Every so often blog

 Dear Reader,

 

Dear Friend,

I have been asked many times over the years whether I am ‘religious.'  Probably you have been too.  This, for me, is a difficult question to answer. I am not quite sure what being ‘religious” means.  So am I a Christian?  Yes, I believe and love Jesus Christ who I maintain is my friend, but is that being religious?  I don’t think so.

For over thirty years Geoffrey and I went to church every Sunday.  It was, in a way, our tradition. It was what we did.  I enjoyed the services, loved the church sitting right in the middle of Oxford, and some of the old hymns are heart warming. But what of the church’s 

teaching, what of the Bible?  Is it, as John Betjamen asks in his poem, a true story? 

I suppose we all individually have to make up our minds which bits we want to take as our religion, which bits are true for us.  So, having jusr written this piece, I suppose I am religious, on a chosen spiritual path of my own making, and this works very well for me.

                                                                     *

From John Ruskin  August 13th  1872 in Berkshire

‘Entirely calm and clear morning.  The mist from the river at rest among the trees, with rosy light on its folds of blue, and I, for the first time these ten years, happy’.

From Gilbert White   August 15th  1783  in Hampshire

‘The last gathering of wood-strawberries.  Bullfinches and red-breasts eat the berries of the honeysuckles’.

                                                                     *

Chapel

 

Away with the cherubs

the angels, the painted ceilings

the high arches

the high ceilings

nudes male and female

the artifacts

the gold crosses

and ornate statues of the 

Virgin Mary.

 

Give me a chapel with

whitewashed bricks

wooden pews

oak door with studs

daisies on the altar 

in a china jug

a bust of St. Columba

and quiet peace

in God's house.

 

With best wishes to you all

 

Patricia 

 

My Blog

 Dear Readers,

 

I have had several requests to be able to read my small blog which I decided to write after stopping the Sunday edition that I wrote for eleven years.

 

If you would like to be on my list just send me an email :  

 

patricia.huthellis@googlemail.com

 

and I will send you, by email, the current blog. 

 

I felt rather sad when I had made the decision to write no more and decided therefore to just write a small blog every so often for friends and family.  Please join me if you would like to.

With very best wishes, Patricia 

The Mind Cupboard

 Dear Reader,

 

I thought I would just put your favourite poem on the blog as a last gesture.

 

The Mind Cupboard

 

My mind cupboard overflows
with unwanted debris.
It needs a spring clean.

I will brush away the cobwebs
of cheerless thoughts.
Scrub out the stains of childhood.

I will replace the brass hooks
corroded with salt tears,
empty all the screams
hoarded through the years.

I will replace the accumulated ashes
from the worn self-paper,
with virgin tissue.

I will chase and catch the wasps,
relieve them of their stings.
I will refill this cupboard
with love, and learnt, brighter things. 

 

Very best wishes, Patricia 

My Retirement

 Dear Reader,

 

I have been writing my blog for eleven years now and thoroughly enjoyed myself.  But the time has come when I find it all a bit of strain and so I am not going to write it any more.

 

Thank you all for reading it and I wish you every happiness in the years to come,

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

Truth Modern

Red Admiral

 

Dear Reader, 

 

I saw a Red Admiral butterfly in the garden last week, well I saw it from a window in the kitchen.  Because it is so hot outside and I get ocular migraines if I go out in the sun, I haven't been outside more than once this last week.  I expect if you are young and sprightly and reading this you will wonder what the fuss is all about from heat we are having.  But I assure you for elderly people such as myself the extreme heat can be dangerous as well as being unpleasant.

Gosh I look forward to a day of rain, or several.  A gentle breeze and light rain would be perfect, perhaps we will get some next week. I certainly hope so.

                                                                                * 

I feel very upset about the murder of Ann Widdecombe last week.   Not particularly because she was well known but that such a thing should happen in the Devon countryside.  There she was, getting on with her life, and someone breaks into her house and murders her.  

What is England coming to?  When I lived in the  New Forest fifty years ago we didn't even have a key to the back door and possibly not even to the front door either.  We walked through the forest, the children and I, never fearful of who we might meet. But I wouldn't do it today. 

Ah well, the world has certainly changed,

                                                                                       *

 

 

From Gilbert White   July 15th    1786  in Hampshire

'Made jellies and jams of red currants.  Gathered broad beans ....The cat gets upon the roof of the house, and catches young bats as they come forth from behind the sheet of lead at the bottom of the chimney.' 

           

From Francis Kilvert    July 16th   1863 in Wiltshire

'As I walked along the field path I stopped to listen to the rustle and solemn night whisper of the wheat, so different to its voice by day.'

                                                                           *

Truth Modern

 

 

Through a kaleidoscope’s

shifting, bright colours,

set close to the eye,

the viewer’s truth is reflected,

assuring the mind of its veracity,

acknowledging its fantasies

as realities,  

seeing truth

not as it is, but as we would

like it to be,

spinning words,

detaching truth from its moorings,

setting it loose in murky waters.

Illusions of truth

sandwiched between lies

is the authentic truth

of our times.

 

                                                                           *

Wit best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stations

 Dear reader,

Pigeons are the oldest domesticated birds in the world, tracing their origins back to the Middle East 5,000 to 10,000 years ago.  Descended from the Wild Rock Dove, they were originally farmed for meat and bred as messenger carriers before transitioning into urban environments where they adapted to modern city life. 

Because Wild rock Doves naturally roost on cliffs and possess an incredible ability to navigate and return home over long distances, humans quickly began selectively breeding them for communication. 

During WW1 and WW11 hundreds of thousands of homing pigeons were utilized by militarizes on both sides.  Because radios could be easily intercepted or jammed these 'war pigeons' were vital for delivering critical intelligence from the front lines. 

                                                                            *

 

I see, with trepidation, that it is going to be 32 degrees or more again next week.  Gosh I long for summers of yesteryear.  A weak sun and a gentle breeze, proper picnic weather, and a quiet walk through the woods. 

So it will be back to drawn curtains and fans, and not venturing out.  What have us humans done to the planet?   We have destroyed it or are doing so.

                                                                               *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  July 5th 1802 in Westmorland 

'A very sweet morning.   William stayed some time in the orchard....It came on a heavy rain, and we could not go to Dove Nest as we had intended...The roses in the garden are fretted and battered and quite spoiled, the honey suckle, though in its gory, is sadly teazed.  The peas are beaten down.  The scarlet beans want sticking. The garden is overrrun with weeds. 

 From Gerard Manley Hopkins  July 9th 1871 in Lancashire

'After much rain, some thunder, and no summer as yet, the river swollen and golden...there was this day a thunder storm on a greater scale - huge rocky clouds lit with a lived light, hail and rain that flooded the garden, and thunder ringing and echoing round like brass.'

 

                                                                                   *

Stations

 

are full of people,

people angry, people joyful

people sad, people anxious,

people disappointed,

people running,

people excited,

old people,

young people,

middle aged people

the odd dog

 

Stations are full

of smoke

the smell of frying onions

gauloise cigarettes

pigeons

lost luggage

people hurrying to and fro

the crashing of doors

noise and emotion

 

Stations

are the beginning

or the end

 

the alpha

the omega

 

                                                                  *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                     

 

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare

 Dear reader,

I have really hated the past few days of extreme heat.  Perhaps it is a little better today, but not much and my study is too hot to think and write the blog.  Please forgive me,  I have holed up this week with curtains drawn and fans on full strength so am feeling a bit feeble and tired.

But this poem about the tortoise and the hare always seems to amuse you so here it is :

 

A Variation on the Tortoise and the Hare

The tortoise, shell-encased,
shy, and timid,
was fond of quiet places.
He ate lettuce sandwiches,
drank bottled water
and did deep breathing exercises.
He was slow alright,
but kept on "keeping on" getting there,
although a little fearful
or what life can bring.

The, he discovered anxiety pills,
and grew bolder,
he opinionated more.
Rejected lettuce,
ate avocado and prawn cocktails,
drank vodka,
and tried his hand at salsa dancing.
Confidence change him.

Ah ha the hare.

The hare spoke his mind.
He jumped and danced
texted and mobiled friends,
arranged outings,
and had a ball.
But the Gods were watching him,
the sent a "don't forget card"
to remind him of his tortoise life.

his quiet life
the life that was right and good
for a tortoise.

He threw the anxiety pills away
and slowly his shell grew back,
he started reading again,
he talked less,
thought more,
enjoyed lettuce sandwiches
and drank bottled water.
He became the tortoise 
that he was meant to be.

 

With best wishes, Patricia