Sunday 18 December 2016

Realization

Dear Reader,


                                                                                            Celtic Crosses


As this is our Christian season I thought a word or two about the Celtic Cross would be in order.  The Celtic Cross is a symbol used today in many contexts, both religious and secular.  The cross itself is just like a traditional cross but with a ring around the intersection of the stem and arms, and the whole cross is often decorated with ornate Gaelic patterns.  The Celtic Cross is also called the "Sun Cross"
by some people who interpret the ring to represent the sun.  Irish legend says that the Celtic Cross was first introduced by Saint Patrick, who was attempting to convert the pagan Irish to Christianity.  Some of the pagans worshipped the sun, so it is said that Saint Patrick combined the Christian Cross with the circular pattern of the sun as a way of associating light and life with the Christian Cross in the minds of his converts.  Once when I was walking on Dartmoor I saw a cross very similar to those  in the photographs, and thought how lovely and inspiring it was.

This is my favourite Celtic prayer to share with you:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.



I would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and thank you very much for your support during 2016.  I won't be writing my blog on Christmas Day, but will start again on Sunday January 1st, and hope you will join me then.

                                                                              *

Realization

I am
part of the whole.

I am
in the first light,
the bird's first song,
the sun's first dart
through the curtain crack
in the music of summer trees.

I am
part of the alpha,
the birth,
the awakening,
the growing and spreading,
the throbbing of life.

I am
part of all suffering
hands blood-stained.
Part of the love
humanity shares and
of all good things.

I am
part of the omega,
the closing, the last light,
the call back from the dark
to the bright, eternal night.

                                                                             *

 Very best wishes, Patricia




Sunday 11 December 2016

Sideburns, 2014


Dear Reader,


                                                                    A 20th-century man with sideburns


                                                                              Thomas Hardy,  1840-1928                                  


                                                      Thomas Hardy's birthplace, Upper Bockhampton
                                                                                    Dorset



I thought you might like to read this extract from Thomas Hardy's journal written on December 7th, 1886:

"Winter.  The landscape has turned from a painting to an engraving:  the birds that love worms fall back upon berries:  the back parts of homesteads assume, in the general nakedness of the trees, a humiliating squalidness as to their details that has not been contemplated by their occupiers."

This also seems to be the case where I live, a small market town, where lots of things I would rather not see are completely obscured in the summer months by beautiful trees and plants, but not so now the leaves have fallen.

Incidentally, I see that Larry, the Downing Street cat, has been joined by two other cats, Ossie and Evie.  Larry has not turned out to be a proficient mouser, in fact he is useless, and would rather spend his time terrorizing the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr Phillip Hammond's,  two dogs who also live in No. 10 Downing Street.  The cats came from a rescue charity and on arrival had little publicity.  They were, a source said, "quietly getting on with their job".  So mice - Beware!


                                                                              *

Sideburns, 2014

Astonished, I see the sideburns,
the slicked up hair,
the ill-fitting suit,
large red hands
jolting it back on the shoulders
with awkward gesture,
at a young man's funeral
in the village church.
White lilies fill the air
with their sweet scent,
while soft music plays.
I see tears on every cheek,
sad young women, and men too
there to seek some comfort
from the vicar's words.

I blink and thought
I saw Thomas Hardy standing
in a nearby pew,
back in time from his day.
The ancient poet seemed to be
embodied in the blood and lives
of this congregation,
among whom nothing has changed over the years,
not the people, nor the service,
and death is still great sorrow.

But there is tea and beer
at the Bull Inn,
gossip and laughter
tears and memories, as
life's cycle keeps turning,
our beginnings and our endings
the only certainties.

                                                                            *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday 4 December 2016

Suit, Waistcoat, Tie

Dear Reader,
                                                                                     Mr Joe Bartley, 89

Perhaps you all saw the wonderful story this week about Mr Joe Bartley, but for those who did not, here it is.  Joe Bartley, 89, an army veteran from Paignton in Devon, posted a job advertisement in the local newspaper, The Herald Express.  He had lived alone since his wife died and was lonely and said that he was "dying of boredom".  He wanted to work for 20 hours a week and could do cleaning, light gardening, and DIY.  He had several offers of work made to him but chose a cafe in the town after the owners of the family-run business spotted his request.  He is looking forward to starting work there this week.  Well done, Mr Bartley, I salute you!

My mother worked in an antiques shop just off Sloane Street in London until she was 82.  She walked there from her flat, a distance of a mile or two, started at 9.30 and worked until 5 pm, when she walked home.  For this she earned £12 a day, not in 1900 but in 1994!  I don't think she knew much about antiques nor did she really need the money, luckily, but she loved the responsibility and importance of working.  After she stopped working she became ill, I suspect from boredom like Mr Bartley, and never recovered her high spirits.
                                                                            


                                                                                *                                                                         

Suit, Waistcoat, Tie

Why wear his best suit, waistcoat, tie
at a talk on Nuclear Waste?
The village hall crumbles,
lit by dusty neon lights,
tea is served from cracked cups
and dull biscuits offered.

The rest wear jumble-sale clothes,
too dispirited to care,
their appearance long abandoned.

But is there someone there
who has stirred his heart,
made him feel alive again?
The reason for his best suit,
his waistcoat and his tie,
his winning smile, his bright eye?

I like to think so,
hope so.

                                                                            *

Very best wishes, Patricia