are away,
And their silent pictures watch her from the wall.
For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women
now,
In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams;
But she runs her fingers, dozing, o'er a tousled baby brow--
It is "little Con" or "Bridgie" in her dreams.

There's a Little Irish Mother sleeping softly now at last
Where the tangled grass is creeping all around;
And the shades of unsung heroes troop about her from the past
While the moonlight scatters diamonds on the mound.
And a good Australian's toiling in the world of busy men
Where the strife and sordid grinding cramp and kill;
But his eyes are sometimes misted, and his heart grows brave again--
She's the Little Irish Mother to him still.

When at last the books are balanced in the settling-up to be,
And our idols on the rubbish-heap are hurled,
Then the Judge shall call to honour--not the "stars," it seems to me,
Who have posed behind the footlights of the world;
But the king shall doff his purple, and the queen lay by her crown,
And the great ones of the earth shall stand aside
While a Little Irish Mother in her tattered, faded gown
Shall receive the crown too long to her denied.

John O'Brien



A Mother's Love Is A Blessing


An Irish boy was leaving
Leaving his native home
Crossing the broad Atlantic
Once more he wished to roam
And as he was leaving his mother
Who was standing on the quay
She threw her arms around his waist
And this to him did say

A mother's love's a blessing
No matter where you roam
Keep her while she's living
You'll miss her when she's gone
Love her as in childhood
Though feeble, old and grey
For you'll never miss a mother's love
Till she's buried beneath the clay

And as the years go onwards
I'll settle down in life
And choose a nice young colleen
And take her for my wife
And as the babes grow older
And climb around my knee
I'll teach them the very same lesson
That my mother taught to me

A mother's love's a blessing
No matter where you roam
Keep her while she's living
You'll miss her when she's gone
Love her as in childhood
Though feeble, old and grey
For you'll never miss a mother's love
Till she's buried beneath the clay

Thomas P Keenan




Bye for now.
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Caitx

February Farewell

Dear Diary,

February makes a bridge and March breakes it.

George Herbert, Jacula Prudentum

So goodbye Dear February, my most-disliked month. No hard feelings though because perhaps I was a little harsh in my condemnation. You did carry beauty, good luck and blessings in your wake and I have survived intact. Nothing too untoward has befallen me or those I love.

Tomorrow comes a new month, Dearest March, a real harbinger of Spring and She will open with a very special saint’s day for the people of Cymru. There will be much wearing of the daffodil tomorrow and vases of them will be displayed in every home and public building. Daffodils are budding a-plenty hereabouts; there seem to be more than usual this year, or is it my imagination?




Today, the 29th February, they say, is going to be very wet and windy but I wake to a dry day with the barest of breezes. The collared doves are still busy flying back and forth to their new nest in the tall pine. I hope they have built a sturdy and secure home if gales truly are on their way.



I missed that earthquake by the way, I am so cross, I would have loved to have had the experience of the earth moving. I haven’t felt that for many a moon. (That joke was on everyone’s lips yesterday, I apologise).


My cold has come back, they are calling it a ‘boomerang virus’ round these parts. This time it has set up residence in my throat and chest and my voice has gone all funny. I would like to say it sounds huskily sexy but it actually sounds as if I am somewhat demented and close to death, when in fact I don’t actually feel too bad. By the end of the day I do feel rotten though and have been indulging in, or rather collapsing into, Early Nights.

So are there any Blessings amongst all this?

Bronchial Balsam from Boots. Not sure of the make but it’s the cheapest in the shop and there are no nasties in it; rather it contains all sorts of weird and wonderful but wholesomely dark and natural ingredients. Good black stuff, almost as good as those Calpol Brandy slammers (Purplecooers’ secret indulgences).

Paracetamol, honey and lemon, they also keep me going and stop me coughing too much.

Log fires are a comfort too and the sofa with blankets, soft cushions and pillows and some mindless TV. And let’s face it, most TV is mindless these days. It’s cooking, gardening, celebrities I’ve never heard of etc etc, you all know what I mean. I have been watching Place in the Country, or whatever it’s called…all about these really odd couples going house hunting, relying on some equally smug and weird person with an annoying accent to find them four houses to choose from. As if they didn’t have the gumption to look for themselves. And we all know they only do it for the huge fee and to appear on TV. But somehow if I am feeling poorly I can happily watch this crap. I don’t mind Location, Location, Location/Relocation etc as I really like the intelligent presenters of that one, also it’s the original idea I suppose and not a cheap copy.


Final blessing.
M has fixed my new Un Peu Loufoque tiles on the kitchen wall and very fine they look too. I will try and take a photo of them in situ but this is what they are.



Some people M knows came to visit us with their metal detectors yesterday and went round our field. The most interesting thing they found was a medieval loom weight if you know what that is. It is made of lead, looks like an over-sized Polo mint and apparently was used to weigh down either the warp or the weft (am sure someone will tell me). My money is on the warp because the weft goes in and out?

Here is a photo of one, not of ours, ours is the same but is not cracked...... but I haven't taken a photo of it yet.




They found all sorts of interesting little bits and bobs but no buried treasure unfortunately. We want to get the field ploughed up as an old Roman road actually crosses it, who knows what may lie beneath?

Well I will sign off now, I am feeling a bit worn out.

Before I go here is a poem I have only just this minute discovered on the net. Isn't it lovely?

MARCH


Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat-
You must have walked-
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell.


Emily Dickinson


Funnily enough Emily Dickinson uses the term ‘Dear’ to address the month. I had already done the same in this blog but swear I had not pinched her idea.

Ho Hum.
There is nothing new under the Sun and all that…..

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Caitx

My Son...Open Your Eyes - Snow Patrol cover

I cannot believe this is a year old, my son's first go at recording on YouTube
To listen you will have to stop my other songs on the right, click on PAUSE button with your mouse.

Ode to Joy

Dear Diary,

One joy shatters a hundred griefs

Chinese Proverb

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 Sorrow

Then 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.

Kahlil Gibran

It’s Sunday, a free, blank-canvas day.

I wish you joy,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Caitx

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.

A Crimson Moon

Dear Diary,

Nothing in the world is meaningless. Suffering least of all.

Oscar Wilde.

Today’s blog is a short, boring one and something of a mish-mash, a bit like my head really.

February is my most ‘difficult’ month, the one I’d like to eliminate from the calendar altogether. The very cold temperatures start to get to me, the winter seems too long and there is often too little sunshine to lift my spirits. This month has been an exception though; it has been very cold indeed but the Sun has shown herself on many occasions.

But it’s still the month when colds and flu are in the air and I have at last succumbed. . I’ve caught a fluey head cold and unfortunately couldn’t go to work yesterday. Yes I love my job so I am not pleased to have a day away from it. Still the library is in good hands as dear C, the relief is there.

You know when it’s a bad virus infection because it always comes on so suddenly, it doesn’t creep up slowly and there may well be no sign at all of its arrival, save perhaps a feeling of being over-tired in the day or two before it breaks out. It can start with just a sneeze, a runny nose or a sore throat. You also know it’s an infection when you have no appetite, a temperature with its resultant aches and pains, shivering and hot and cold feelings. These viruses just have to be endured until their lifespan ends. I had the turning point last night, the sweats and the feeling of release that comes with fever proving that my immune system had fought a battle and won. This morning I feel so much better, though still very weak.



Time for Blessings methinks.

I couldn’t concentrate on much reading yesterday but I did dip into dear Sara Ban Breathnach’s books, they are always such a comfort. Also a few glossy country magazines that shall remain nameless, they also soothe with their beautiful photos. (I have saved every copy even though I no longer buy them). And the radio helps. But most of all my best blessings were aspirin and paracetamol (not together of course) and sleep when it finally would come. Mostly I was just dozing, tossing and turning.

Other Blessings?

Music of course. Talking of which….. apparently stroke victims recover quicker if they listen to at least two hours of music every day. That is very interesting. Would listening to music help in stroke prevention I wonder? I digress again.

I am listening to dear Johnny Walker this morning, my favourite DJ, he is sitting in for Terry Wogan this week. He always plays such good music, I admire his taste. I make a mental note to remind myself to listen to his Sunday early evening show on Radio 2.

The View from my Window. I don’t need television because there’s plenty to see going on outside, a real wildlife soap opera is being played out just for me. Amongst the bird population that is. There has been much romancing in the air in the branches of the two tall pine trees. And as in all species the whole world over, the male chases the female until she catches him! There have also been a few viewings of the bird boxes, that is always good to see. Three magpies feasting on the mixed corn that M has put out. Sammy Squirrel is also about, feasting on the nuts as usual. A fox makes his way across the field, blissfully unaware that he is being watched.



It is bitterly, bitterly cold again although the weather forecast says today will be the last cold day for a while, a spell of milder, wetter and windier weather is on its way.

Hooray is all I can say and thank God for hot toddies.


My last blessing will be Finn our lurcher. When I am poorly he curls up on his pillows on the floor beside my bed sending his healing rays up to me (he likes nothing better). And I mustn’t forget M of course, he is an excellent nurse and healer himself.

I’ve still not got much of an appetite but I’m off now for a hot shower. Then I will change the sweaty bed linen and return to bed. I will break my fast with an orange, a banana and some tinned peaches. Aren’t the oranges juicy this time of year?

There were two coincidences today - you may be interested in such things. I have started drawing an angel card each day and today’s (Reward Yourself) told me to be kind to myself, maybe take a day off work and reward myself. My astrology reading by Russell Grant said the same thing Reward myself, be kind to myself etc.

Then I heard on the radio about the excessive number of accidents happening today and I idly wondered if it was a Full Moon. I had no idea but checked my very own moon calendar on this page and lo and behold it is a Full Moon!

And no ordinary Full Moon either.

I’ve just checked my other favourite astrologist, Jonathan Cainer and he has this lunar information.

A glorious lunar eclipse will be visible tonight. It lasts for several hours from 'first bite' to last clearance. The Moon will turn crimson and some think, at totality, it should appear briefly turquoise. It's visible in the UK from around 1am - 5am. If you're not staying up all night, set your alarm for 3am and take a brief look. Assuming the cloud cover is not too thick it will prove well worth interrupting your sleep for. It is, of course, on view much earlier in the USA - and it happens a little later across continental Europe. When you see it, make three wishes... one for your own wisdom and growth.. one for the wellbeing of a loved one.. and one for the world!

I hope you haven’t been too bored with my mish-mash and I hope you remain virus-free.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Caitx

PS Just before I depart here is a poem sent to me from a cousin in Canada. I read it and it stopped me feeling sorry for myself.

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? ......What do you see?
What are you thinking......when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, ...not very wise,
Uncertain of habit ........with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food.......and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice.....'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice ...the things that you do.
And forever is losing ............. A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not...........lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding ...... The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse..you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am ........ As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .....as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten.......with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters ..........who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen ..with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now. ..........a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty .........my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows........that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now ......... I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . And a secure happy home.
A man of Forty ......... My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other ....... With ties that should last.

At Fifty, my young sons ...have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me.......to see I don't mourn.
At Sixty, once more, ...... Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children ......... My loved one and me.

Later in life dark days are upon me .......

My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ...........I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing ...young of their own.
And I think of the years...... And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man.........and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age .......look like a fool.
The body it crumbles..........grace and vigor depart.
There is now a stone........where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass ..... A young guy still dwells,
And now and again ........my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys.............. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living.............life over again.

I think of the years ...all too few......gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact........that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people ..........open and see..
Not a crabby old man. Look closer and see........ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too!

PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM
The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched.

They must be felt by the heart.

Musings on Education

Dear Diary,

It's 2008 the National Year of Reading.

It's World Book Day on Thursday March 6th.

At least I’ll start with some positives.


Blessings.


Living in Wales

Acupressure. Thanks to dear Westerwitch who gave me a few tips for migraine relief.

A Good Night’s Sleep on Clean Sheets, the two seem to go together, I often mention this, forgive me, its one of my passions.

My local writing group, an inspiration and a joy to be with.

Last but not least:
The tantalising and uplifting taste of spring we have recently been granted.

I’m just going to blog a few musings on education. After hearing on the media yesterday that money has been ‘found’

(where does one 'find' money, I would love to know?)

Money has been found for an ‘initiative’ - how I hate the misuse of that word too……..
to ‘give’ children five hours of culture a week. Is it me? I thought that’s what children should get from their time in education establishments. A taste at least of culture.

I looked up the definition of culture in my Concise Oxford Dictionary 1964. This book is my Bible where words are concerned. I shun all modern publications, they seem to lack a lot of words that were in use in the old days. Yes I know language evolves…. but it shouldn’t disappear.

I digress,

Culture, improvement by training by mental or physical means. Intellectual development.

It’s a tillage/rearing thing, much like making cultures in a laboratory.

So it obviously can’t be something you tag on to regular schooling, it is schooling.

I got to musing …… thinking about what I expect from education, pie in the sky most of it.

I wonder what you want from it? Your educational aspirations for your children/grandchildren?

Here are mine.

Firstly all children need to gain confidence and self-esteem. This is a top priority.

Then for a basic grounding I want children to learn to read, write, spell, learn their tables, add and subtract. I want them to learn their tables by rote as I did. I want them to learn the rules of grammar.

Without these basic skills, standards will plummet.

It may be too late I fear.

I want them to have access to a local library and to fall in love with books. I want them to also read and write poetry (I would wouldn’t I?).

I want them to visit museums, galleries, places of historical interest etc. as part of their education, not something tagged on as an afterthought. When I was a child at school in South London we did all these things. Aren’t we meant to have progressed? Where have we progressed in education?

In anything come to that?

(I digress again.)

I want them to learn how to find information in all the many ways available. They will need fast keyboard skills and to be able to READ.

I want them to learn crafts and skills before they are lost altogether. All crafts and skills should be given as much status and financial reward in our society as academic ones.

I want them to learn how to grow food organically. I want them to learn to cook and also to eat healthy foods. They need to learn about the science of nutrition.

I want them to ‘experience’ the soil, to grow plants and flowers as well as vegetables.

I want them to learn about the Earth and how to save it (another top priority).

I want them to learn a foreign language or two.

I want them to learn sciences (much as I hated them!).

I want them to have the opportunity to study and experience all forms of art.

I want them to learn to express themselves artistically, to use and develop their imagination and creativity in whatever medium they are drawn to, whether it is by acting, singing, dancing, music, playing sport, writing etc.

To learn the arts of relaxation and meditation, to play sport and dance, to exercise in all sorts of ways.

To learn about other countries and their cultures (that word again), to maybe go on exchange visits.

To help both one’s local community and those overseas.

I want them to learn about history and how NOT to repeat it.

To mix with all different races.

I want them to learn about the REALITY of war, not about its glorification. I would like them to be part of both a local and a global community group that fights for peace.

I want them to learn how to help those less fortunate, both in their own country and the rest of the world and to understand why they are less fortunate. I want them to understand and care for anyone with any kind of disability.

I want them to learn about the dangers of advertising and the subtle exploitation of people in all its guises.

Let’s teach them about real and worthwhile role models.
I don’t want their idols to be so-called celebrities.

I want them to have Original Thought (most important).
This is a sign of true intelligence and is nothing to do with the retention of learned factual knowledge.

I want them to each develop their own (individual) potential.

I am not a number. I’m a free man!

Before I go, here are some words, the lyrics of a song by Enya.


Pilgrim



Pilgrim, how you journey
on the road you chose
to find out why the winds die
and where the stories go.
All days come from one day
that much you must know,
you cannot change what's over
but only where you go.

One way leads to diamonds,
one way leads to gold,
another leads you only
to everything you're told.
In your heart you wonder
which of these is true;
the road that leads to nowhere,
the road that leads to you.

Will you find the answer
in all you say and do?
Will you find the answer
In you?

Each heart is a pilgrim,
each one wants to know
the reason why the winds die
and where the stories go.
Pilgrim, in your journey
you may travel far,
for pilgrim it's a long way
to find out who you are...

Pilgrim, it's a long way
to find out who you are...

Pilgrim, it's a long way
to find out who you are...

Enya


I’ll stop ranting now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

A Valentine for You

Half-Life


We walk through half our life
as if it were a fever dream

barely touching the ground

our eyes half open
our heart half closed.

Not half knowing who we are
we watch the ghost of us drift
from room to room
through friends and lovers
never quite as real as advertised.

Not saying half we mean
or meaning half we say
we dream ourselves
from birth to birth
seeking some true self.

Until the fever breaks
and the heart can not abide
a moment longer
as the rest of us awakens,
summoned from the dream,
not half caring for anything but love.


Stephen Levine 1937-

BOOK MEME

A BOOK MEME

I have been tagged by In the Mud

This is a quick MEME. What does MEME stand for?

This is how it works:

I have to pick the book nearest to me, go to page 123.

Find the 5th sentence.

Type the next five.

Tag five people to do the same.

Don’t forget to name the book. I borrowed mine from the library.

******************************************************************
Invisible Acts of Power by Caroline Myss , bestselling author of Anatomy of the Spirit and Sacred Contracts.


Her words meant the world to me at that moment. She gave me the gift of knowing I was not alone and that I was understood. Both these acts of service came as complete surprises. I now feel that I can do pretty much anything!

Give what you have. To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.
- HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

********************************************************************


Like the person who tagged me, I tag the first five visitors to this blog!

25 Needs

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE - A PIECE OF NOSTALGIA - SAYS IT ALL REALLY.
Check out the audience.


Dear Diary,

A while ago I said I would take up the challenge to write 25 of my needs so here goes.

I can’t think of needs without going back to my nurse training days. When I was studying psychology for my diploma, great emphasis was placed on dear old Abraham Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs model. We were advised to use it when creating care plans for our patients.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs is often depicted as a pyramid consisting of five levels: the four lower levels are grouped together as being associated with physiological needs, while the top level is termed growth needs associated with psychological needs. Deficiency needs must be met first. Once these are met, seeking to satisfy growth needs drives personal growth.

Housekeeping

Dear Diary,

A Woman’s Work is Never Done

For a change I'll start with a couple of poems.


ON A TIRED HOUSEWIFE


HERE lies a poor woman who was always tired,
She lived in a house where help wasn't hired:
Her last words on earth were: 'Dear friends, I am going
To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
For everything there is exact to my wishes,
For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.'

Anonymous

HOUSEWIFE

Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.


Anne Sexton




I have been tagged by Bradan to write some Household Tips so here goes.

I will start with a few suggestions and they are but a few.

Vinegar has so many uses, just try it for everything. White vinegar is best as its scent is less like a fish and chip shop, but any vinegar will do. It is powerful stuff; you will be impressed and wonder why you ever bought anything else.

To neutralise smells in the loo, strike a match.

Baby wipes are a marvel. Use them to clean absolutely anything, from computer keyboards to spills on your clothes! The only worrying thing is that they are so powerful, it makes one wonder what is in them and should we be using them on out babies skin?

Sprinkle bi-carbonate of soda on your carpets, leave as long as you can and then hoover (gets rid of doggy smells etc).

Save orange and lemon rinds and burn in your fire, makes a nice smell. Or simmer in a saucepan with cloves or cinnamon to scent the whole house.

Use eco-friendly cleaning products, they are more expensive but smell divine and are safest for the environment. I use Ecover.

Don’t use aerosols. Or any chemicals. I am allergic to chemical air fresheners and many many other products. Even walking in the ‘cleaning’ aisles of supermarkets makes me feel their powerful effects.

I save my soap pieces in a soap jar. Add hot water and use for all sorts of things. Spraying on roses for example to kill nasty bugs. Any other suggestions?

This last one is nothing to do with housekeeping but I am quite taken with it.

If you make custard with custard powder, don’t add sugar, there is no need. Try it and see!


***

I have a teeny room in my teeny cottage that I call The Snug. On the wall is a framed picture of a quotation.

Dull Women have Immaculate Homes.

Where I live in Wales Dull means something different, it means someone who is a bit thick or a trifle ‘dim’. I understand the word dull to mean someone who is boring. Either way the quotation resonates with me and I love it.

Every woman loves it.

I don’t like mess and I love to be in a clean, tidy and shining environment but it is a constant struggle to keep one’s home in tip-top condition, would you not agree? Unless you have ‘hired help’ I suppose. Ha Ha.

Whenever my little cottage is clean, tidy, sweet smelling and shining immaculately no one turns up but whenever the place is looking like a tip, visitors will always appear unannounced. And the thing I hate about having invited guests is the urgency I am struck down with to clean and tidy up before they arrive or I feel guiltily sluttish. Am I alone in this?

I like and feel most comfortable in houses that look and feel lived-in, that are filled with all manner of wonderful things, all strewn around. I don’t like homes that feel like furniture showrooms or something out of a magazine, these so-called Ideal Homes in the Country for example, that resemble nothing like REAL homes lived in by REAL country living folk, none that I know anyway.

When I was a young wife I bought a book called Superwoman by Shirley Conran. It was filled with Household Hints and hints on life in general. Very good it was too, I still have it. I always remember a couple of Conran’s quotations

Life is too short to stuff a mushroom

and

I’d rather lie on a sofa with a book than sweep beneath it.

And I remember reading somewhere else that a woman’s gravestone would never have the inscription ‘Here lies So and So …….. SHE WAS TIDY‘. No I don’t think that anyone has ever been especially admired or rewarded for being so.

I will admit to one weakness in the housekeeping line and that is my passion for doing laundry. Iespecially love the act of hanging washing out on a line and I also love to see clean washing blowing in the wind. I also adore the smell of clean washing and even find ironing relaxing when I get around to doing it, when the mountain is so high or I have run out of clothes to wear!


My sweetest ally in the laundry stakes is my beloved, ancient Rayburn. It is so old, it is actually one of the original models, but is still going strong. It dries, airs and irons for me as well as warming the cottage, heating my water, simmering my pots, keeping my dogs and cats cosy and being the heart of my home.

But the main problem with Housekeeping - I love that word - I wonder why? is that it is still (nearly) always seen as a woman’s job and women still feel that they are somehow defined by the image of the home they present to the world.

I prefer to make my home as pleasant as I can just for myself (and my animals) to suit my needs and tastes, to make me feel cosy and comfortable as well as safe and secure……… rather than to impress.

I don’t want to be judged by it.

Home is where the heart is after all,

Here endeth the lesson,

I am tagging five more victims now

They are:

Camilla, Exmoor Jane, Frances, Irish Eyes and Faith.

(And like housework dear friends, only do it if you want to ).

Go mbeannai Dia duit,
God Bless,
Caitx

Birds

Dear Diary,

God loved the birds and invented trees, Man loved the birds and invented cages
Jacques Deval

A few words on birds, our much-loved feathered friends.








I’ll start with a few poems.


A Celtic poem


Little bird! O little bird!
I wonder at what thou doest,
Thou singing merry far from me,
I in sadness all alone!

Little bird! O little bird!
I wonder at how thou art
Thou high on the tips of branching boughs,
I on the ground a-creeping!

Little bird! O little bird!
Thou art music far away,
Like the tender croon of the mother loved
In the kindly sleep of death.


***


A Caged Bird


A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou



I Looked Up

I looked up and there it was
among the green branches of the pitchpines—
thick bird,
a ruffle of fire trailing over the shoulders and down the back—
colour of copper, iron, bronze—
lighting up the dark branches of the pine.
What misery to be afraid of death.
What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven.
When I made a little sound
it looked at me, then it looked past me.
Then it rose, the wings enormous and opulent,
and, as I said, wreathed in fire.

Mary Oliver



We’ve just had the RSPB birdwatch weekend and we were asked to do a bird-count for an hour. I didn’t actually get time to do this but I do know the visitors that I have at the moment. The regular ones that always visit just as long as there is food out will come every day, all day long, back and forth to the tables. I have a table in my back garden, by the kitchen window, handy to look at while I am washing up or cooking and one by the river bank in the front garden. I can see the latter from my desk at the moment. My dear neighbour J also feeds them so they have a choice of fast food outlets to choose from in this locality, lucky birds. Our feeding stations provide peanuts, mixed corn, porridge oats, hunks of M’s home made bread which they just gobble as fast as they can, they adore it so and I also put out other odds and ends, whatever is to hand really. Sammy Squirrel helps them clear their tables of course,

One of my borrowers at the library said that he has a sparrowhawk visitor to his garden who actually sits on his bird table waiting/hoping to catch some smaller avine visitors. Our sparrowhawk hides at a safe distance, still and quiet, just like a cat, he just watches. Spooky really but I have to tell myself it is just Nature and I mustn’t interfere. Though haven’t I interfered already by providing (unnatural) food to lure the wild birds to my garden?

I don’t call it a garden though, it’s more a wildlife garden/nature-reserve-in-the-making and it sits beside a river, a field and some woodland and we are surrounded by farmland. I am trying to make a haven for wildlife here and there is a lot of life around.

I do feel that I share my little home with all these creatures but only on a small scale for surely we humans are sharing the planet with all the other forms of life aren’t we? We are such an arrogant species that we behave as if we are THE only life-force that matters on the planet. But we are relative newcomers, are we not? And if we carry on as we are we may not be here for very much longer. But the Earth will survive.

But I digress again. I just asked M if he had anything to contribute to this wee blog about birds and he said ‘If they wear mini-skirts they are more attractive’. So I think we’ll gloss over his contribution shall we?

Back to the weekend bird count. I know we had the following visitors though not all at once.

Blackbirds, thrushes, wood pigeons, nuthatch, great tits, blue tits, wren, sparrows, magpies, crows, greater spotted woodpecker, greenfinches, goldfinches, yellowhammer, chaffinches, robins, siskins. Buzzards and kites flew overhead as usual. At work I have the ravens. And last but not least on the riverbank at home are my darling dippers. At night we had owls. I saw a dead pheasant on the road near here and that was very sad as he may have been a visitor, an escapee from some cruel hunting ground.





There are some who say that birds are symbolic, divine messengers of the Spirit, kinds of angels in feathered form. I have a special tree in our field, it’s a crab-apple and a very old and wise tree he is too. I feel very calm and comforted when I am near him, I take him all my troubles. And the funny thing is when I go and visit him for a spot of tree-human communion, a robin or two always comes and perches on a branch near me. I talk to them too and they answer. Robins are especially communicative aren’t they? OK some of you will dismiss me as a little deranged, so if you do, stop reading now and go and find a sensible, down to earth blogger - but if you want to stick with me and don’t think me mad, thanks. I call all birds angels and can’t imagine life without their company and especially their song. I’ve mentioned Belsen before, the place where there are plenty of trees but not one bird.

We have bird boxes in the garden, it will soon be Spring and they will soon be snapped up by excited and passionate young homemakers taking up residence and preparing their nests. I especially look forward to the pied flycatchers who nest over the road in a box on a ‘special’ pine tree near the forge. They have lots of bird boxes next door too, including owl boxes and also a smaller bird box with a built in camera, I hope to buy one of those for the granddaughters this year. I shall have to find out if you need a separate TV to be able to fix one up.

I’d better sign off now, but before I go here is one last poem.
They are favourite poets of mine, Mary Oliver and Maya Angelou, I hope you like these poems too.


Mockingbirds

This morning
two mockingbirds
in the green field
were spinning and tossing
the white ribbons
of their songs
into the air.
I had nothing
better to do
than listen.
I mean this
seriously.
In Greece,
a long time ago,
an old couple
opened their door
to two strangers
who were,
it soon appeared,
not men at all,
but gods.
It is my favourite story--
how the old couple
had almost nothing to give
but their willingness
to be attentive--
but for this alone
the gods loved them
and blessed them--
when they rose
out of their mortal bodies,
like a million particles of water
from a fountain,
the light
swept into all the corners
of the cottage,
and the old couple,
shaken with understanding,
bowed down--
but still they asked for nothing
but the difficult life
which they had already.
And the gods smiled, as they vanished,
clapping their great wings.
Wherever it was
I was supposed to be
this morning--
whatever it was I said
I would be doing--
I was standing
at the edge of the field--
I was hurrying
through my own soul,
opening its dark doors--
I was leaning out;
I was listening


Mary Oliver



Of course the one thing I really admire and envy about birds is their ability to fly, for that would be a gift I would love to own.

I have flown in my dreams before now but that’s another story, another blog, one on dreams perhaps? I feel one coming on……

Just a song before I go, one I absolutely love, another oldie.

Songbird by
Fleetwood Mac, written and sung by Christine McVie.





A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.
Chinese Proverb


Bye for now,
Cait

PS The last two bird pics are by an artist friend of mine, Sean Milne.