A Very Last Minute and Hastily-Put-Together Survey on Children’s Literature
Our library book group is meeting tomorrow evening (Monday) so I need this information quite quickly. I have chosen a general subject - children’s books - and to broaden the discussion I would love to hear your views and opinions.
If you could take a few minutes to answer the questions below I would be so….. pleased.
There will be a prize for the 'best' entry.
You can copy and paste your answers as it might be easier. If not just write as much as you can.
Thank you so much.
PART ONE.
When you were very young, did anyone read to you?
Did you have a favourite picture book?
Did you read to yourself, can you remember what age you started doing that?
Why did you read? To escape or experience adventure? Or another reason?
Did anyone ‘ignite’ a passion for reading, a teacher/relative/librarian for example?
Were there any book characters who influenced you and your behaviour?
Were there any places in a book that you longed to be?
Were you inspired to read poetry or were you put off the genre?
Did you enjoy fairy stories? Which fairy story or myth, if any, has stayed with you?
Was there a book you hated? More than one?
************************************************************** PART TWO
Can you think of any modern writers of children’s literature who you think will survive the test of time? Any that won’t?
Do you think that a love of reading as a child made you want to become a writer?
If you wrote for children in the future what form would it take? Poetry, novel, film, quick read, short story etc? Have you ever done so? Been published?
Do you have children, grandchildren or young friends/ relatives? Do they enjoy books? What do they prefer? How do you encourage them? If you do?
Do they visit a library on a regular basis?
If not why not?
Do you buy books for children? What was the last one you bought?
Last but not least and this may be impossible to answer.
Do you have ONE favourite book from your childhood?
Whether you have one particular favourite or not, can you take a few minutes to list as many titles as you can remember that you loved or that have stayed with you, for whatever reason. Just the ones that come into your head at this moment.
If you were sent to a Desert Island and were only allowed one children’s book what would it be?
It’s a New Moon! The sap is rising and it is a time for growth so it’s meant to be the best time for sowing seeds and carrying out planting or potting. Not a good time to prune though as the plants and trees ‘bleed’ more. Grass is meant to grow well now, but perhaps not in the current weather. (I know the farmers round here would be very pleased to see some green shoots as they have not been showing recently!).
The New Moon is supposed to be a favourable time for our bodies to be both strengthened and revitalised. It is a time to be healed. You may feel tired but it is the body telling you to rest or relax more in order for these restorative qualities to manifest. Sounds good to me. Any excuse for a little lie down. Don’t worry if you feel this way. You will feel more energetic during the waning moon.
Wounds bleed more heavily as the Full Moon nears. Animals born at this time are stronger than those born in the waning phase.
On the plus side for us, it is a good time to be creative and there is real magic in this period which leads up to the Full Moon. You may feel the rise of returning energy along with the swelling and the growing of the Moon.
Before I go here’s a song to cheer you, it’s Andrea Corr and Bono singing live. Not new but a good one. Summer Wine. Now that’s something to look forward to……… summer and wine…….
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
W B Yeats
I am typing this out now listening again to the album Between the Minds by Jack Savoretti, one of my all-time favourites. This new artist has his second album out this week and I have ordered it already, just a wee present to myself.
I wake not knowing what day it is.
This is probably caused by:
(a) advancing age and the probable onset of senility.
(b) the fact that I only have to work every other day.
I prefer to think it is just (b). Please say it is.
Luckily I have M to put me right and he tells me it is Friday.
Whoop Whoop. It is a no-work day.
I have been sleeping deeply and having such vivid experiences, dreams where I am working for the Liberal Democrats, how weird is that? Probably it is because I stayed up late watching Question Time, one of my (strange?) passions. And then as I made my way to bed the computer called to me. I pass it on my way to my bedroom and it always calls me with promises of messages, blog comments too if I am very lucky, or some dear cyber-friend to chat to.
Why is it that an hour can pass by so much more quickly when one is ‘on the computer?' It doesn’t pass as rapidly when I am reading, another of my (solitary) passions. Are all my passions solitary? Probably. (Showing my age again now). I love walking alone or with canine company, gardening, doing my yoga. I even work alone though I do see a lot of the public and that I love, so it might not count. What does it say about me, this love of solitude and independence, I wonder? I think it is because, from a very young age, I learned to be self-sufficient and I guess I am doing what comes naturally. Also our genes dictate whether we are introvert or extrovert, of that fact I am in agreement. I believe that most people who enjoy writing are introverted for surely you have to dwell a lot of the time ‘inside your own head’. What do you think?
I can see Sammy Squirrel and his ‘wife’ playing chase up and down the trunk of the pine tree outside my bedroom window. M says that there will be baby squirrels before long. (What are baby squirrels called?).
Woody the woodpecker is pecking at the nuts. Here is a pic hot off the press!
Let’s have a break from writing.
This is my wee cottage.
I’m posting a few photos that I have half-inched from M. Carrying on from my Where I Live blog homework (Part One - see earlier entry). I should have posted some pics with it then but I am just not that organised.
The first are of my little mountain river in all its moods. I am tempted to write her moods but I am not all that sure of her gender. Is she an ’it’ or an ‘he‘? You will see from the pics that ’her’ moods can change rapidly. Here I think she is feminine you will notice, I am not being sexist, I just think she resembles me here. Do not be taken in by the summer’s air of quiet and gentleness for her soft song can turn and become her powerful roar, the size and speed of her flow can instil real fear at times of flood.
This one below is my favourite. I put my seat right at the edge of the river, in the shallows in the summer. Can you blame me for not wanting to go away?
But I love my river so, it’s what attracted me to my tiny cottage, the bit on the end as I call it. The place has always attracted funny nicknames apparently. Some of the locals use to call it TyTwt (Tut? sp?) which means ‘little house’ which has the double meaning of ‘outside toilet’ apparently! Just a wee joke (excuse the pun) but it used to upset the previous owner M, a dear lady who lived here with her lovely husband B, for well over forty years.
I am digressing again.
I have attached some snowy pics too. I love snow and have felt quite deprived this winter as we have only had a few flurries. So I content myself with looking at these old photos and showing you what it has looked like in the past. Having said that, snow is forecast this weekend for the whole of the UK - we shall see. I hope it does though because it is my birthday weekend - As I’ve said before, when I was born ?? years ago it was actually a very snowy day. I only know this because I met someone once who was born on the same day, in the same part of England.
But birthdays are sad days for me; I could not put into words why this is so but it is nothing to do with getting older, that is not a worry at all for me.
Tomorrow I hope it stays dry though as it is the annual Food Festival in Llanwrtyd Wells. Always enjoyable and well worth a visit, especially if you are a foodie. There is much to see. Derek Brockway is opening it (or Uncle Derek as we have named him in our house). Only Welsh readers will know who I am talking about, he is a very popular TV weatherman. He will also be signing copies of his new book.
Other pics?
One of the parlour in the morning sunshine.
A few snaps of my garden.
Bit of the field
I’ll sign off now, but first a few Blessings.
Photos. They differ from words as they say it all and leave nothing to the imagination. Some capture a moment or a person, some are works of art but all are history.
Communication, which is what it’s all about, this writing/blogging business. We are so lucky too in this modern age as we can blog, speak or email in an instant. Can even chat live online or on Skype.
Finally what I love that lives in my cottage. Apart from any human or animal of course.
Pictures, books, knick-knacks, plants, pieces of furniture. An atmosphere of peace and calm. All those things that make a house a home.
To end now here is a song I love.
Feels Like Home to Me. Ignore the video, it might be a tad sloppy but listen to the wonderful voice of Bonnie Raitt.
To watch the video first click on the Play arrow on the other music player in the right panel of the blog page. It will turn into a PAUSE button. If you don’t you will get a cacophony (love that word).
I’m off now to bath my collie, I fear she has been rolling in something nasty as she reeks of fox, yuk!
We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey.
Stephen R Covey
These are photos captured this morning of a goldfinch (taken from my kitchen window).
I wake up feeling good. The weather prospects are also good. Mild and dry weather is forecast. However the weather is a bit on the ‘soft’ side at the moment.
Still the garden calls to me. Much tidying still to do. Pansies and primroses to buy and pot up as I feel the need for cheerful colour and brightness about the place. I buy daffodils regularly now as I am too mean to pick any of my own from my garden. Mine are making a fine show; I love bulbs as each year they increase which is ideal for lazy gardeners like me. It won’t be long now until my beloved bluebells start to appear.
Everything is budding, the lilac, the peonies, the magnolia, well the whole garden really I won’t list them all. Lungwort is in flower, the blue and the white. Tulips just coming out and other little bulbs in odd corners.
The view through the window is of soft rain which I do love.
I am reminded of the saying:
Wet before seven, fine before eleven.
I am quietly confident that these soft showers will pass away.
Talking of passing away. I have had an exciting few days since last I blogged. I should record what has happened, it is quite momentous and the only blessing needed today.
M and I went with two dear friends to an evening of clairvoyance held a week ago in a back room of a local hotel. I had seen this particular medium in action before last year, at a similar evening’s demonstration and had been quite impressed.
Last week she was even more impressive. During the first half of the evening she was spot on with her messages for quite a few of the people in the room, including a couple of sceptics (of which there were only three in the room out of about forty people). I’ll say right here that I am not a sceptic as M and I have visited mediums and clairvoyants on several occasions over the last twenty years, both individually and also in group situations in spiritualist churches and have had what can only be described as amazing experiences.
I know there are charlatans out there, I have even been to one in Wales in a group situation last year. An experience with someone like that would put anyone off. I would only go to someone who comes highly recommended.
From witnessing C, the clairvoyant’s performance last week I would say that the two sceptics left that room with a changed view, such was the accuracy of her demonstration of mediumship to both of them. They were local people known to a few people in the room but I can vouch for the fact that they were unknown to C.
After the interval M and I were ‘picked out’ and again I received messages about things that C could neither have guessed or had prior knowledge of. She started with my mother’s name. I won’t divulge all the details. Some are too personal , some are indeed too trivial but I was, once more, very reassured. As soon as I got home I wrote down all she had said to me before I forgot and it filled one side of an A4 sheet of paper.
She did say that there were things too personal to discuss in a group situation and I am planning to go for an individual sitting later on in the month as she lives and works quite near where I live. She comes well recommended as I have friends who have visited her and been very impressed (and helped spiritually I have to say).
So this last week I have been mulling over what was said to me and also to M and I am looking forward very much to my private visit.
If you’ve read this far, congratulations, especially if you are sceptical or an unbeliever. Suffice it to say that twenty years ago I was told information that, as an adopted person, I didn’t know or even understand until I consulted newfound relatives and had it confirmed. However, information that came to me was just confirming what I always knew really and that is that we are not parted from our loved ones when they die. They are always with us. Before I go, a poem.
We would ask now of Death
Than Almitra spoke, saying, "We would ask now of Death." And he said: You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
I was tagged ages ago byIrish Eyes to write about recycling.
Very late I am afraid but here goes.
I am the (sole) recycling fanatic in my family. I keep a tall stainless steel pedal bin indoors and it fills up very quickly. I am unashamedly in love with my compost production and I nurture my heap, put absolutely everything you can think of on it, from newspaper to the dust and animal hair from my hoover (and there’s masses of that!). Newspaper rots down quite quickly as soon as it gets wet. Vegetable peelings, garden waste, eggshells, teabags, cardboard, leaves, grass cuttings, every scrap of paper etc. I recycle everything except waste food as that would only attract the local rat population. Apparently urine is the best stuff to ‘activate’ a heap but I haven’t got round to doing that bit as yet!
I have two heaps, one is finished and has the most gorgeous dark compost, the one next to it is in the rotting down stage. I don’t have bins or anything, just two heaps side by side with railway sleepers and wire round them. Indoors, I put every bit of plastic and metal in the recycling bag provided by our local council. Textiles and glass I take myself to the nearest recycling bank though the council will collect textiles from my home on a weekly basis. I have to say that we are very well served recycling-wise by our council here in Wales.
We have bonfires occasionally, our neighbours do as well and we can put stuff on theirs if needs be. Doing all this means we have very little actual rubbish for the dustmen.
I have always loved charity shops and get a buzz from finding a bargain, either to wear or for something in the home. Most things in the cottage are old or second-hand, even M! I’m old enough to remember jumble sales - they’ve died out now haven’t they? I also adore going to car boot sales but we don’t have many in these parts unfortunately.
Anything that can be reused I try to do so, for example I re-use worn out socks etc for dusters. We own two single wardrobes and lying in bed one day looking at them I thought that their shape really resembled coffins…His and Hers… It has become a bit of a family joke that they will be re-used as such one day!
I am not a shoe lover, as long as I have one red pair and a pair of boots I am happy.
Decluttering is ongoing and still proving pleasurable.
Owning as little as possible is quite liberating, I wouldn’t even have a car if I didn’t live in such a rural area without public transport.
God, I hope I don’t sound too holier than thou, I don’t mean to. I’m sure most folk do the same as me, recycling wise, it’s slowly becoming the norm. now, thank goodness.
My main bugbear is the excessive, unnecessary use of packaging used by manufacturers that we have to get rid of, that might be a don’t-get-me-started blog in itself. Little things like the tins of dog and cat food that comes in six packs nowadays and are wrapped all round in plastic. Totally unnecessary. Only this week it was in the news that plastic has become a real risk to the food chain and consequently to our health.
Well I will shut up now, that’s me on recycling, I’ve done as I was asked.
But, before you leave me, if you missed it last time and want to read a funny compost heap story here is a blog about recycling that I wrote in April 20007.
Dear Diary, Topsy turvy temperatures. After a weekend which felt like Spring I wake to fog and frost but there is a promise from Radio 4’s Today programme of sunshine to come. But now even the birds and Sammy Squirrel seem to be having a lie in as there are only a few blue tits and a robin to be seen on the riverbank bird table. It is cold in the cottage and as I have no work to go to today, it will take a hot shower, a big bowl of hot porridge and a hot yoga session to lure me from my cosy nest under the duvet. * I read a lovely blog by dear Woozle the other day about her magical encounter with an owl. It reminded me of a similar experience here at Glandulas, but this one involved a hedgehog. Before I tell you about the Hedgehog Experience I want to reveal another of my passions. It is connected you understand. If you have read all my blogs so far you will have gathered that I am prone to get passionate about things. One of them is recycling and especially all things compost; the saving, the making of the heap and the using of the wonderful end result which makes my plants grow very large. I think the whole process is magical and I am quite obsessive about it. I don’t let a scrap go to waste if you get me. Everything which can possibly be recycled is. I have been doing this long before it became ‘fashionable’. But I am pleased it is becoming a regular activity in lots more households now. Our local council has been very good in the recycling department, selling bins and educating people etc. as well as providing bags for plastic, metal and paper which are collected on a weekly basis. I have a stainless steel pedal bin in the kitchen for all the general compost stuff and my glass I take to the recycling centre (an alarming number of wine and Guinness bottles!). Textiles go to the textile bank. Dog and cat hair, M’s hair, beard trimmings or anything similar are put out in a prominent position in the garden and are collected by the birds at this time of year for nest building. I like to think of them all safe and cosy in a really snug home. Absolutely any paper or cardboard I put on the compost heap, it soon dampens in our Welsh rain and rots down. Newspaper is good too for lighting fires in the cottage, another passion of mine, I must have gypsy blood because I never fail to get one going. I also use kindling wood which is usually the driftwood I collect on our land, washed up by the river. What I call kindling wood the Welsh call morning wood, both nice expressions I think. I haven’t recommended a book to you for a while so here is one. It is ‘All About Compost’ by Pauline Pears, you could try and get it from your local library. Talking of books I recently gave you the wrong title of Fred Slater’s book on the natural history of Mid-Wales. It is called ‘The Nature of Central Wales’. Apologies for that. Anyway if you have read this far congratulations and thank you. You are about half way. You are probably wondering where the hedgehog comes in. Here comes my true story. One morning I was taking out the compost bucket, wearing my dressing gown and wellies, as you do. (My neighbour in the Big House is always in the garden in his dressing gown. They are equally eccentric I am pleased to say and as they feel just like family to us it doesn’t matter if they see me thus attired!). Anyway, just as I was about to tip the bucket onto the top of the heap I looked down and got the fright of my life. There was this creature lying there flat on its back, arms and legs akimbo but with an expression which was peaceful,; sheer abandonment is how I would describe it. Or died and gone to heaven. I recognised it as a hedgehog and when I had calmed down a bit but soon. and quite unlike me, had adopted the ‘startled helpless female’ mode I ran in to get M. I told him there was a dead hedgehog on the compost heap, (well I thought it was dead but I wasn’t sure). He came out with a towel while I hung back. He picked it up, wrapped it in the towel and found a cardboard box. He thought it was dead but wasn’t sure either. He took it over the road to the old blacksmith’s forge and put it in one of the rooms facing the road. Then he got an old dog bowl and put some food in it and then another bowl with some water and he left both beside the box. The hedgehog’s eyes were closed. We guessed it was dead. But then the penny dropped, the hedgehog had been feasting on the highly alcoholic leftovers from the fermentation of M’s home-made rice and raisin wine, one of his strongest brews, which he had flung on the compost heap! Had we killed him? Would he survive? Two days passed, we checked on him every day, each time there were no signs of life but on the third day he had disappeared. He must have slept it off! The one and only hangover of his life I hope. He was last seen making his way up the road leaving a trail of aspirin bottles behind him and singing ‘There’s an old Mill by the Stream’ No I am only joking… It is interesting to note that the very old fashioned method of poaching pheasants still used today (?) is to feed wild pheasants with raisins soaked in brandy which makes them so inebriated that hours later, after dark, they are easily ‘collected’. Help, I feel a book title coming on……..I am sure you all know it…. Danny, the Champion of the World, by the dear Roald Dahl of course, God rest him. We dread to think how many drunken birds or other creatures there were that day. Just hope it was a good party. Blessings? Eight today. Hedgehogs. Compost. Home made wine. Washing machines - mine is working away for me as I write. Local honey made by a neighbour. Lovely neighbour, lovely honey. Warmer weather. Roald Dahl’s books, enjoyed by me with my children and now by my grandchildren. I promised to tell you about the Book Club so I may post another blog later in the day to make up for the days I have missed previously. Time to get up now. Carpe diem and all that. Before I do I can’t leave you without the poem by one of my very favourite poets. Benjamin Zephaniah, Luv Song
I am in luv wid a hedgehog I've never felt this way before I have luv fe dis hedgehog An everyday I luv her more an more, She lives by de shed Where weeds and roses bed An I just want de world to know She makes me glow. I am in luv wid a hedgehog She's making me hair stand on edge, So in luv wid dis hedgehog An her friends Who all live in de hedge She visits me late An eats off Danny's plate But Danny's a cool tabby cat He leaves it at dat. I am in luv wid a hedgehog, She's gone away so I must wait But I do miss my hedgehog Everytime she goes to hibernate
I have posted three nice pictures above as I haven't put any up for ages. Hope you like them. Two are reminders of summer and good things to come. One is a brass bed and a cat. I love both.
I wake on Easter Sunday to Radio 4 as usual and the words of Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams who seems to be talking a lot of sense this time and I agree with his sentiments.
Countries should not strive for the control of others and their oil.
Materialist greed will bring about the collapse of our civilisation. It certainly will.
Or as I say… Money is the root of all evil.
Enough doom ‘n’ gloom.
Shall I start with Blessings today?
New Life. In abundance round these parts at the moment.
Stripey - the puppy I have fallen in love with.
Five new border collie sheepdog puppies on the farm at my daughter’s. Five big round and so-cuddly bundles. I got quite broody holding them yesterday. Their mother is an excellent one, she is an all-black sheepdog whose name is…rather originally don’t you think - Black. The irony of that name is not lost on me as there has been much discussion on the subject of the Black Dog over atPurplecoo. But this black dog brings me nothing but joy and is very welcome, I will not be trying to banish her from my sight with a Big Stick.
Darling newborn lambs are to be seen everywhere and the sound of their bleating means only spring and summer to me.
A couple of long night’s sleep. I collapsed at 9pm on Sunday evening and was early going to bed last night too.
Luckily I have a week off work to play catch-up.
Sunshine and snow but why is the latter so non-stick?
Log fires, still needed in the evening.
Good book I am reading at the moment. The Uncommon Reader by the wonderful Alan Bennett.
Cosiness.
That’s enough.
We have just had a run of those Special Days. A religious holiday. These are the days I find the hardest. It makes no sense but whenever there is an invisible pressure to be happy and jolly that is the time I feel really low and empty. From my own personal research I understand it has a childhood, low self-esteem reason. A feeling that I don’t really deserve to be happy and certainly not be extra-specially so. I’ve never understood the concept of enforced happiness. I didn’t eat any chocolate on Sunday because, for a different reason, for once I didn’t crave it. Perhaps I am just perverse. Well I am actually!
I write these words in bed and as if they sense my maudlin mood my three animals, two dogs and the cat are all over me, all fighting for my attention, all jealous of each other.
PART TWO
Later on, as the day developed, the snow showers moved away. My son S came and spent the day with us which was a surprise and a treat for us as we hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. He seems well and happy, he played his guitar, good to hear that again. Why do Irish mothers of sons worry so?
I give the dogs a good run in the field and have a brisk walk myself. The snow showers have cleared away and the sun is shining. It almost feels like spring. I take advantage of the warm temperatures and set to on awakening the garden, something I have been longing to do. A bit of cutting back the dead stuff and raking up etc. I limit myself to a good hour or so as I am prone to overdo it by trying to do the whole garden in one go. That way leads to a bad back, something I certainly don’t need. Before I go in I fill the wheelbarrow with logs, that’s a job I love doing. I always look forward to the lighting of the woodburner when evening falls.
My daughter bought me a little dish with a quotation on - ’Gardening grows the spirit’. It’s another kind of Feng Shui isn’t it? De-cluttering in the garden certainly frees the mind and has the same effect on me as it does in the home. It also exercises the body and you get lots of lovely fresh air as well.
Sarah Ban Breathnach says that every day has a hidden gift. I rather like that idea. Searching for it is a good practice. Her book Simple Abundance is one of my bedside books that I dip into each morning as it has an entry for every day of the year.
John O’Donohue’s book Anam Cara sits beside it and is another I dip into. My dear sister grew up in Ireland and she tells me that (her words) he never got enough recognition for his amazing skill, but from all accounts he was a shy and unpretentious man so did not want and maybe would not appreciate too much attention.
But what else does Sarah Ban Breathnach say? If in doubt….. have a bath.
Stop my music player on the right (to avoid getting two songs playing at once) and listen to Jack Savoretti sing live - he is an ahead of his time singer/songwriter.
Dear Diary,
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure
Marianne Williamson
I’ve been asked to write about fear by our local writing group, it’s our subject for ‘homework’ this month. M chose it actually. Thanks M.
A friend always says that I must think laterally (must !?). Trouble with me is I’m an Arian and being the ‘selfish’ sign we tend to relate everything to ourselves.
Could I write a story with fear as the theme? I doubt it.
A poem? Maybe. But I have to be inspired to write a poem.
A blog? Well that would indeed kill two birds (if you will pardon the expression, I know how many of us are bird lovers).
I am not a fearful person.
Nec timeo nec spurno
is the O’Connor motto.
Neither fear nor despise
I rather like it.
I do have one big fear, it’s a phobia actually which is of being sick. I have labelled it emetophobia. I've just checked and it is actually a word! Phobias are a state of mind brought about by an oftimes irrational fear. We take the fright and our body is affected in all kinds of ways. Our blood runs cold in more ways than one.
True to the synchronistic formations that seem to always surround my life: as I type these words Jack Savoretti is singing these lines
To Hide all my fears
in his song Chemical Courage.
Is it telling me I hide all my fears? I admit I have fears that are far too personal to blog about. I am sure we all have secret fears of which we dare not speak…….to anyone. Demons I call them. Perhaps these demons are only worries, but what are worries, are they just baby fears?
I had a fright yesterday morning when I opened the back door to call the dogs in from their first-thing-in-the-morning outing. There were two red kites, a male and a female, circling the tall pines by the river, close to the back door. They were swooping down into the branches of the treetops where the pair of collared doves have made their nest. I blew the whistle I just happened to have in my mouth. (I blow it to call the dogs sometimes).
I blew it furiously, standing at the base of the trees, waving my arms about frantically at the same time and in the end the kites moved somewhat reluctantly away. The male was just huge, the biggest one I’ve ever seen. I did feel fear then. Fear for the doves and whatever may lie in their nest. I felt what Faith must regularly feel when her doves are under threat from the sparrow hawk. We have one of those round here too and it has been catching small birds from our neighbourhood - it’s heartbreaking but it’s Nature. I just have to harden my heart.
Because I am a mother, a grandmother and a born worrier too, most of the fears I experience are for others, not for myself. No-one was around for me to warn of this, how the umbilical cord is never truly broken and that there will always be a connection between a mother and her child, both in this world and the next.
Talking of which, a friend of mine went with her daughter to a Mother and Daughter Workshop recently, she was telling me about how good it was . She is older than me and her daughter is older than mine, but they too are very close and I would loved to have had the same experience. It used art and all sorts of mediums and one of the things she learned was how daughters carry their mother’s ‘burden’ down through the generations, on and on. I could relate to this. Burden is not the word she used but you will probably get the gist of what I am trying to recall. What she explained resonated with me in the fear of loss that I hold and which has been the wound that I have carried all my life.
I digress. I do Just Do It anyway (when I feel the fear).
Fear is usually caused by something more powerful that is exerting a power over you causing you dread.
I fear outcomes rather than people. I could fight anyone to the death with my bare hands if I had to defend myself or my loved ones. I suppose what I really fear deep down is being Out of Control, I am such a control freak.
Ignorance can breed fear too and that way leads of course to prejudice
Fear has many partners. Fear and intimidation for one. A lot of fear is instilled in others by bullies; abject cowards who can only work in groups with others - sheep like individuals - who also only feel brave in a group. The only way to treat bullies is to stand up to them I am afraid.
I am afraid - that slipped out - I am not afraid to say it at all - isn’t the English language peculiar sometimes?
Some fear is healthy in my opinion. The fear of heights and crazy funfair rides go into this category. The way I see it is our bodies are being sensible and fighting for self-preservation. It would rather we did not take risks.
But there are those folk who get some kind of kick out of being near the edge, of being in dangerous situations. I’ve never really understood that myself and can think of better ways to enjoy myself.
If you are ever nervous, New Age gurus will ask you to think
‘What is the worse that could happen?.
That’s good advice.
My blessing today is a poem:
Sunrise
You can die for it-- an idea, or the world. People
have done so, brilliantly, letting their small bodies be bound
to the stake, creating an unforgettable fury of light. But
this morning, climbing the familiar hills in the familiar fabric of dawn, I thought
of China, and India and Europe, and I thought how the sun
blazes for everyone just so joyfully as it rises
under the lashes of my own eyes, and I thought I am so many! What is my name?
What is the name of the deep breath I would take over and over for all of us? Call it
whatever you want, it is happiness, it is another one of the ways to enter fire.
Mary Oliver 1935-
Before I go here is an (edited) poem I wrote five years ago at a time I did feel truly afraid, again not for myself so much, as for others.
Impending Invasion of Iraq, 2003
The nightmare starts: Burnt bodies, dead babies, body-bags, cremated soldiers, children fleeing an invasion brought about by bullies. Hunters of a prey, so easily taken.
Bush’s pact with the Devil Is a fight for control with Oil as its Prize.
Nothing Rhymes. The lies won’t add up. So many heads buried deep within sand.
Just my powerlessness prevails. Filled with sadness for this world, I am like the child again who wakes at night in fear.
Before I start my homework task I felt drawn to post this poem, it seemed to fit the subject matter.
A Poem by Sylvia Plath
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful- The eye of the little god, four cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Do you like this poem? I love it, so does my daughter whe actually introduced it to me.
Everyone sees a different meaning in it I think, how about you?
But, as ever, I digress, this is my homework for In The Mud.
Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
Tag five others to do the same.
I have done this before but can’t remember what I wrote so here goes with some more quirks and randoms.
I asked M what was quirky about me and he said I was one Big Quirk. Perhaps that will give you a picture of me. I am a real eccentric, always have been.
I am unconventional. I love being different.
Until they get to know me people think I am a serene soul, quietly aloof and reserved. Under a cool and calm exterior I actually have a fierce Irish temper and a will of steel. I am quiet but I prefer thinking and listening to talking.
I have no ear lobes to speak of which worries me a little as I read somewhere it is linked with serious criminality, Definitely not good anyway. Anyone else out there similarly afflicted?
My dog and I can read each other’s minds.
I can read other people’s minds, sometimes this is not a good thing. Sometimes it is!
I always put my left sock on before the right, left arm in my coat before the right etc, you get the picture?…. Always dressed the children that way. Probably has a name nowadays, that, some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder.
I have survived serious illness twice (so far, God willing) and also two very near fatal accidents. There is a guardian angel looking after me.
I never give up.
If you are reading this and haven't done this before you are duly tagged. Go on, it's painless, you can do it!
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 byIn The Mudto 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 forPurplecoo. 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 Hovelin 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
