Introverts

Healing

Ts'ui Po (960-1279)

Healing



Was it the Spring Equinox which crept up
on me for once, unannounced, unnoticed?


Was it Ancestors wafting past me, their
scents attar of roses and tobacco?

Was it their heartfelt messages of Love
or was it simply Time, whose  power, like Sleep,
or Silence, is so underrated, its
healing balm freely given, so often
wasted; always the best thing, not just to
measure my days, but a cure for  malaise?

Was it a loved one's Healing Circle which
bade me fall to sleep so suddenly and
wake refreshed; did their sorcery move me
on from living in that hateful place called Limbo?

Was I so haunted by past pain and hurt
that the Spring's New Moon took me by surprise?
So softly she held me, nursing me gently,
close to her breast, tempting me to feed, to
hope, to believe and rise with her again.



Cait O’Connor

The Habit of Light

Many apologies for my long absence. I'm back, operation over and have been convalescing, few more weeks of that to go yet. I won't bore you (or myself) with  the details and the more negative aspects of the whole experience.  Onward and upward now.

Sadly we had to have dear Finn, our elderly lurcher put to sleep soon after my operation which was so very sad for me. We have buried him across the river, just inside the field under a willow tree.

 

RIP Finn, you are very much missed, The most handsome boy, gentle and loving with healing powers.

Rest in peace.

Before I go here is a poem I loved at first read in the Guardian today, it is written by Gillian Clarke, the National Poet of Wales who is one of my favourite poets.

And talking of Wales -  congratulations to the Welsh rugby team who have done us proud by winning the Grand Slam, they really are the best!


Here is the poem

The Habit of Light

In the early evening, she liked to switch on the lamps
in corners, on low tables, to show off her brass,
her polished furniture, her silver and glass.
At dawn she'd draw all the curtains back for a glimpse
of the cloud-lit sea. Her oak floors flickered
in an opulence of beeswax and light.
In the kitchen, saucepans danced their lids, the kettle purred
on the Aga, supper on its breath and the buttery melt
of a pie, and beyond the swimming glass of old windows,
in the deep perspective of the garden, a blackbird singing,
she'd come through the bean rows in tottering shoes,
her pinny full of strawberries, a lettuce, bringing
the palest potatoes in a colander, her red hair bright
with her habit of colour, her habit of light.


Gillian Clarke

• From Five Fields, published by Carcanet

Adele - you can't have too much of a good thing

Counting Snowdrops

Cicely Mary Barker

Counting Snowdrops

(For Elizabeth)

On St Brigid’s Day (the saint of poets),

 in the middle of  a blackthorn winter

on a Sun Day, unannounced, unexpected,

uninvited and long given up on,

a trace of sun and golden light crept in

which lifted the moods of both mice and men

but sadly did not linger very long.

By nightfall their hopes were taken hostage

by the chill of an icy Imbolc Moon.

On Candlemas, it is still grey and cold

(which must foretell of warmer days to come?)

I call a friend across the mountains who,

she says, to  dispel her blues, counts snowdrops,

(a stroke of brilliance on her part, truly

 in keeping with my heart). I covet her

 idea, vow to steal it away and keep

a tally of such treasures in my soul.

On St Valentine’s Day (the saint of love)

I creep outside to count my snowdrops and

find  undiscovered blooms hiding  beneath

the rowan and the ash, jewels in newly

minted groups, shining like precious pearls.

I choose to pick only solitary

specimens, just the the ones who stand alone,

virginal, fragile, as yet unnoticed,

they call out  to me and seem to yearn  to

be with their kind, up close amongst the rest.

Cait O’Connor

Sunday Morning

Sunday 

To paint is to honour who I am, one brush stroke at a time.

 Johanna Harmon

Before I start I have discovered a wonderful American artist called Johanna Harmon, I expect she is well known but I am ashamed to say I have never seen her pictures before.  I was surfing around looking for a piece of art that would fit the theme of ‘Sunday morning’ and found the above picture on someone’s site. I shall post more of her pics later in the week. Her words are fine too.

Talking of words...

I have a ‘new’ book, bought on Amazon second hand which travelled to me all the way from America. It is called A Writer’s Book of Days by Judy Reeves and was published way back in 1999. I think I was’ led’ to it online but can’t remember how; it was probably through a fellow blogger.  It’s a great book and reminds me of Julia Cameron’s inspiring books (The Artist’s Way etc).

The best thing is the teeny writing ‘task’ set for every day of the year with diverse subjects. Today is

Write your morning.... 

so that was the first thing I started to do while still in bed this morning. Sunday just happens to be my favourite day of the week and its mornings are usually lazy, enjoyable but usually rather samey.

All is very still and quiet today, hardly a car has passed on the road, it is very peaceful. It is slightly milder too as for the first times in ages, we actually wake to a frost-free day. Today I enjoy a big mug of honeyed tea as usual, brought to me in bed of course. A taste of Radio 4 but not too much. A little reading and writing. Porridge for breakfast

So what do Sunday and its mornings usually include for me?

The Archers Omnibus

Bacon and egg for breakfast (not at the moment though).

Desert Island Discs

Some time outside; gardening in summer or trips out..... with my camera. Seeing family sometimes. In spring and summer I often spend all day in the garden.

Reading the paper.

As few indoor chores as possible.

Later in the day?

Reading, blogging etc.

A roast dinner sometimes (not at the moment though, more is the pity).

Television in the evening, there is usually something good on. Antiques Roadshow to start, then Countryfile. Ask The Midwife..........

Really dull isn’t it? I think I need to get out more.

Today from 2.30 pm I will be glued to the Six Nations Rugby as Wales are playing Scotland. Last night my beloved Ireland’s match against France was cancelled in Paris because of an icy pitch, that was a big disappointment. I cheered myself up though and watched a DVD instead - 84 Charing Cross Road (a wonderful film and almost as good as the book).

Well I must get on ,I need to cook a quick and suitably fat-free lunch so I can sit down and watch the match.

Come on Wales,

Just before I go.....

I started with some fine words by an artist and shall finish with more of the same.

Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, 'What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.' Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope. 


Vincent Van Gogh

Bye for now.....

Go mbeannai Dia duit, especially on a Sunday.

Cait

Dreamcatcher

Thyra  has a wonderful poetry site which I have just discovered. She has posted an Indian poem about Dreamcatchers. It reminded me of a poem I wrote years ago on the very same subject and I have dug it out, tweaked it a little.......... No, I lie, I have practically re-written it, the way you do with old poems.




The Weaving of Dreams



Dreamweaver makes her mantra at Full Moon:
Make-believe, dream, i-magine, yes you can.
Believe, dream, magic your beliefs to say
I magic my beliefs to make them real.
The dreamcatcher o'er my bed had cast a
hanging spell, watched me fly, leave my earthbound
body. The dreamcatcher's web had spider-
sifted all my dreams and let them not be
broken: if  good ones, she ensnared them in
her web, if bad, lured them away into
the night's dark air till dreamy visions in
my reveries showed me only sights of angels.
When daily life can sometimes seem a nightmare,
Dreamweaver can make the unreal real,
her mantra is pure i-magination.
By night I quietly tiptoed in a trance,
lost childhood forgotten, far behind me,
my lucid dreams no longer make-believe.


Cait O'Connor

Who am I?

I appear every winter but only when the days are really very cold and snowy. I am always alone and I just sit on the garden fence under a hedge looking rather forlorn? Does anyone know what breed of bird I am?  The lady of the cottage is always peering at me through binoculars from her kitchen window and taking photos but she doesn't know what family I belong to either.  She has a very good Bird Book (Readers Digest) and she has one or two ideas what I am but she is not at all sure she is right. (most unusual for her :-)).

Word Clouds

Word Clouds 

I own two passions now: watching clouds and 

writing words. Hours fly, courting clouds, writing 

poems in my mind, for what are clouds and words 

but poets' fuel to warm their souls upon?

Cirrus, stratus, cumulus or mare’s tail; 

in such clouds, words seem hazy, nebulous 

and misty to my mind; there are no lines 

to read myself between, I can only 

go within and listen to their whispers.

Words are scudding sounds of speech when spoken, 

but silent when written, except to my 

heart where they can speak in volumes, or if 

days are sadly overcast, they hide from 

me and say nothing, nothing at all.

Cait O’Connor 

On privilege and old age.

Leaning to curtsey (something I would never ever do!)

A Getty photo of debutantes at Queen Charlotte's Ball in the 1950's

Dear Diary,

I am sorry I have been absent without leave again. Plenty of excuses though I guess a sick note will suffice. Only twenty-two days till my operation and hopefully then I will recover quickly and get my energy back. If I was a private patient I would have been done and dusted months ago (don't get me started).

It is very cold today here in Wales, the sun is shining and the air is very dry but I have never felt so cold a wind.

I have more energy today but I am trying not to overdo things because that has always been my downfall, using up all my energy just because it is there. I have never learned to pace myself but I think it is my ruler Aries who is to blame.

The countryside looks very beautiful, there is snow on the hilltops; I wish I had taken my camera out in the field when I took the dogs for our wee constitutional this morning so I could show you the views. I have a dental appointment this afternoon and that is a fairly long drive so I won't be able to take photos later.

I watched a very interesting programme about debutantes on BBC4 (or maybe BBC2?) the other night. Not that I approve of such goings on and the photos above make me cringe and might get me started again (please don't get me started because bitterness is so bad for one's gall-bladder don't you know!). There were a lot of  oldish ladies of privilege on the programme talking about their younger days. One said she was nervous in her youth but used whisky to calm her and she said the whisky bottle became her friend. That one line stuck in my head and from it a poem grew. Nothing to do with debs. though I suppose it could be and a story about aged debs. could even develop from there. Anyway here is my effort, not great I know but I am a little brain dead of late (hence the lack of blog postings, writers' block has been my companion).

A friend sent me an email recently and the subject matter has also inspired a poem in my head, it is still lurking there but I will post it as soon as it looks something like a poem.

Where have you found inspiration lately? What gets you going and how do ideas for poems and stories come to you?

I must go, my cooker is calling frantically.

Before I forget, here is the poem.

Crutches

Perhaps she could cope in age with company;

but the whisky bottle has become her

only friend.  Medicinal in the morning,

it brings both peace and strength, it moves the blood,

warms her weakened heart, reinstalls again

her long lost confidence in daily life.

Nightly it helps to soothe her off to sleep,

a passage to euphoria in dreams.

Glasses, when she can find them, help her see,

tight behind one ear her hearing aid sits,

it cannot be discreet , its sounds betray.

Her fading memory wanes and waxes at its will,

notebook always close, her only aide-memoire.

Her walking stick and frame are always there,

a plethora of pills to keep her well,

the side effects ignored as best she can.

Euthanasia is often on her mind

when pain’s so bad she wants to fade away

and loneliness is more than she can bear.

Cait O’Connor

Bridge Over Troubled Water

Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul

Plato 428-328 BC

I'm in a musical mood tonight.

I watched a lovely programme last night on BBC4 about Simon and Garfunkel. It was called Imagine and was the story of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel's beginnings and went on to the making of their iconic album that is Bridge Over Troubled Water.

Quite by chance one of my granddaughters visited me today and as she was making tea for all the family who were also visiting (I forgot to say she is also an angel) she said

Do you know that song which has the line


Me and Julio down by the school yard?   I love that


and that one called Cecilia?

That got us both singing (as I was last night while watching the programme). She hadn't seen the programme so it was just another one of those coincidences (or windows into the Divine as I prefer to call them).


Bridge Over Troubled Water is one of my top favourite albums, It was called an LP when I owned it and the songs take me back to my younger life and all  its happy memories. The music is classic, it will never stop being loved if my teenage granddaughter is anything to go by. Her mother, my daughter, grew up with our music and so she has been well acquainted with masses of good stuff. I don't feel we are so well served with such great songs nowadays, not in such a great number as in the sixties and seventies. What do you think?

I have been thinking about the programme today and I thought I would do a series of blogs about my top albums, ones that I would take to a Desert Island, not singles but whole albums. I would love your suggestions as well and I could post songs from them.

I find it hard to choose a favourite from Bridge.  I also adore their Sounds of Silence album and Paul Simon's Graceland  is terrific.

My favourites are the title song Bridge..... of course, The Only Living Boy in New York, The Boxer and Song for the Asking

Side 1

1. "Bridge Over Troubled Water" – 4:52
2. "El Condor Pasa (If I Could)" (Daniel Alomía Robles, English lyrics by Paul Simon, arranged by Jorge Milchberg) – 3:06
3. "Cecilia" – 2:55
4. "Keep the Customer Satisfied" – 2:33
5. "So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright" – 3:41

[edit]Side 2

1. "The Boxer" – 5:08
2. "Baby Driver" – 3:14
3. "The Only Living Boy in New York" – 3:58
4. "Why Don't You Write Me" – 2:45
5. "Bye Bye Love" (Felice and Boudleaux Bryant) (live recording from Ames, Iowa) – 2:55
6. "Song for the Asking" – 1:3

Anyway have a listen, go down memory lane, if you are as old as I am. 


 I will start with Bridge tonight.

BYE FOR NOW,
CAIT.

Night-time

Night-time

The tiny bedroom at night has order,

stonewalled serenity like a nun’s cell.

No-sound, such quietness a rarity.

One green candle burns, its scent fills the room

with patchouli, geranium, basil.

I sip hot chocolate, such sweetness comforts,

soothes and sedates me, entices me to sleep.

I feel pain-free and unusually warm,

my blood seems free-flowing, unchilled for once.

I rediscover a stillness which comes with

just listening, not-doing, just-being,

hearing its peace which only speaks in silence.

Cait O’Connor

Stop What You Are Doing And Read This

This is a must-read book recommendation.

In the ten essays in this book some of our finest authors and passionate advocates from the worlds of science, publishing, technology and social enterprise tell us about the experience of reading, why access to books should never be taken forgranted, how reading transforms our brains, and how literature can save lives. In any 24 hours there are so many demands on your time and attention - make books one of them.

Authors:

Carmen Callil

Tim Parks

Nicholas Carr

Michael Rosen

Jane Davis

Zadie Smith

Mark Haddon

Jeanette Winterson

Blake Morrison

Dr Maryanne Wolf

Dr Mirit Barzillai




Did anyone else catch this book? It was Book of the Week recently on Radio 4 and was brilliant, especially Jeanette Winterson's essay, that was my favourite... but then I love all her writings. I have been musing and trying to write my own essay in my mind but I felt I was just repeating what everyone else had already said. And I have blogged so much in the past about the joy of books and reading, it is my passion after all. Anyway I took a wee walk this morning and from this came a wee poem.

The cottage sits softly on a January noon


The cottage sits softly on a January noon,

soaking up the Winter sun, secure and cosy

in her wrap-around garden ,she still appears

warm amongst the hardness of white frost.

All lies in wait for spring, though daffodils in

January are really not usual,

nothing confuses, nothing will waver,

Nature will cope, only humans falter.

Logs lie about, they too are waiting,

only the dogs are desperate to run.

As usual I am musing, today on

a lifelong passion for the written word,

squiggles on paper, symbols of language,

a love affair that has lasted, can you

think of another the same?

Ah, the smell of books, the look, the feel,

soul linking soul to soul, writers

reaching to me from the heart with prose to

wallow in, dream of, escape to, become lost in

(with no need for rescue)

and the crown that is poetry, which can

be pure magic, living on forever

in one’s memory.


Cait O’Connor

A Round Tuit

Ever wished you had one of these?

I found one in a local Oxfam shop.

(can you spot the missing word though?)

Ghastly Gallstones Diet

He that takes medicine and neglects diet wastes the skills of the physician

Chinese Proverb

Dear Diary,

Although I didn't need to I've lost a lot of weight eating a less than 5%/ low fat diet while I wait for my gallbladder operation and a lot of people have asked me what I am eating (or not eating) so I have put my diet notes on this blog on a stand alone page -  see the link in the right sidebar. It's a bit higgledy-piggeldy but I hope it makes sense.  If you are trying to lose weight  -  and a lot of folk are at this time of year - then it may be of use to you. But don't exclude fats altogether if you don't have to as they are essential to good health -  but take in moderation, like all things. If you have the ghastly gallstones then I hope it may be of some help to you. I had no instruction or advice from the medical profession; I have researched it all myself and found the best information, solace, companionship and comfort at this site, (Jamie's ideas asylum)The first part of my diet sheet I have copied from the site, thanks Jamie, you are a star.


Happy Eating,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Happy New Year

Winter - Royo

Dear Diary,

A library is a hospital for the mind

Anon.

This will be a short post just to update you and apologise for my absence recently. I have had another attack of biliary colic – I have gallstones and am waiting for an operation – and was taken to hospital in an ambulance, all lights flashing on New Year’s Eve evening – bad timing don’t you agree?

Home now and very pleased to be here.  I will be catching up with blog reading soon.

I am on a low fat diet and if anyone wants tips on how to lose weight, just ask!  Trouble is I was never overweight to start with.

Anyway I just want to wish you all a very happy and healthy New Year. Have you made any resolutions?

Before I go, here is a (very well known) poem,nothing to do with illness or the New Year but I did watch Bright Star yesterday, the film about John Keats and I loved it so. A visual and a romantic delight; if you haven't seen it try and do so.

Endymion A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:  Its loveliness increases; it will never  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.  Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing  A flowery band to bind us to the earth,  Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth  Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,  Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways  Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,  Some shape of beauty moves away the pall  From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,  Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon  For simple sheep; and such are daffodils  With the green world they live in; and clear rills  That for themselves a cooling covert make  'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,  Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:  And such too is the grandeur of the dooms  We have imagined for the mighty dead;  An endless fountain of immortal drink,  Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.  John Keats  Bye for now. Cait.

Because it's Winter, Thoughts on the Sun

Sleepy Lamb Diane Whitehead

Dear Diary,

The picture is nothing to do with the winter or with the sun, apart from the fact that the lamb is sunning himself or herself - I think it is a boy myself, he just caught my eye and I fell in love with him while I was on the net seeking out sunny pictures for you.

I bought my daughter for Christmas a book of selected poems by one of my most-loved poets, Mary Oliver. Quite by chance I heard this poem of hers on Irish radio this morning, only on Irish radio would you hear poetry on such a regular basis, great music too and conversation which makes you feel you are in someone's home or the pub.

In these far-too-short and dark days of Winter we need to remember the Sun; we do see her occasionally, like yesterday as I drove to Hay for a dental appointment, she shone on me through the car window all the way. She is absent today but at least I have a poem. It is one long question this poem, so true, so wise.

Stay warm.

The Sun

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone–
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly
oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance–
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love–
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed–
or have you too
turned from this world–

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

Mary Oliver

Connemara Girl

Augustus Burke

Connemara Girl 

She is of the mountain, her backdrop beauty:

purple mountain, blue ocean, green marbled rocks.

Beauty will not feed or sustain her small frame
hidden beneath her tattered shawl, poor girl

not yet woman. Her feet are bare, but underfoot,
summer’s heather is kind and soft as the tale
her eyes might tell, if they were inclined to speak.

Gazing hard, she keeps her feelings close, moods
like clouds, forever transient; beloved

beasts protect her back, four-footed, or fowls
of the air, she is their familiar.

They too may one day starve and die like the
Connemara girl who seems to be already
gleaning what may lie ahead. Ancient wisdom
 lies within her, wrapped in heartfelt language,
washed with tears; ancestors sing a sacred song,

a sometimes dirge, a sometimes prayer, a sometimes
vision of eternity, an oft-times song
of love. You may catch its strains across the land,

for it frames the mountains and rides the waves.

In times of stillness you may hear it,deep
and haunting, like an Irish serenade.

Cait O’Connor

Ray La Montagne - A Falling Through

Happy Christmas to Everyone

A poem - A song for Christmas. My favourite carol too.

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