Birdwatching

Birdwatching

Martins, luck-bringing eave-dwellers,

diminished in number

are heralding summer again.

A gang of sparrows,

grown in size and confidence

play back my London childhood.

From its woodland hide

the jay ventures out,

predatory in coloured robes.

No longer so rare,

the red kite looks down;

buzzards driven far abroad.

Elegant in flight,

statuesque in my river,

the heron stands in silence.

Robin, my steadfast friend

companionable all the year

is sociable, yet always stands apart.

Lone pheasant, mate-less

escapee from death

is safe within my garden.

Dippers in their secret home

from generations past

still bring their gift of constancy.

Akin to angels and patient,

harmonious to a fault,

the gentle dove will wait.

Would hell be a birdless garden?

No birdsong

no angels in its wake;

Nature’s avian summer gone awry.

Cait O’Connor

Next poem

Foxgloves

Rebecca, our first-born,now thirty-nine

flies in to check that I am well again

and spots beside the bed the photograph

I took of you when you were carrying her

six months gone in your purple polo-neck

and blue smock, and laughing, I remember,

because I have decorated with sea pinks

your black abundant hair, and given you

foxgloves to hold as though to welcome her

to the strand at Inch and the Kerry hills.

Can you go on smiling from your dune-throne

with your hair and hands full of summer flowers?

Because the marram grass is damp and sandy

I have spread a yellow oilskin under you.

Michael Longley

A Hundred Doors

Pics and a poem

Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in one's own sunshine

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Here is the second of the favourite poems I promised you.

How I Go to the Woods

Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.


I don't really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unbearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.



Mary Oliver
Swan

Summertime

Dear Diary,

Those who wish to sing will always find a song

Swedish Proverb

I am sorry I have been absent for so long; I am going to try and be around more. Life has the habit of getting in the way of writing and it takes up too much time and why does time go so much more quickly nowadays?

In spite of life all is well here in my little Welsh heaven; even the fish are jumping but I cannot lie and say the cotton is high. Cotton grows wild in my spiritual home across the water, up on the bogs but not around here in my little Welsh valley.

(I just love that song Summertime, perhaps I will post it for you?)

My thoughts are on all things avian this morning as our writing group ‘homework’ is to write a poem with the bird theme. I have many written in the past but had better not cheat and pull one out - instead I must try to produce something new.

My thoughts are very often on our winged neighbours but especially so at this time of year when we feel outnumbererd by the birds and the beasts who share our abode. There are birds a-plenty, I have never known so many which is very encouraging after the Big Freeze of last winter when we had temperatures of minus sixteen for many days and many of their precious little lives were lost.

So the list of birds species in the garden grows ever-longer and they all seem to take it in turns to visit the feeders, it is as if they have set ‘appointments’. Some breeds will mix happily side by side – the doves living up to their name being the gentlest and most harmonious. Some visit en famille, the woodpeckers and the nuthatches for example and their wee ones wait to be fed by their parents, their feathers quivering in anticipation, which is such a joy to watch. We have a real gang of sparrows now (we had none to speak of before) and that is also good news as they are supposed to be in decline. Sparrows were the only birds I knew really when I was growing up in London.

Feeding the birds (and the gate-crashing squirrels) may be draining our purses but is at the same time filling our hearts with gladness as we watch them from the kitchen, bedroom and parlour windows –and surely gladness is worth more than money anyway? Just one of the few things remaining that cannot (yet) be taxed or measured only in financial terms?

Before I go I must mention a couple of poetry books which I have recently enjoyed. The American poet Mary Oliver first, she is one of my very favourite poets and her book Swan is fantastic, so good I am going to have to buy a copy. I have picked four favourites to share with you but there will be just one today.

Here is a taster and as avian poems go this one is hard to beat.



The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?


Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -


An armful of white blossoms,


A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned


into the bondage of its wings; a snow bank, a bank of lilies,


Biting the air with its black beak?


Did you hear it, fluting and whistling


A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall


Knifing down the black ledges?


And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -


A white cross streaming across the sky, its feet


Like black leaves, its wings like the stretching light of the river?


And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?


And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?


And have you changed your life?


Mary Oliver



Books are like buses. You don’t see one you want and then three appear altogether. The other book I love is the Irish poet Michael Longley’s A Hundred Doors which a friend kindly lent me recently. I have favourites among them to share with you and will do so very soon.

Finally the great poet Graham Clifford has an excellent book out called Welcome Back to the Country. I have favourites there that I would love to let you taste in a future blog.

Shall I leave you with a song?

 
 
Bye for now,
Cait

Josephine Hart RIP

Writer Josephine Hart who died this week.

Josephine Hart's last message: 'Without reading I would have found life less bearable'

Dear Diary,

I am sorry I have not been here for so long.  I've certainly not given up this blog but just lately life has taken over a little.  I hope to be present again from now on and just had to pay tribute today to a fine writer who moved on from this world this past week.

I have copied a newspaper article from the net and below that I add some quotes.

Novelist Josephine Hart gave a powerful endorsement of the Evening Standard's campaign against illiteracy days before her death.

The writer and "visionary" poetry campaigner lived her life cherishing the power and beauty of words, and said she was delighted by the Standard's "wonderful campaign" highlighting the shocking number of children unable to read.

In a statement dictated from her hospital bed, she said: "Without reading, and for me especially poetry, I would have found life less comprehensible, less bearable, and infinitely less enjoyable. It has never let me down."

Today tributes poured in for a woman revered for her brilliance as a writer, intellect and determination to encourage children to develop an understanding of the great poets.

For two years she kept secret that she was battling primary peritoneal cancer. Even her agent Ed Victor did not know until the day before her death yesterday. He told the Standard: "She wrote one of the most stunning, dazzling, moving, powerful first novels of the last half-century.

"She wrote because she needed to write and she wrote what she wanted to write. I think her passion for literature and her passion for poetry burned with the purest flame."

She attended a Poetry Week rehearsal at the Donmar on Monday but was unable to see the sell-out shows. Lady Antonia Fraser said: "Josephine Hart was beautiful in everything she did (including how she looked) but above all there was her passionate love of beauty in language, especially poetry."

Born in Ireland, she drummed into her two sons the need to "grab life by the throat" after losing two brothers and a sister by the time she was 17.

Married to Lord Saatchi, her first novel, Damage, sold more than one million copies. It was translated into 27 languages. Jeremy Irons starred in the film version.
Here are some quotes by her:

Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.

 Josephine Hart (Damage)


 There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives. Those who are lucky enough to find it ease like water over a stone, onto its fluid contours, and are home. Some find it in the place of their birth; others may leave a seaside town, parched, and find themselves refreshed in the desert. There are those born in rolling countryside who are really only at ease in the intense and busy loneliness of the city. For some, the search is for the imprint of another; a child or a mother, a grandfather or a brother, a lover, a husband, a wife, or a foe. We may go through our lives happy or unhappy, successful or unfulfilled, loved or unloved, without ever standing cold with the shock of recognition, without ever feeling the agony as the twisted iron in our soul unlocks itself and we slip at last into place.


— Josephine Hart


 Memory is never pure. And recollection is always coloured by the life lived since.


 Those who do not have imaginary conversations do not love.


I always recognize the forces that will shape my life. I let them do their work. Sometimes they tear through my life like a hurricane. Sometimes they simply shift the ground under me, so that I stand on different earth, and something or someone has been swallowed up. I steady myself, in the earthquate. I lie down, and let the hurricane pass over me. I never fight. Afterwards I look around me, and I say, 'Ah, so this at least is left for me. And that dear person has also survived.' I quietly inscribe on the stone tablet of my heart the name which has gone forever. The inscription is a thing of agony. Then I start on my way again.


 We learn from tragedy. Slowly.


They say that childhood forms us, that those early influences are the key to everything. Is the peace of the soul so easily won? Simply the inevitable result of a happy childhood. What makes childhood happy? Parental harmony? Good health? Security? Might not a happy childhood be the worst possible preparation for life? Like leading a lamb to the slaughter.


Lucky people should hide. Pray the days of wrath do not visit their home.



For why trap what is already trapped? It is only in flight that we know the freedom of the bird



Rest in Peace Josephine
You are free to fly now.


Bye for now,
Cait.

Humans and Avians

Dear Diary,

Just a quick post tonight.  My time is being taken up in the garden just lately. I am a fair weather gardener and the weather has been very fair so….out I have been.

I  haven’t seen any otters since the last time (see previous post) but I did see two wild ducks swimming in the river this morning which was exciting.  I stood stock still for about ten minutes on the bank and they didn’t notice me there.  Usually the ducks fly off if they catch sight of humans.  They spent a long time swimming up and down as if they were looking round our little bit of river; I got the (probably stupid) feeling that they were ‘house-hunting’ and I prayed they would like our little piece of heaven for their home.  They both ducked under the water in the end and disappeared - I like to think they went behind the old tree stump and a huge mess of branches that sits on the bank and that they are setting up home there or have done so already.  I will keep you posted.

Talking of posts I just have to post this poem for you from the new Neil Astley Bloodaxe poetry anthology Being Human.  I borrowed it from the library, it’s brand new and I am the first to borrow it but  will no doubt end up buying a copy. I already own and love Staying Alive and Being Alive.   I've only read a few pages of this one so far but have fallen in love with one poem.  I wonder if you will like it too?  It is funny (sorry that was unintentional but Funny happens to be the title) how poems still often translate so beautifully into English.  It must depend a lot on the skill of the translator I guess.   It’s funny too that the subject matter of the poem is also avian.  I shall have to read more by this poet.

Here it is.

(There is no punctuation)


Funny


What's it like to be a human
the bird asked

I myself don't know
it's being held prisoner by your skin
while reaching infinity
being a captive of your scrap of time
while touching eternity
being hopelessly uncertain
and helplessly hopeful
being a needle of frost
and a handful of heat
breathing in the air
and choking wordlessly
it's being on fire
with a nest made of ashes
eating bread
while filling up on hunger
it's dying without love
it's loving through death

That's funny said the bird
and flew effortlessly up into the air


 Anna Kamienska



Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Claire Cavanagh

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Nature news

Otter Swimming

paulamayberyartgallery.com

Dear Diary,

I had a wonderful experience yesterday evening, one you get not too many times in a lifetime - I saw an otter close up in our river in the daylight.  I had been out picking a few daffodils for the parlour and was pruning a few wee bits and pieces as  I made my way back indoors.  I decided to throw the very tiny clippings into the river and as I did so, on the opposite bank I spied an otter ducking and diving.   I stood still and watched it swim upstream and out of sight.  I flew excitedly indoors to tell M and as we looked out of the window a heron landed in the very same spot in the river where the otter had been.  The heron is here a lot, he is the most patient and stealthy bird as he makes his way upstream on the lookout for fish.  Every year a parent heron will bring a young one to the river, obviously teaching it how to catch fish.

I have seen otters before in the moonlight, I hear them regularly on my nightly walks and there is always otter spraint on our banks. I blogged about otters many times but I have never seen one up close in the daylight before though I have seen mink and polecats.  M has glimpsed otters in the early evening diving near our little bridge, he was struck by how huge they are, especially the dogs (males).

Tonight I decided to sit by the river and stage an otter- watch.  I have just been out at the same time as I saw the otter yesterday which was 7.30 pm.  I sat by the river partially hidden by a laurel bush but with a clear view of the river.

We have a dippers’ nest just upstream under the road bridge and  I had a very clear view of that, there is much activity there -  I believe there may be young ones in the wooden nest box.  Dippers  have nested here for generations, I  have read about them in a book written by someone who grew up here.  We are very lucky to be able to watch them in such close proximity, they are used to us and even tolerate the dogs being near them on the river ‘beach’.

I sat by the river for quite a while, all was quiet apart from the dippers flying downstream to fish and then returning to the nest, the occasional car passing by and various birds singing in the trees.  I decided to go out later when dusk is starting to descend. 

As soon as I came indoors I looked out of the cottage window and saw an unusually large bird, but not as big as a buzzard on  the little bridge so I got my binoculars out to see what it was. I think it was a kestrel and as I called M to show him, it swooped down onto the surface of the river in an attempt to catch something - obviously one of my beloved dippers.  Luckily he missed -  I hope that the dipper dove down deep into the river.  This  kestrel must have seen me go into the cottage before deciding to swoop on his prey!

So it is all happening here on the wildlife stage.  I often think that I would love to set up an infra-red night camera but they are quite expensive.

I will report back as soon as there is more news on the nature front.

Bye for now,

Cait

Positives and Revisitings

Dear Diary,

I have just heard of three recent deaths in the local area, two of which were young people, it is so sad.  Round here everyone knows everyone so any death touches the whole community.  Bad news doesn’t seem right on such a beautiful morning.  Why do such sad things have to happen and why in threes?  I can only believe they have all gone to a better place, a cliché I know but I am sure it is true.

Just for today as we say in Reiki circles I will try and dwell on the positives here on Earth.  It is a beautiful spring day and I will not tarry long as the outdoors is calling me.  I have already been out to my local garage, they did a small job on the exhaust pipe of my car and have not charged me a penny; this is the  third time they have done this sort of thing.  Isn’t it wonderful that in today’s Rip-Off Britain there are still some folk left who are not out to fleece you.  A good start to the day.

I have just re-read Colm Toibin’s Brooklyn for my book club, it was such a joy.  I am not one to re-read books very often but Toibin’s way with storytelling just flows, his writing is superb.   If you haven’t read him yet please do.  He is one of my favourite writers; I admit that so many of my faves are Irish authors, it is not bias, it is just that the Irish love words so much and weave them so well. I am now re-reading another - Annie Dunne by Sebastian Barry.  I almost bathe in his prose; I just have to stop and go back to re-read his words, they are so poetic. 

Talking of writing I have set up a blog for our writing group members as a place to post our homework and leave each other comments.  Just because I like a change I have ventured into Wordpress (ssssshhhhhh don’t tell Blogger) but although it all seems very professional I am a real Wordpress virgin still finding my way on there.  We are starting to post all our old bits of ‘homework’ and it struck me how many pieces of work are there which proves that the group is worthwhile and does indeed spur us on to write.  The blog will remain firmly private, open only to members.

I am still tired from the clocks springing forward. I can’t go to bed on time,  I can’t get up in the morning and I look like death warmed up.  I am on the genealogy trail once more, not my family but someone else’s - she has a close relative with a bit of a mysterious past.  It’s a case of burning the midnight oil with this one,  I think I should have been a detective.  My daughter is on the case too; perhaps we should set up in business…….

I received two lovely cards yesterday.  One was this picture by Gu We, a new-to-me artist, isn't it lovely when you discover a new one? I have posted one of his pics as my new header above........

and one by John Shannon, a tree-free card not this one but the one I received I can't find online.

What else am I looking forward to today on this day-off  work day? 

A CD soon arriving in the post by Gurrumul, so haunting, it reaches deep into my soul.  I have posted this before but it must be a time for revisiting,






Spending some time in the garden in the sunshine.  I have treated myself to a new garden bench - my present very cheap one is starting to crumble and the new one should be delivered soon so when I am tired from gardening I can try it out.

Reading more Annie Dunne of course, also in the sunshine, if it lasts.

Watching the birds nesting from my window;  several species are busy at the moment and I shall need to get the binoculars out.

Visiting my daughter and granddaughters later (I have to keep them supplied with reading matter).

I had better go,
Enjoy your moments today.
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Christy Moore - Magdalen Laundries

Words by Joni Mitchell

Magdalene Laundries

Turning the Corner

Turning the Corner

As she settles in for sleep she remembers the words of the clairvoyant as she scried in her crystal ball.
She told her she could see barriers around her heart, shutting out her need for love……….

Even in a dream it takes her by surprise,

such an old but pretty gate, quite small,

wreathed in scrolls of heavy iron,

their Celtic spiral patterns painted black as night.

The gate is tightly shut but able to be opened

if she would only try.

Belief helps her open it,

trust takes her through it,

relief is there to greet her at the other side

where she feels strangely safe.

On a bright pathway

strewn with coloured blossoms

fear takes its flight,

till she feels strangely light.

As she turns the corner

she does not look back

but only forward, led by hope 

to a place where peace can take her hand

and bring to her a heart where love lies,

between the arms of stillness and serenity.

Cait O’Connor

Too much light and shade perhaps

 Dear Diary,

I am a little out of sync. today as I hate it when the clocks change, it affects me for weeks.  I shall be 'one hour out'  for too long a while and then when I am fully adjusted they will change the damned things back again.  Why can't they leave them alone?

I love daydreaming and my (new) beautiful header pic was topping an article in Saturday's Guardian so I thought I would post it here.  It got me dreaming about dreaming..... I do a lot of it: staring into space etc. I have always done this and I also love studying clouds by day and the skies at night and the river as it flows.  Birdwatching takes up much time here too.  I suppose it's meditation.

Has anyone else been watching the fantastic Danish crime serial The Killing?  It has been unmissable; the best thing on TV as far as I am concerned and though it has been dark, in more ways than one, it has really brightened Saturday nights TV-wise.  Everyone is saying that it puts British drama in the shade. (Too many mixed-up light and shade references here, sorry).  It was the last episode in the current series last night but still left me with much to think about.  I had to read something 'light' (sorry I am at it again) in bed before going to sleep because I think I would have been kept awake still wondering or perhaps I would have had bad dreams.   I had better not give anything away in case you haven't seen it and you watch it in the future but it did fiercely bring home to me how one killing can affect the lives of so many.  Can ruin the lives of so many.  That of course applies not only to murder but also to war.  Are the two (too) closely related I wonder?

To lighten the tone here is the best Dreamy song I know, written by Fleetwood Mac's Stevie Nicks who by chance also featured in the Guardian yesterday.  I was planning to feature a piece of music by The Shadows as Jet Harris died recently, God rest him, I shall do that another day.





I'm off to take some air now; unfortunately the sun hasn't got his hat on yet, unlike yesterday when he paraded all day and all was bright!

But I must eave you with a poem by the great Wallace Stevens.

Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly

Among the more irritating minor ideas Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home To Concord, at the edge of things, was this: To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds, Not to transform them into other things, Is only what the sun does every day, Until we say to ourselves that there may be A pensive nature, a mechanical And slightly detestable operandum, free From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like, Without his literature and without his gods . . . No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air, In an element that does not do for us, so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big, A thing not planned for imagery or belief, Not one of the masculine myths we used to make, A transparency through which the swallow weaves, Without any form or any sense of form, What we know in what we see, what we feel in what We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation, In the tumult of integrations out of the sky, And what we think, a breathing like the wind, A moving part of a motion, a discovery Part of a discovery, a change part of a change, A sharing of colour and being part of it. The afternoon is visibly a source, Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm, Too much like thinking to be less than thought, Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch, A daily majesty of meditation, That comes and goes in silences of its own. We think, then as the sun shines or does not. We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field Or we put mantles on our words because The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound Like the last muting of winter as it ends. A new scholar replacing an older one reflects A moment on this fantasia. He seeks For a human that can be accounted for. The spirit comes from the body of the world, Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind, The mannerism of nature caught in a glass And there become a spirit's mannerism, A glass as warm with things going as far as they can. Wallace Stevens

Happy Sunday to you all,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

March Garden

It has to be a quick blog

Listening to: Adele’s 21 Album.

Thinking about: the problems in the world.

Feeling: sad about the problems in the world.

Dreaming of: a perfect garden.

Dear Diary,

I have no doubt that we will be successful in harnessing the sun's energy.... If sunbeams were weapons of war, we would have had solar energy centuries ago.  

Sir George Porter

At the start of spring—the vernal equinox—day and night are each approximately 12 hours long (with the actual time of equal day and night, in the Northern Hemisphere, occurring a few days before the vernal equinox). The Sun crosses the celestial equator going northward; it rises exactly due east and sets exactly due west.

It is a special time of course, the Spring Equinox was yesterday. It was 15 degrees today and sunny even though the weather forecasters said Wales would be cloudy.  Seems like nothing can be relied upon these days.  At least the sunshine and the abundance of yellow daffodils is cheering everyone up.

I have not been lucky enough to see the Super Moon, it has been covered in cloud every night.

I worked hard in the garden today starting my yearly battle with the cursed ground elder.  To reward myself I visited the garden centre and treated myself to an angel statue, a birthday present to me in  advance……. I got the price reduced as the poor wee thing had damaged toes on one of his feet.  I also bought a  large pink David Austin shrub rose, well it will be five feet tall when it grows….both of these will go in a circular bed in my back garden.  I found a witches ball in a local antique centre last week, it is made of a gorgeous deep blue coloured glass, that will go at the feet of my angel.  The person who served me in the antique shop asked me what I was going to do with the witches ball (fishing to see if I was a witch perhaps?) and I told her I was going to put it in my garden.  She said my garden sounded interesting.  I wish…….

I also bought some winter pansies and violas (violae?) for my baskets to replace those bought just before the Big Freeze which disintegrated in the many minus 18 degrees of frost days.

Just a quick blog tonight as someone else wants to get on to the computer (!) and  I need to get to bed soon for an early night as I am back to work tomorrow.

I will return on another day with pics of my new acquisitions.

Off to bed now with Colm Toibin, 

Nos Da,

Cait

St Patrick's Day

St Patrick's Day Dreaming

On a St Patrick's Day's morning

I can only dream myself home

back to that Irish mountain's precious stream
amongst carpets of sweet celandine

with purple violets at their edge,
peeping shyly, hiding coyly

 and so timid in their beauty.

Daffodils, full-on bright yellow,
  not the least bit bashful,
compete with primroses

along the river’s bank.

And all around is greening

and every plant and shrub is budding,

simply bursting into life.

And all the while the river sings her song
and birds join in the chorus as she flows.

And I detect a brightness in the tune,
a tinkling sound of joy rings in its melody,
as if the whole of Nature loves an Irish Spring

and all can feel God’s beauty in its midst.

Cait O'Connor





And just for you on this special day here is a poem by the late John O'Donohue, one I have posted before but make no apologies for doing so again.

Beannacht*

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

John O'Donohue

 *Blessing

(From his book Echoes of Memory)

And here is an extra treat, an interview which took place in 2005 with dear John O'Donohue, God rest his soul.

On Beauty.
Click on the link below.

News | John O'Donohue

www.johnodonohue.com


(Pic by Barrie Maguire)

The Ides of March

Dear Diary,

Paradise starts with the love we show each other here on earth.

Four-month old baby rescued

There seems to be so much unrest in many places in the world of late.  People are roused and are rising as one against oppression in more than one country, this can only be a good thing but so dangerous.  When bad things happen I  always think of the saying You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs and I can’t help feeling that we are entering a period of great change.  We can only hope and pray that all will be well in the end.

Even the Earth is reflecting this unrest with so many earthquakes of late.  Yesterday a blogger I follow, Decadent Housewife, alerted readers to this blog written by a woman living in Japan.   I read it before I went to bed last night and it really brought me close in to Sue’s life (and her family and friends) who are luckily alive but living now with shortages of every kind and most dreadful of all on top of the shock of the earthquake and the tsunami are suffering the heightened fear of radioactive fallout.  I read back through Sue’s postings before the earthquake and tsunami struck the people of Japan and it was, much like ours, filled with the everyday and  you could say but only in hindsight, rather mundane matters.

My heart goes out, a cliché I know but it does, especially to all the bereaved; there will be many orphans and many who have lost children.  Am I the only one in that I almost feel a sense of voyeuristic guilt watching the film footage taken by onlookers of the tsunami as it struck and I wonder how people had the calm presence of mind to film it (they must have been up high surely?).  I get rather annoyed with journalists who keep commenting on the huge number of cars strewn about - the number of cars shocked me, they typify our dependence on them and how they pollute in more ways than one.  James Naughtie on Radio 4’s Today was waxing rather too lyrically about the cars, saying they would not see the light of day again - I found this rather insulting in the light of the numbers of human lives lost.

Watching the news from Japan I am lost for words and have been quiet for a few days, wanting to blog about it but hardly knowing how to express my sadness and my sympathy for the Japanese people.  I am glad that our local Mid Wales Search and Rescue Firemen are going out to help.

Sue gives this wise advice, something we all hear and say over again but too soon forget.

Make the most of the present. 

Live in each moment.

The present is indeed our gift and we should treat it as such, savouring each one and the next that is soon to be upon us and enjoying every aspect of life which is really so short and meant to be good; dispelling negativity and dwelling on the positive blessings.  I often wake in the small hours unable to get back to sleep; I usually start ruminating and worry often dominates my thoughts, they enlarge at this time of day, I know not why.  When I woke this morning at 4 am I deliberately set out to think only of blessings and it was incredible the numbers there are, they are endless really. 

As I sit here at the computer I can start counting blessings again: my hands, my ability to type and spell and read and write, the computer itself, the internet, the view from my window, my cottage, my animals beside me, two dogs and a cat, music playing.  Time off work,  I am feeling better, the daffodils are coming out, I have good things to look forward to, books to read, places to go, plants, birds, warmth, clothes, food, peace, photographs, my camera, blogs, email messages,……   I will stop but I could go on all day really and I haven’t mentioned the most important blessings of all, my children, grandchildren, other family and dear friends.

The Dalai Lama got it right when he said Only Kindness Matters. The pictures from Japan should bring home to us the fragility of materialism and that what really matters are people and the love that we can give to each other (and the Earth).

In one of your moments do send out a prayer for Sue and all the Japanese people,

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

pay attention: a river of stones

From small stones a book has been produced.  This is how it began with the words of writer Fiona Robyn.

Fiona Robyn is on a mission to help people connect with the world through writing. She is a novelist, a blogger, a creativity coach and a Buddhist. She writes a weekly inspirational newsletter & runs e-courses. She started writing small stones in '05, launched a handful of stones in '08, & started a river of stones with her fiancé Kaspa in '11. She is very fond of Earl Grey tea and homemade cake, her cats Fatty and Silver, & the lovely Malvern hills (which she can gaze at from her home office window). 
 
This is how  it began. Fiona's words:

If you’d like to feel more at home with yourself and with the world, then you’re in the right place. Write small stones. You don’t need any previous experience of writing or any special equipment. You just need to notice one thing properly every day & then write it down.

Pay attention: a river of stones.

This is a book I shall be ordering and I would like to recommend it to you. The excellent idea was spawned by Fiona Robyn and I am pleased that there may be a future collaboration.  I think I shall try and write something myself  if possible; I have no excuses as I am lucky enough to live beside a river of stones.

Below is a little interview I had with Fiona's partner about the book..

For those who have not heard of this creative writing project can you tell people a little about it?

Years ago Fiona started writing small stones - one per day. A few lines of writing based on an observation in the world. She's been encouraging people to write them for a while and has an e-zine at www.ahandfulofstones.com. Towards the end of last year we saw the potential of using writing small stones to encourage people to really connect with the world - to really pay attention.

Somehow the idea of encouraging people to write one small stone a day for the month of January entered the conversation and a river of stones was born. We had lots and lots of people taking part, all over the world, and received lots of lovely comments and emails. When we started to see how many people we writing, and how many people were writing well - we had the idea to collate lots of our favorites in to a book.

Was it relatively easy to self-publish? Would you recommend this route to others?
We  received  submissions all through the month of  February, more than three thousand pieces of writing, (most only a few lines long). About once a week, we'd print a batch out, sit down together and read through each one. We chose based on what fitted the 'form' of a small stone: how observational was the writing? occasionally we suggested edits to create a stone that was more focused on the world, than on the writers experience of themselves, or ask contributors about repeating words, or capitalization.
This meant that not long after our submission deadline we knew what was going in. We'd also collected and written some prose pieces. We then worked in to the night for a couple of days, creating the order of the chapters and so on, creating the documents in the correct format. It helped that Fiona had used lulu before to publish and had book templates on hand.

I designed the cover and the insides of the book, and we had to proof read everything ourselves.  I know some writers who publish with 'small press' publishers and although much of the support, in terms of editing, is much less than it used to be, you still do get your manuscript read by a professional, and a cover designed and typeset. And depending on the size of the publisher they often have different routes to sales than an individual might have.
I think if you are writing something very specialist, and you want to create a hard-copy for yourself and people who might be interested in that area then print-on-demand is not a bad way to go. But it does take time and energy. On the other hand you can end up with something really beautiful at the end of the process.

I do hope the River will keep flowing. Will there be any future editions?
The main focus of the River was never the book for us, although recently it became an all consuming process. What is central is encouraging people to go into the world and really pay attention,  to see and hear and smell the things we usually miss, the wildflowers growing in the cracks in the pavement and so on. 
We're going to run the river again in July 2011 asking people to observe and write one thing down each day.
About half way through the process of reading submissions, sitting in a local coffee-shop, we talked about how much work the book had been and how we'd love to do something 'low maintenance' in July. I'm going to have another go at collating .rss feeds of people's blogs (the technology failed me in January) so that we have a webspace where anyone can log on and see the river. As I said I tried that this year with the Yahoo! Pipes widget and it only worked intermittently.

We're both away in July as well, in the second week we're running our 'Connecting with Others' workshop in France, a week long workshop using writing, and using psychical theatre to connect with the world.
After July? Who knows.... Next year maybe...

Remind us how we can buy copies of the book.
Currently available to download, in paperback and hardback at Lulu.com - soon to be available at Amazon. Watch this space.

Her New Beau

A chameleon does not leave one tree until he is sure of another

Arabian Proverb

Her New Beau


Sometimes she wonders if it is kind to keep him in a jar
as he surely has a brain,
a rarity in these no-brain  parts.
She has always attracted these reptilian males
but this one popped up spilling culture
from his wide, reptilian mouth.
He is, after all, a Guardian reader,
a slow and gently creeping thing, ophidian
and his eyes are not too bulgy,
a rarity in these bulging-eye infested parts.
An intellectual reptile, both hard to say and to believe,
he will readily cosy up and chat to old ladies
who are shrivelled up and just as unattractive as he
but they do say affinity breeds kind deeds.
His warm, slow breath is always light;
no wild, Welsh dragon, heavy-breather of the fire is he
(and between you and me there are far too many of those
 in these heavy-breathing parts).
He cuts quite the fine dash in his suit of green
and his wrap-around vermilion scarf
and she is secretly charmed by his un-croaky
but not quite tipping-into-velvet voice.
They both want the same things from life:
warmth, enough food, drink in moderation
and plenty of loving attention.
She hopes this one will not be another chameleon
but still she wonders,
is it really kind to keep him in a jar?



Cait O’Connor

Tree of Life

Tree of Life Gustav Klimt

Genealogy Days


Perhaps it was because I had no roots at all, I took to
playing keenly and too well the generation game;
making myself at home in others’ times,
playing the extra’s part in others’ live-in history.
Chasing the dead, feeling joy but also others’ pain,
treading with care when walking in another’s shoes,
spying on the secrets and the sorrows from their past.

Detection is not easy but persistence pays me well
through the many hours of boredom, sweat and toil
but finding folk is like a fever breaking.
Consanguinity, linking life to life,
creating a wider, ever-spreading family tree,
beginning with paternity and maternity,
growing a tree of linkage, lineage and heredity,
attaining a sense of place,
gaining an identity.


Cait O’Connor

March Ramblings

Dear Diary,

It is not a sign of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society.

J. Krishnamurti

It has been too long since my last posting so I can only offer many apologies. I have been suffering from a berludy virus that is doing the rounds.  I am still not fully better so bear with me, I am a wee bit fragile.  I had a break of fever in the night and felt so much better, so much so that I got up for an hour and checked emails etc while supping on ginger tea.

What am I doing now? Very little, keeping warm having dosed myself with strong analgesics, cough mixture and herbal teas.  I am trying to avoid going t o the GP and going down the antibiotic route.

Blessings?

Radio 4.  How could I live without it?

The  book programme at 6.30 pm on BBC2 every evening with Anne Robinson (don’t worry, she  has softened and is excellent in this, she has also apologised to the Welsh!).  She and Chris Evans also made a fantastic case against closing libraries on TV recently so both have gone up in my estimation.

A ‘comforter’ which I bought in a lovely craft shop in a  local market town recently.  It is Fairtrade, made in Nepal and just the thing for my sore throat.  It is knitted in multicolour; turquoise, rusty red, burgundy, greens and  dark pinks.   I am a firm believier in colour healing. It is also very soft and soothing to my neck and throat., if I had the energy I would photograph it for you.

The weather is also comforting me, it is bright and blue. cloudless and sunny (!), as it was yesterday for St David’s Day.  The sky was a mass of blue then too which made the day special.  I spotted several children in national costume which was sweet.   The yellow sun here in Wales made up for the lack of daffodils in my garden  which  are nowhere near out yet.  I have instead bought some wee pots of the lovely dwarf varieties and they are very cheering.  Yellow is the perfect colour to lift us from winter blues.

A new magazine to get lost in.

Some new books ordered from the library:

The Elegance of the Hedgehog., Muriel Barbery
Life in a Cottage Garden, Carol Klein
Stranger in the Mirror, Jane Shilling.
Life Alignment, Philippa Lubbock
A Discovery of Witches, Deborah E Harkness
Bird Cloud, Annie Proulx
21 golden rules for cosmic ordering, Barbel Mohr
A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry

A no-work today day luckily.

A poem is brewing in me, a line came to me during the night.

I made a breakthrough in my husband’s genealogy trail yesterday when I  found  a relative in France, thanks to the Ancestry website.

The birds in my garden, better than TV sometimes, I could watch them for hours.

My daphne is flowering, its colour is a perfect mauve.

I am soon going to make a big pot of spicy and  hopefully curing, vegetable soup.   I had a very tasty bowl of spiced parsnip soup in the aforementioned craft shop last week, very spicy indeed, just how I like it.  And along with most delicious home-made bread it was delicious.

March is underway, thank God.  A friend and I have come to an agreement, we would like to abolish two months from the calendar and they are December (my number one hate it is so stressful, pressured and I hate it!) and also February as most folk are a tad depressed, exhausted, or are suffering from some virus or possibly all three.

But now the only way  is up and

(wait for it a cliché  is coming)

Spring is just around the corner……………………..


But just before I go here is  a newly discovered poem by Elizabeth Bishop.

The End Of March

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, seabirds in ones or twos. The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist. The sky was darker than the water --it was the color of mutton-fat jade. Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over. Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost... A kite string?--But no kite. I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light. At night, a grog a l'américaine. I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window. There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly --at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes. A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible. And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up. On the way back our faces froze on the other side. The sun came out for just a minute. For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again. They could have been teasing the lion sun, except that now he was behind them --a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.