A Special Day

Dear Diary,


Today is a special day.  (Ignore the date at the top of this blog, it is the 20th January 2009.  I posted this just after midnight as the day arrived but the computer must have been late catching up).

It is my daughter's birthday.

There is also something going on in the USA.

I make no excuses; I am copying for you below the same post that I put up on the 5th November of last year.

I have read Barack Obama's books since that day and I am so impressed with his command of the English language; not only is he eloquent he can also write like an angel.

He will not be able to change the world on his own, how could one man possibly bear that responsibility? He will need support at home and and positive thinking from all over the world.

Good luck to him and may the angels keep him safe.


5th November 2008

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

Martin Luther King

(for full speech see Footmote below)

Politics aside, whatever your personal views, a 47-year old Afro-American, a great orator, a visionary and a poet has been elected as President of the USA.

Today is an historic day, a victory for democracy. A day I am proud to see. Would that we had politicians who could be so inspirational. Is there anyone in the UK that you would stand in line for four hours to vote for? I think not.

I celebrate this day.

I also celebrate with my friends across the pond the demise of George Bush’s rule, a man who has blighted our lives and damaged our world. I am deeply ashamed of the things he has instigated in my name.

M switched on the radio during the night; we enjoyed a cup of tea and listened for an hour before going back to sleep. The results were looking hopeful then for Obama but were still not yet certain. I listened to Erica Jong as she spoke slowly and wisely and she called Bush and his entourage ‘morons‘.

Barack Obama has an awareness that has been lacking, an intelligence, a creativity, a broadness of mind and view.

At 7 am the clock radio woke us again and we heard a recording of Obama’s voice giving his acceptance speech in what was described as a voice ‘rough-edged with tiredness’. It sounded good to me.

Today is Guy Fawkes Day, the irony of the date is not lost on me. If we have an effigy to burn let it be for the death of all the ‘bad’ that has gone by and may a New World arise, like the proverbial Phoenix, from the ashes.

And forgive me if I slip in what I have always seen before as a sickly sweet cliché

God Bless America.

Bye for now,
Cait


PS. This is a transcript of Martin Luther’s speech. It is long but it is worth a read, when you can spare the time, on this historic day.




I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."
But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by a sign stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."¹

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!


Martin Luther King


Footnote, taken from the Observer March 2008.

King had arrived in Memphis, Tennessee, to support a strike by public sanitary workers. He led a series of protests. The aim was that they should be peaceful, although some were marred by violence. On 3 April, 1968, the day before his assassination, he delivered his famous 'I have seen the mountain top' speech in Memphis. Many people have since claimed the words seemed to eerily predict his death, as King warned: 'I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you.'

King was felled by a single bullet as he stood on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, just outside his room. His last words were to some supporters in the car park below, when King called out to one of them to make sure he played the spiritual 'Take My Hand, Precious Lord' at a church meeting planned for that evening.

A white escaped convict called James Earl Ray was arrested at London's Heathrow airport two months after King was killed. Ray pleaded guilty to avoid a trial and a possible death sentence. Later, he protested his innocence and claimed that King had been killed as part of a government and mafia conspiracy. Prominent members of the King family have supported that idea, as have civil rights leaders such as the Rev Jesse Jackson. Ray died in jail in 1998.

She Moved Through The Fair

For Camilla whose birthday was yesterday and for my lovely special daughter whose birthday is tomorrow.








She Moved Through The Fair


My young love said to me,
My mother won't mind
And my father won't slight you
For your lack of kind"
And she stepped away from me
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
Till our wedding day"

As she stepped away from me
And she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her
Move here and move there
And then she turned homeward
With one star awake
Like the swan in the evening
Moves over the lake

The people were saying,
No two e'er were wed
But one had a sorrow
That never was said
And I smiled as she passed
With her goods and her gear,
And that was the last
That I saw of my dear.

Last night she came to me,
My dead love came in
So softly she came
That her feet made no din
As she laid her hand on me
And this she did say
It will not be long, love,
'Til our wedding day




Padraic Colum

Just Five Questions

Where I'd like to be (and how I'd like to look!)

Dear Diary,

Don't clamour for an interview. Instead search for the inner view.

Sri Sathya Sai Baba

I was going to blog about de-cluttering today as I am on such a mission - the urge to simplify my life even more has come upon me and I am, yet again, clearing out every little thing that is not used or needed. This is both a physical and a spiritual exercise and the effects of ’getting rid’ are truly liberating. It’s a New Year thing and I guess I am not alone in my endeavours. But dear Willow has asked me five questions in the form of an interview so I shall do my best to answer these below in a form of a blog and in no particular order, bit of a ramble as usual.

These are the questions:

1. How did you find your charming blacksmith's cottage in rural Wales?

2. What do you enjoy most about being a librarian?

3. If you could choose just one writer to have dinner with, who would it be and why?

4. Other than your loved ones, what is your most treasured tangible possession?

5. Before blogging, what if any, was your main mode of personal expression.


How did I find my cottage in rural Wales?

I believe that there are so many things that we are led to in life, would you agree? Books are just one of these, I am always being drawn to certain books that hold a message for me, either on shelves in a bookshop or by word of mouth or in the media. The same thing happens with those people who I am sure are soul mates, folk that we may meet by chance but feel we ‘recognise’, even on a first meeting. They often go on to become great friends in this life. I believe we are led to whatever is meant for us and everything becomes part of the great Learning Experience that is our present Life on Earth. However, if you don’t believe in any of this, or in reincarnation then you will not agree with me.

I am digressing. I will come back to this subject another day.

I feel I was led to this wee cottage - Ty’r Gof could be its correct Welsh name. House of the blacksmith. Its true title however is a description of where it is, also in Welsh but for obvious reasons I will not give you that.

It is a long and rather a personal story, but suffice it to say I was definitely not looking for a house, not even planning to buy one but was walking down the high street of a local market town twelve years ago when my eyes were physically drawn, pulled really, to a photo of the cottage and its details, tucked away at the bottom of an estate agent’s window. Because it was in a local area that I knew well but I didn’t seem to recognise the cottage, I was rather curious and when I had finished my shopping this curiosity got the better of me and I went to ask for a copy of the agent’s details.

Its pull on me persisted and so, a few days later, on a bright autumn afternoon, I went to view it with my daughter and my new (first) granddaughter. It was a very ‘tidy’ place as they say here in Wales, with a rather neat riverside garden. The owners were moving for health reasons; a lovely elderly couple who had lived here for over forty years.

What did I love at first sight? Its riverside location (I’ll say that word only once but you get the picture) and also its ‘atmosphere’. My baby granddaughter fell straight asleep as soon as we put her baby seat down in the little snug and we were able to take a tour round. I am highly sensitive to the auras around people and places and this cottage has the most wonderful vibes; it is very comforting and relaxing, everyone says so.

The five acre field the other side of the river came with it and also the old blacksmith’s forge across the road. When we first escaped to Wales eighteen years ago M and I had bought a 7-acre smallholding high up in the hills, several miles away but this purchase had been a mistake, the vibes of that old farmhouse were not good (I did not go with my instincts in those days, more‘s the pity). We left there after a three years and in not pleasant circumstances as we both went our separate ways for a couple of years.

It is a long story but in the end M and I (together) bought this little blacksmith’s abode in its magical valley and a happy ending for our little family was only just beginning. Ty’r Gof drew me in magnetically, as things do. And now I love being at home so much that it is hard to get me from here.

My writer dinner guest?

It would have to be my hero Tony Benn. Better known as a politician but he is also a great writer. I do love his politics though, also his eloquence, his great knowledge of history and his wide experience of life. I love too his warm heart and the way he still strives for peace in the world, God bless him.

This is a must-read book.

The best thing about being a librarian?

I started as a library assistant and had seven years experience of working in different departments of the library service until health reasons caused me to seek part-time work and this job as a branch librarian came up close to my home. The timing was perfect, yet again. I think I do have the best job in the world, for me it is anyway. As an ex-nurse I enjoy caring for people and books are my passion. I also love working with children (I worked in a primary school as a welfare assistant when my children were young). The little community library is attached to a primary school so my job involves a lot of liaison with the children. So this job was made for me in heaven and I am in my element working with books all day. They say nothing is perfect, but this job is pretty damn near. All libraries are under threat, especially small ones, so we do feel constantly vulnerable - we had one big scare a few years ago but the community put up a big fight and won the day. I think in the present economic climate, libraries are even more vital to society, do you agree?

How did I express myself before blogging began?

Was there life before blogging? I can’t imagine life without it now; it brings me so much pleasure, both in the writing of mine and the reading of others. It is addictive though and I spend far too much time on the computer but the Blogosphere is another place I feel truly at home in and I have made so many wonderful new friends, all over the globe. It all began when a journal I kept for a creative writing course was continued as a blog and it just kept going. I have always written, ever since I was a child when I filled loads of exercise books with stories. I try and write poetry which is my first love. I wish I could paint or draw but I am utterly useless at doing anything with my hands.

How we express ourselves could be a great subject for a blog in itself and a very relevant one for writers and artists. It’s what art is all about. It’s about a lot more than therapy this blogging lark, do you agree?

Last but not least, what material object do I value?

I am totally unmaterialistic and only photos spring to mind, a bit of a cliché really as everyone says this. But I treasure photos and documents relating to my mother. She and I were living in dire poverty and were forcibly separated when I was fourteen months old. I was adopted and she died when I was six. (I found that out when I was in my thirties).

They say an Irish mother is a blessing from heaven and although I have written in this blog and others about the many blessings in my life, my mother, who is with me in spirit), my children and my grandchildren are the greatest.

And with that final answer I must really get back to my de-cluttering,

Bye for now,

Cait

PS If you would like me to interview you, please leave a comment somewhere for me and I will get back to you. You will have to blog your answers and be prepared to ask other folk in turn.

Go on, it’s fun!

Time for Change

Dear Diary,

'You must be the change you wish to see in the world'

Mahatma Gandhi

I had another bath this morning…I felt the need for more lavender and tea tree oils to start the day and as I soaked I listened to Radio 4 (I cannot live without Radio 4).

I have been listening to Book of the Week all this week which is:

And Did Those Feet: Walking Through 2000 Years of British and Irish History

By Charlie Connelly.

It has been a very interesting ’listen’ and his original style of writing really brings history, a subject that can be portrayed in a rather dull fashion, to life and no more so than this morning which was the Irish part of his journey where he writes about the Doolough famine walk in County Mayo. He retold the horrific truth of what happened to these starving folk in the west of Ireland. If you can possibly spare the time do Listen Again online. It's only just under 15 minutes long.


After a late breakfast I had a nice chat on the phone with my daughter and then spent a pleasant morning in the sunshine (!) and even managed to do a few jobs in the garden. Later the dogs had a good long run in the field while I took a few snaps.

Finn

Kitty

The caravan that lives by the river; somewhere to escape to and good for sleepovers.

A couple of views from the field (spot the magic crab apple tree).

Tonight, coincidentally, I watched the final part of the story of the Diary of Anne Frank which has been serialised on BBC1. And following on, straight afterwards, I watched an excellent two hour documentary on BBC4, narrated by Kenneth Branagh, about Anne’s (short) life. I could not stop watching this even though it could not have been more horrific. While watching both these programmes I was reminded of the words that Charlie Connolly had quoted in relation to the treatment of the Irish and which I heard as my day begun, while relaxing in my bath.

It has always been a mystery to me how men can feel themselves honoured by the humiliation of their fellow beings.

Mahatma Gandhi

It surely is a time for a change, why doesn't Man ever learn from history?

Bye for now,
Peace be with you,
Cait

The cold continues

Dear Diary,

We spend January walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives... not looking for flaws, but for potential. ~Ellen Goodman

No, it’s not me. This is a photo of the woman who is always to be found in next door’s garden and who sits by their duck pond most of the year. (Luckily she doesn’t seem to feel the cold). Probably to celebrate Christmas she has recently had a new outfit and her make-up has been re-touched; she is rather a beauty don’t you think?

It was minus 9.5 last night, I slept under a mountain of duvets and a quilt and cuddled my hot water bottle. Even so, my body was crying out for a hot bath this morning so. as it is a non-work day, I indulged its desires. I ran a bath and added some of my new lavender bath stuff that my daughter bought me for Christmas and mixed it with a couple of drops of my much-loved tea-tree oil. The water was deliciously warm and certainly got my (poor) circulation going. I have always had poor circulation, it must be an inherited thing. As I relaxed into the water I listened to Woman’s Hour which I always enjoy and I have to say it was a real morning treat. I vow to take more baths in future, either in the mornings or the evenings as they are so relaxing and warming, especially at this time of year. So that can be my first resolution, to have more baths. It is a rather pathetic one isn’t it? Other resolutions? I haven’t really made any but I must put my mind to 2009 because it is a subject for writing homework.

The river is frozen again and now there are parts that weren’t affected before that have succumbed. I keep forgetting my camera when I take the dogs for their run in the field. The birds are getting through their food at an alarming rate so we made a special trip out on Monday to stock up with more peanuts and seeds and M even bought a loaf of white sliced 'plastic' bread for them. I have to say that the message from the birds this morning was ‘What do you call this then? Not bread surely!’ They are used to M’s delicious home-made bread you see.

This is Sammy Squirrel proving that he can climb up the pole and reach the nuts. See how he rests his bottom on the iced up water tray - it must be cold!

All is quiet around these parts but I think that local plumbers have been kept very busy dealing with burst pipes. Some schools have not re-opened for the new term - two of my grand-daughters are still off school, much to their delight.

I’m reading a delicious book at the moment, it is Oystercatchers by Susan Fletcher, (a rather ‘plain’ name I feel for such a gifted writer); she wrote the excellent Eve Green, that is another ‘must-read’.

Before I go this is a poem by Caroline Bird who won a Young Poet prize recently, it may have been the Dylan Thomas one. I heard her on Woman’s Hour on Monday where she read her moving poem ‘Women in Progress’ She is a wonderful poet, so young but with such amazing talent. For a New Year, 2009 poem this one beats all.


Women in Progress

(an exaltation for the 14 year old girls in my poetry workshops)


Gemma would take her hair-straighteners
to a desert island but she’s no stereotype.
I hope she nails her sonnet (and that lad) in 2009.
Maxie has a puppy-dog hidden
in the kennel of her chest. Publicly
she thumps her jewellery, roaring ‘your mum!’
I hope she acts herself in 2009.
Salena’s best friend betrayed her. Now
she must audition new friends in the lunch-hall.
I hope she finds hundreds in 2009.
Zoe shields her largeness with her library books
- Point Horror - walks the weaker kids home
through the path of least-bullies.
I hope her mum gets better in 2009.
People think Rachel’s got a Loser badge
pinned to her hoodie but I’ve read her poetry
and she’s got the perfect simile for sky.
I hope she goes to sixth form in 2009.
Because you’ll break my heart, 2009,
if you show me again those tired teachers flexing red pens.
And a drowning poet saying ‘you could be anything’
to an oversized class in an undersized room.
Don’t show me the future in their faces:
girls waving pom-poms at the fringes of the football field,
girls feeling fat behind tills. A knockers joke
in every Christmas cracker. Tell an honest one, 2009.
Tell me the one about the woman
who dug a tunnel through the system and set forth.
She had panda-eyes but an independent tear.

I will sign off now but send you the warmest wishes,

Cait

All Things Cold and a Prayer for Peace

Dear Diary,


I shall start with a poem today, I was inspired looking out of my window when I awoke.

Minus 12

Iced-up; the river seems un-moving.

Edged with lumps of white that are

sculptural; frozen and un-bowing.

The river slows ahead and stops

and at its bend surrendering,

so strangely still, she yields to Nature,

whose Chill is far too much a contest for her Dance

and she pauses in the ice-flow’s stony grip.

Proudly, a narrowed channel fights its way

and far beneath the great covering of white ice,

(those sheets where in my fancy

those water-nymphs may skate or skid),

I cannot help but trust she flows

and cannot help but pray that she will never sleep.

Everywhere of late there has been nothing else but the talk of the Great Cold. It has been so cold that 0 degrees is beginning to feel like warm to us. I wake this morning and somehow suspect it is more like -12 and I am amazed to see that the river is frozen. I vow to invest in a Max-Min thermometer; our neighbours have one hanging by their back door. There is some odd satisfaction in knowing or being able to relate to others what the temperature is/has been.

As a child of the fifties I was used to having ice on the inside of my windows but lately in the UK we have not been blessed with such ‘proper’ winters. I remember one in the 1980’s when, back in Sussex, the temperature was -8 for several nights.

It was -4 at 5 pm last evening, I know that because my car has a temperature gauge and I bore passengers by reading it as it fluctuates on my journeys up and down hills and mountains. It was -8 locally during the day. It feels like -12 today but I am only guessing. I have put an extra duvet on the bed and won’t go into details but I am well layered-up!

Molly the cat ventures out but soon returns. One dog is almost wrapped around the Rayburn; the other is cooched up on his pillows on the floor beside my bed, right next to the heater. He (Finn) was twelve on New Year’s Day and we spoil him in honour of his great age by letting him sleep in the bedroom and he lies on proper pillows (and has his own doggy pillow cases of course!). The two dogs rarely cooch up together, in fact the cat and Finn are more ‘loving’ to each other, regularly grooming and washing each other. (I will try and post you a photo).

I shall have to go and fetch more logs in as I think we will be getting through a lot in these coming days. We store them in the old forge across the road and carry them over in the wheelbarrow to store in the front porch. Snow is forecast for some areas, maybe tomorrow morning. Luckily our freezer is not empty and we have enough tinned and dried foods to see us through should we be snowed in. I have to replenish the bird feeders, run the dogs, and drive to the local shop to get a Sunday paper which is a little indulgence I still enjoy. Then I will retreat to the warm cottage and get a dinner cooking.

So are there blessings?

There always are. Here are just a few.

Duvets. I need say no more.

New Years. And their Resolutions or Predictions maybe? I shall soon be blogging about this as it is the subject for our writing group’s next exercise.

Hot Soups. Foods with a kick. Curries, Stews, Roasts. Dumplings. No more elaboration needed here either.

Sundays. My favourite day of the week. I have enjoyed this Christmas holiday period (did I really write that?) inasmuch as each day has merged and become like a Sunday and given over to a break from the much-despised routine that life can become.

Last... but never let it be said it is the least….. The joy that is Reading a Good Book. I get such pleasure in my job by seeing borrowers feel that same delight and anticipation of finding warmth, both physical and spiritual and a genuine comfort from escape into others’ creativity where others’ words can take them into others’ worlds.

Will that be enough?

I could add the wonder that is a great voice, a voice of an angel in fact, such as Leona Lewis’s who is singing to me as I type. I play Run over and over as I love the lyrics and the way the melody rises in volume and power.

That’s enough for now. Chores await.

I send you all warm wishes and also a huge prayer for Peace in the world.

“I am not only a pacifist but a militant pacifist. I am willing to fight for peace. Nothing will end war unless the people themselves refuse to go to war.”

Albert Einstein
1879 - 1955



Go mbeanna Dia duit,
Cait

New Year Ramblings

Dear Diary,

"I will seek elegance rather than luxury, refinement rather than fashion. I will seek to be worthy more than respectable, wealthy and not rich. I will study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly. I will listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with an open heart. I will bear all things cheerfully, do all things bravely, await occasions and hurry never. In a word I will let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious grow up through the common."
William Ellery Channing

I found that wonderful quotation on this wonderful blog. and had to share it with you.



Yesterday was New Year’s Day and was another gift of magic visually. We went to have a drink with some dear friends, it was only a short drive through the lanes but was such a treat as everything about us was still clothed in white. Flakes of frost floated about but were unlike snowflakes; they were more ethereal, and resembled the white feathers sent down for us by the angels in times of need. We were tempted to stop and take photos but we didn’t have time unfortunately. These days of frost are quite rare and we must make the most of them.

I have got used to the Arctic conditions now and rather love them, I never thought I would. It was - 6 over night and - 2.5 in the day. Donning layers is the answer - thick tights and socks and scarves (indoors) and gloves, hats and warmest coat and boots (outside). Hot drinks a-plenty throughout the day and I try and keep moving, it is fatal to be still unless one is curled up in a blanket by the fire! Our beloved woodburner and old Rayburn are vital of course, as we have no central heating but at the moment we are also relying on extremely expensive electric oil filled radiators to supplement these two stalwarts.

The poor birds are suffering though, the garden is ‘overflowing’ with our feathered friends seeking morsels of food. We have put out fat balls, mixed seeds, M’s home-made bread which they adore, peanuts, porridge oats and also my home made bird cake made with left-over beef dripping. We have a new ‘bird feeding station’, a grand name for a set of metal hooks. We thought it would be squirrel proof but Sammy has at last managed to climb up the pole and reach the nuts. Proof that where there is a will there is always a way. Freezing temperatures were probably the spur. Is this a symbol of how one can conquer what seems to be insurmountable if one persists? I think so.

I have really enjoyed this book…The Morville Hours by Katherine Swift and I would like to recommend it to you. A fellow blogger recommended it to me and I was not disappointed. Isn’t it wonderful the way word of mouth, or rather word of ’net’ works, especially with books - as a librarian I have seen how the love of a good book can spread like wildfire. Morville Hours is the story of the making of a Shropshire garden from scratch but is much more than that, the subjects covered are wide and all of interest, the author is knowledgeable in many areas and manages to tell part of her life story at the same time. It is an inspiring book and was a great read over Christmas.

Talking of inspiring writers, I am reading Barack Obama’s Dreams from my Father at the moment. I will blog about this later but I will just say now that this man can write as well as he can speak. Not long now until he becomes President Obama.

As I write this I am playing ‘Run’ by Leona Lewis, the wonderful Snow Patrol song of course. I am feeling rather proud of myself as it is the first song I have purchased from Itunes because I hope to make up compilations of songs sometimes rather than buy whole albums. Needless to say my daughter helped me set this up; it is easy though, like everything is, once you know how. God, I apologise, this posting is riddled with cliches, my old writing tutor would be making much use of the red pen if she was reading this!

Still on the musical theme I’ll end, not with a poem, but with the lyrics to a song by Cat Stevens, one of my all time favourite singer/songwriters - he is now called Yusuf Islam of course but still making music.

M was playing Cat’s classic CD Catch Bull at Four yesterday morning; I know every line and the order of the songs by heart. This one resonated with me as the date was New Year’s Day.



Changes IV


Don't you feel a change a coming from another side of time breaking down the walls of silence lifting shadows from your mind Placing back the missing mirrors that before you couldn't find filling mysteries of emptiness that yesterday left behind And we all know it's better Yesterday has past now let's all start the living for the one that's going to last Yes we all know it's better Yesterday has past now let's all start the living for the one that's going to last Don't you feel the day is coming that will stay and remain when your children see the answers that you saw the same when the clouds have all gone there will be no more rain and the beauty of all things is uncovered again Don't you feel the day is coming and it won't be too soon when the people of the world can all live in one room when we shake off the ancient shake off the ancient chains of our tomb we will all be born again of the eternal womb


Here you can watch him performing the song live on the BBC way back when.




The feelings contained therein are still needed today in 2009.

When will the day come?

Bye for now,

Cait.

New Days

Dear Diary,

Sorry I have been absent for so long. I blame the season, is it safe to come out now?

To wish you all a Very Happy and Peaceful New Year, here are just a few pictures of the hoary frost that has hung around all day. Last night's dark fog turned into bright beauty and it stayed with is all the day long. We took the dogs for a walk up in the forestry.

The walk begins.

This is 'our river' further downstream and the rest are views from a 'high spot'.

I'll leave you with a poem by the late John O'Donohue whose words are still missed.

The Inner History of a Day

No one knew the name of this day;
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.

The mind of the day draws no attention;
It dwells within the silence with elegance
To create a space for all our words,
Drawing us to listen inward and outward.

We seldom notice how each day is a holy place
Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,
Transforming our broken fragments
Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.

Somewhere in us a dignity presides
That is more gracious than the smallness
That fuels us with fear and force,
A dignity that trusts the form a day takes.

So at the end of this day, we give thanks
For being betrothed to the unknown
And for the secret work
Through which the mind of the day
And wisdom of the soul become one.

John O'Donohue

1954-2008


Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

Birches and a river view

Dear Diary,

I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow
to keep an appointment with a beech-tree,
or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.

Henry David Thoreau, 1817 - 1862

Just pictures and a poem today.

The poem is by the great American poet Robert Frost and was introduced to me by Mountainear in a comment on my last posting. Thank you Mountainear; I love this poem.

The first picture is a photo of our river taken by M.

Birches


When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.


Robert Frost

Though a tree grows so high, the falling leaves return to the root.
Malay proverb

Do not be afraid to go out on a limb ... That's where the fruit is.
- Anonymous

Bye for now,

Cait.

Poetry on ice

Dear Diary,

The most important tribute any human being can pay to a poem or a piece of prose he or she really loves is to learn it by heart. Not by brain, by heart; the expression is vital.

George Steiner.


I am writing this with my dear cat Molly laying on my lap and I haven’t the heart to push her off so please accept my apologies if there are typing errors.

I just love Sundays, it is truly my favourite day of the week, especially in Winter when there are fewer folk around; no tourists, speeding motorcyclists, lorries and the like. Today I am blessed with another frosty, sunny day which draws me outside to see what treasures are awaiting me.

But Sundays have their own little routines. I fear I am getting Set in My Ways and there is No Hope. I have enjoyed a long lie-in with Edgar Sawtelle but this book is quite harrowing and I am getting in a bit of a state worrying about the outcome (you have to read it).

I breakfast on boiled eggs and listen to the tail end of The Archers (I am an addict) and then I just have to hear my favourite Desert Island Discs as I do a few indoor chores; today it is someone called Michael Healy, a film director. I am not well up on film directors but I gather he directed The Deerhunter. I quite like some of his music choices. He mentions he started school far too early and I am surprised when he says he was six years old! Then I realise he meant he was sent away to boarding school at the age of six and so grew up not having an idea of what family life was like and didn’t have a ’normal’ relationship with his mother and could never be a proper father himself. How sad is that? I had no idea of a normal family either so can empathise but my reason is an entirely different one.

Finally, chores over, I can layer up, gather the dogs and make my way out to the field. And as predicted, there is treasure indeed. As I enter the field gate with the dogs I look up in the sky, there are aeroplane trails in the sky and they are making a big cross sign - not a religious cross shape which might be appropriate for a Sabbath, but rather a huge kiss shape and it makes me smile.

The dogs and I have a good wander, well they mostly run and I mostly wander - there is ice underfoot, all the boggy parts and what we call the pond are still near-frozen though the brilliant Sun is doing her best to melt them. I come across a biggish puddle of ice and again I curse myself for forgetting to bring my camera because the shapes in the ice puddle are amazing. They resembles a lattice of highways criss-crossing each other, forming diamond shapes and other geometric patterns. How it has been formed I have no idea, it is not as symmetrical as a spider web, they also always look stunningly magical when frozen. Nearby is another little pool, this has rounded ice patterns, lots of little petal shapes. I consider going back to the cottage for my camera but with me laziness always wins and I make a mental note to send M out with his superior camera later on to see if he will capture this unusual phenomenon for me.  (The picture above is not taken here by the way).

We return to the garden, the sun is till shining, I haven’t seen one car and all is quiet and still. I do a bit of clearing up outside and fill up the bird feeders again. It is amazing how much time ‘just pottering’ takes, but on days like this it is a joy to be outside, the feel of warm sunshine on one’s face is such a treat in December.

I’ll sign off with a poem now.

I caught a part of Woman’s Hour this week and heard Daisy Goodwin talking about the BBC’s reading poetry aloud competition for schools. Back in the mists of time I was lucky enough to have an excellent grammar school education where the correct and proper use of English grammar was instilled in me. I have no complaints on that score, only a deep gratitude. My junior school education in South London was also excellent and we learned to spell (!) and to recite tables by rote so that by the time we left at eleven these things were second nature.

Unlike a lot of people I know I have never learned poems by rote and although I have such a passion for poetry now, I was never really inspired at school. For there we used to dissect poems, that much I remember and while doing so we would read them in class, taking it in turns - I remember the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner for one. I have studied English literature since leaving school, as a mature student and again it was all about pulling text apart and examining the use of language, something which to be honest, I have never quite felt happy with. I am always reminded of U A Fanthorpe’s poem when I get on this subject - I have blogged it before but for those of you who missed it, here it is again.

Dear Mr Lee

Dear Mr Lee (Mr Smart says
it's rude to call you Laurie, but that's
how I think of you, having lived with you
really all year), Dear Mr Lee
(Laurie) I just want you to know
I used to hate English, and Mr Smart
is roughly my least favourite person,
and as for Shakespeare (we're doing him too)
I think he's a national disaster, with all those jokes
that Mr Smart has to explain why they're jokes,
and even then no one thinks they're funny,
And T. Hughes and P. Larkin and that lot
in our anthology, not exactly a laugh a minute,
pretty gloomy really, so that's why
I wanted to say Dear Laurie (sorry) your book's
the one that made up for the others, if you
could see my copy you'd know it's lived
with me, stained with Coke and Kitkat
and when I had a cold, and I often
take you to bed with me to cheer me up
so Dear Laurie, I want to say sorry,
I didn't want to write a character-sketch
of your mother under headings, it seemed
wrong somehow when you'd made her so lovely,
and I didn't much like those questions
about social welfare in the rural community
and the seasons as perceived by an adolescent,
I didn't think you'd want your book
read that way, but bits of it I know by heart,
and I wish I had your uncles and your half-sisters
and lived in Slad, though Mr Smart says your view
of the class struggle is naïve, and the examiners
won't be impressed by me knowing so much by heart,
they'll be looking for terse and cogent answers
to their questions, but I'm not much good at terse and cogent,
I'd just like to be like you, not mind about being poor,
see everything bright and strange, the way you do,
and I've got the next one out of the Public Library,
about Spain, and I asked Mum about learning
to play the fiddle, but Mr Smart says Spain isn't
like that any more, it's all Timeshare villas
and Torremolinos, and how old were you
when you became a poet? (Mr Smart says for anyone
with my punctuation to consider poetry as a career
is enough to make the angels weep).

PS Dear Laurie, please don't feel guilty for
me failing the exam, it wasn't your fault,
it was mine, and Shakespeare's
and maybe Mr Smart's, I still love Cider
it hasn't made any difference.

U A Fanthorpe

I wonder what you think? Were you put off poetry at school? Were you made to learn poems off by heart and did that inspire you to read more or to write your own? Did you leave school with a love of poetry, a dislike for it or an indifference?

I was indifferent to reading poetry until I reached the romantic, adolescent phase and I started writing my own and what absolute rubbish it was. Romantic nonsense, but it must have been a need to get something out of my system. Is poetry always a form of therapy?

I have been trying to think of a poem that I would like to learn by heart and read aloud but so far have not been able to come up with anything. I am still on the case though. Can you think of one that you love enough to learn and recite by heart? Not one you were forced to learn as a child, but rather one that you yourself would choose? Perhaps you have written something that would fit the bill?

Poets visit schools these days and from personal experience I find that they really inspire the children to express themselves. The children need enthusiastic teachers as well of course, to encourage them and if they have access to a library and all the wonderful books of poetry about nowadays it is even better.

Reading aloud surely gives children confidence in ‘public speaking’ but I would prefer them to have a choice - either to read their own work or the work of a published poet that they themselves admire.

I shall leave you now,
Enjoy your Sunday,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Over the rainbow

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

Edith Wharton
1862-1937


I may have blogger’s block as I don’t seem to feel inspired to write on one particular subject. This may have to be a bit of a ramble so bear with me.

I rose early this morning even though I am on leave from work as I had to make a little journey in the car to pick up something from the library. I throw on some clothes - layers are the order of the day again and the only way to keep warm. A quick drink of fruit juice and a yogurt and I’m off, tea and porridge will have to wait for my return. It’s another cold morning, hardly above freezing and still ice lies about so I have to be very careful, especially underfoot. Luckily the main road has been gritted, our gritting angel comes regularly; another unsung hero is that man.

When I arrive back home about half an hour later it is still only nine o’ clock and I take the dogs for their run in the field. We don’t venture on the bridge in the garden as it is ‘skew wiff’ - it still lies at an angle where it was ‘moved’ in the Great Flood and it will also be icy. I know from past experience how quickly one can slip on (or off!) it so I am not taking any risks with myself or with Finn and Kitty . Much as Kitty loves water, I doubt that either dog would relish falling into an icy river.

So we go over the road bridge and enter the field gate. Everywhere is cloudy except one far side of our valley which is bathed in sunlight. These are the foothills of the Cambrian Mountains and they shine a rusty gold, interspersed with small blankets of green, the sky a bright blue; it is like a distant oasis of summer amidst the cold and grey of a chill November.

The dogs and I set off for a stroll around the five acre field. They run well together; Kitty is the more energetic, she is still young and being a border collie her energy is boundless. Finn is an elderly lurcher with the heart of an angel and he tolerates all Kitty’s tormenting as she play bites him and charges, tempting him to race with her.

It rains on and off, the sun peeps out at me from behind another hill and then as I turn to look again at the mountains I see the arch of a rainbow and it brings a little lurch of delight that I feel somewhere in my solar plexus (the sixth chakra?). A friend of mine saw a double rainbow last week, they are quite a rare sight and I am sure they would bring double delight in their wake.

I am still dreaming of rescuing two donkeys, I cannot make my mind up yet. I will think on it until the spring as that would be a good time to get some. Donkeys keep haunting me, as things do when you have them in your mind. The air is pure and crisp and I am tempted to stay outside but I have to do a few little jobs in the garden.

The first job is the replenishing of the bird feeders, the rate at which they get through the nuts and seeds is amazing and they adore M’s home made bread, I saw four blue tits fighting over a crust of it yesterday. Like everyone else I am trying to make savings but cannot bring myself to stop feeding the birds. I have even bought a new ‘feeding station’, (a grand name for a set of metal hooks), but the ground has been too cold for M to install it in what will be its new home by the river. This morning my little friend the robin speaks to me from the wooden bird table, I understand his language of course but invariably he says the same thing ‘Where is the food?’. Sometimes he appears at one of the cottage windows and just stares at me. There is no need for words.

The nuthatch is the first to arrive on the newly filled nut holder, even he is less shy than he used to be. I call him Norman, God knows why.

I have some new solar lights to install as well but that job will have to wait for a thaw.

It is raining steadily now but it is like my beloved Irish ‘soft’ rain, the kind I feel at home in and could be happy walking in all day but M is calling and is mentioning tea so, somewhat reluctantly, I go indoors, throw off my wellies and a few of my layers and plan the rest of my day over a nice big mug of Yorkshire Gold. (There is no tea like it except perhaps Barry‘s from Cork!).

A poem before I go?

It has to be William Blake.

On Another's Sorrow


Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear -

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O He gives to us His joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

William Blake
Songs of Innocence


And will there be blessings?

I try to be original in my choice of blessings but the same ones do keep recurring and I apologise for that. Is there a limit to the blessings one can receive in this life?

Rainbows. Need I say more? There has been sad news all around lately and I hope the rainbow is a symbolic message that all shall be well.

The great writer Maya Angelou was at the Hay Festival a few years ago and she spoke of rainbows. She said

"When it looks like the sun isn't going to shine anymore, God put a rainbow in the clouds,"
She also said that poetry had become a rainbow for her. I can identify with that.


The power of the group. Community. Even an online group can carry great energy, can be a comfort, can bring about friendships that would otherwise never be. What a great force for good the Internet can be and it has been life enhancing for so many. So Purplecoo you are a special blessing and not just for today.

Talking of groups I must mention the book group. We met last night in the library and it was another very enjoyable meeting. We discussed Martin Booth’s Industry of Souls, a very good book that was shortlisted for the Booker some years ago.

Talking of good books I am reading a great one at the moment. It is The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wrobleski, I am only half way through it, it’s a long one but it is one of those books you don’t want to put down. If you are a dog lover you may get more from it but even if you are not I would say it is a must read.

A new song that can lift the heart, A new voice that can touch one.

But here’s an old one. A song for you all. Enjoy.

Bye for now,
Go mbeanna Dia duit,
Cait

Sing for You - Tracy Chapman

My daughter just sent me this song, one I had not heard before.  I've always been a fan of Tracy Chapman.

This song is catchy and will make you feel happy, there's something about it.

In the Bleak MidWinter - Corrine May

On beauty and pain

Dear Diary,



(All photos are by M).

The pain passes but the beauty remains

Pierre Auguste Renoir

It takes pains to be beautiful.

I remember that saying from somewhere in the distant past that was the childhood or the adolescent period of my life. Was it something to do with the pain in having one’s hair coiffed or brushed? From whence it comes I know not but perhaps beauty and pain do go together. Perhaps anything worth achieving carries its price in pain. I am suffering from the cold but the beauty of Winter is all around.

When the temperature drops below freezing, this little stone cottage is harder to heat, it has no central heating and we rely on the ancient Rayburn in the snug which is alight all year round and the woodburner in the parlour which we light at nightfall or earlier on very cold days such as these. Each year we say we really must install some kind of 'proper' heating system but then the temperatures rise to a comfortable level above freezing point and Winter seems easier to bear. But if these too-cold days persist I think we may have to consider central heating of some kind even though the cost of coal and electricity has rocketed and oil is always a worry. Nothing is anything like cheap and never will be again methinks but at the moment we are paying a lot because, as well as buying coal and logs, we use expensive oil filled radiators elsewhere to provide much-needed extra warmth.

I woke this morning to an unforecasted heavy frost, another one that followed yesterday’s which was -2.5 degrees on my journey to work in the car and which remained only barely above freezing all day. I am still recovering from a nasty stomach bug so I didn’t venture outside and when I returned home after work which, being Saturday, was thankfully only half a day, I retired to the warmth of the parlour and its logs (M had kindly lit the fire) and I indulged myself in a spot of rugby watching. What a result. Wales beat Australia! (Apologies to any readers in Australia, it is nothing personal you understand).

My appetite is returning but strange foods attract me, crisps. crackers, mashed potato, fish, soup. And I want to drink Coke., preferably flat - a well known remedy for tummy problems.
But Just for Today, Sunday, I shall not moan. A brisk walk in the frozen air is called for. Hopefully I can capture a few photos while the dogs enjoy a good run. Then when I come back I can always retire to the warmth of that sofa again.

Blessings? There are a few.

The beauty of the elements. Fire, earth, water and air. Their mix always varies and delights in equal measure. Whether it is sun and rain bringing rainbows, cloud and rain bringing mists and deep, fast-moving shadows over the hills or sea and wind bringing huge waves. Today there is sunshine, mist and frost, always a winner with everyone,






Winter trees - to me they are a special work of art and one I only have to look out of my window to see.





Sleep. As the Irish say, it is always the best thing and such a healer.

Appetite for food. Sometimes it disappears, one of those things we take for granted and when it does come back, even if we crave odd foods, it is such a welcome relief.

Surprise gifts in the post! I received one yesterday from a very dear Purplecoo friend. She bought it for me online from an American blogger and it can be seen below in its new home.








Shall I end with a poem?

In the bleak midwinter


In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.
Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.
What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart

Christina Rossetti

There was a list published this week of ‘top carols’ chosen by so-called ‘experts’ and I was surprised and pleased to see my top carol at number one. I love this poem by Christina Rossetti and it seems appropriate for today. So far we have no ‘snow on snow’ but I feel it won’t be long in coming.

If you also like this carol do go and view the (YouTube) Corrine May video in my post above.
So beautiful it brought a tear to my eye.

Stay warm,

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

On Cats and Life

There are two means of refuge from the misery of life - music and cats.

Albert Schweitzer

Dear Diary,

OK, it is time for a confession. It has been a long time since my last blog posting. I have no excuses, ’twas just Life getting in my way.

This morning I wandered in the field with the dogs. It was cold, sunny and there was a stillness of air that was punctuated by some very strong gusts. I smelled Ireland in its breath, it was as if Her turf fires were wrapped in the wind and there was even a scent of snow at its hindmost. Only yesterday I had smelled Spring, what is happening to our weather? My magnolia is in bud again and I still have roses clinging on to the bushes.

I called on my Magic Crab Apple tree and paid my respects for I had not visited for ages. There seems to be a multitude of crab apples, all scattered at its feet now, save for a few bundles that have landed in little hollows in its trunk where they resemble little birds nests filled with eggs.

A couple of my friends have been on retreats lately and I am rather envious. Even though I live in a fairly peaceful location I hanker after a (temporary) removal to just ‘be’. Perhaps it is just solitude I crave because I need it in regular doses.

I lost a friend recently, that may be why I am thinking about Life and Death and all that. She was not young but she was certainly much too young to die so suddenly and it shocked the community in which she lived. Although we were not close friends we had stumbled on a common bond between us and we both had slightly similar secrets to share which made her feel ‘special’ to me. I spoke to her the very morning of the day that she passed over and the last thing she said to me was ‘Take Care’; funnily enough she had never ever said that to me before. Her funeral was on Wednesday. I dread funerals as I am usually taken over (embarrassingly) by emotion but this one was a true celebration of her life and I came away feeling positive. Even the weather was kind, bestowing upon us bright sunshine and blue skies.

R. had started writing a book about her life and it would have been a best seller (I can tell you that much) and I am so sorry that she will never finish it. One of her sons spoke at some length about his Mum, it was moving and completely unrehearsed. Another read a passage from the Bible. I was surprised to learn that R had ten grandchildren.

Anyway enough of all that.

On to cats.

A dog, I have always said, is prose; a cat is a poem.

Jean Burden

This is a photo of Layla, a kitten belonging to my brother and sister-in-law. Layla was born in the Welsh hills, not far from here, but now lives in leafy Surrey; she is thoroughly spoilt I have to say and enjoying the very best of everything with plenty of cuddles too. She is a very pretty, highly intelligent cat and strangely behaves more like a dog than a feline. She is very knowing.

She has Big Ears. I wonder if she is half-wild…..…do wild cats have big ears, does anyone know? M says she is half rabbit but I think he is joking…..

Here is a photo of her, see what I mean?

I shall sign off now with a poem that I read on the most scrumptious blog that is Willow’s. It is written by one of my favourite poets but I had not come across this one called Praying. I hope Willow will not mind me posting it here.

Praying


It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.



Mary Oliver

Bye for now,
God Bless,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.