January Weather

Dear Reader,

                                                                                     Cotswold fields

To cheer us up I thought you might like to see this photograph taken of some Cotswold fields in the summer months.  The weather in January is so gloomy, dull and damp, and the world news so depressing, I long for a picnic in this field.  I would have a basket filled with smoked salmon sandwiches made with thin slices of brown bread, followed by a portion of cheddar cheese, a piece of lemon drizzle cake, and a delicious bottle of white wine (preferably Vouvray) to go with it.   And  then, probably a square or two of dark chocolate.  And if I half shut my eyes I might be lucky and see Ratty and Mr Mole scampering by .....

Do you remember my writing about the pesky seagulls last year?  They were getting very bold, snatching sandwiches out of people's hands and generally causing chaos in several seaside resorts, one of them being Scarborough.  Well, the Council there has met to consider an "action plan", to hire a specialist company which uses Harris Hawks and falcons as flying police officers, to deter the noisy and irritating gulls.  These birds of prey are specifically trained not to kill the seagulls, just to frighten them off.  So if you are thinking of booking a summer holiday in Scarborough this year, don't worry about the seagulls, they are being controlled and your sandwiches will be safe.

                                                                                    *

January Weather

We know from recorded history,
that in St. Merryn
a hundred years ago,
there blew great winds
and the sea was smoking white.

We know it was warm in Kent,
where the thrushes thought spring
had come, and piped away.
And primroses were a yellow carpet
in North Norfolk,
or so the parson wrote.

We know of cutting winds in Hampshire,
of icicles and frost, and
in Skiddaw on a mild day,
a brown spotted butterfly was seen.
We know that hungry church
mice ate bible markers,
hungry people died of cold.

And we know that this dark winter month
had days of snow, that wild clouds
gathered in the sky unleashing icy rain,
churning up the plough.

And yet, again, we also know
the sun shone in that distant year,
it was warm enough to push through
early snowdrops, and Holy Thorn.
Light was glimpsed, here and there,
all life struggled for its moments.

                                                                      *

With best wishes, Patricia

Cold Christ Child

Dear Reader,

                                                                                Morris Dancers

I read that in Birmingham this week a group of Morris dancers were forced to abandon a performance after they were accused of being racist, because they had blackened their faces.  I wondered why they do this and found that the tradition of rural English dancers blackening their faces may be a form of disguise, or a reference to the Moors or even to miners.  The origins of the practice remain unclear and are a matter for ongoing debate.  Morris dancing is a form of English folk dance accompanied by music, often an accordion or flute.  It is based on rhythmic stepping and the execution of choreographed figures by a group of dancers usually wearing bell pads on their shins.  Sticks, swords and handkerchiefs are often also wielded by the dancers.  It is unclear how the dance got its name, but apparently it arose as a part of a wider 15th-century European fashion for supposedly "Moorish" spectacles.  Morris dancers perform in the small market town where I live, at the annual street fair,  and they are most entertaining to watch.

                                                                           *

Cold Christ Child

Why did Murillo, Fra Filippo Lippi,
Leonardo da Vinci paint
the Christ Child nude?
Did they not know of night-time cold?

Was the hot Levantine wind
blowing in the midday sun,
enough to stay the chill of evening
and warm this precious child?

They painted the Madonna in a dress,
the soldiers fully clad
in jerkins, amour, helmets,
the angels in sumptuous robes,
but the Christ Child is left on marble floors,
or dandled in laps,
with nothing to swaddle and secure him.

Could it be that this cold start
was not enough
to set alight the love
needed to save us all?

                                                                         *

With best wishes,   Patricia

Perfect Pace

Dear Reader,

                                                                        Jerusalem Artichokes 

There seems to be a bit of consternation among exotic vegetable lovers this week concerned about the disappearance of the Jerusalem artichoke.  Where have they all gone, they ask?  But it seems their fears are groundless, since I have now learnt that they still grow in numerous gardens and allotments. The Jerusalem artichoke was first cultivated by the native Americans long before the arrival of the Europeans, and this extensive cultivation obscures the exact native range of the species.  The French explorer, Samuel de Champlan, found domestically grown plants at Cape Cod in 1605.  He then brought the plant back with him to France, and by the mid-1600s the Jerusalem artichoke had become a very common vegetable for human consumption, in Europe and the Americas.  The French in particular were fond of the vegetable, which reached its peak popularity at the turn of the 19th century.

I saw a quote this week from an entry in Gerard's Herbal of 162l, which I thought I would share with you in case you didn't know some of the effects of eating these vegetables:

"Which way soever they be dressed and eaten, they stir and cause a filthy loathsome stinking wind within the body, thereby causing the belly to be pained and tormented, and are a meat more fit for swine than men".

So if you are thinking of eating Jerusalem artichokes, you have been warned.

                                                                        *

Perfect Pace

Orphaned, blind,
this small elephant,
cosy under kilim rug,
slowly follows the man's tapping stick
on their daily walk
through the bush.

They rest for a while.
The man shields
the small elephant
from the heat of the sun
with a big blue umbrella.
Unhurried they walk on.

Oh, what envy for this man,
slowly walking, quietly tapping,
sleeping in a stable with the small
blind elephant.
Each bound to each other,
with love.

                                                                     *

With best wishes, Patricia

Only cotton

Dear Reader,

                                                                               Children Picking Cotton

Hundreds and thousands of children are thought to be involved in picking and processing cotton around the world.  Many are kept out of school, work in dangerous conditions, and some are not even paid and sometimes work ten or twelve hours a day.  Their parents stop them from going to school because they need them in the fields, where farmers like to employ children because they have nimble fingers and are the same height as the plants they are picking.  When it rains they are given plastic sheets, which they put on their heads, and then carry on working.  Apparently the girls work much harder than the boys who run around and, if beaten, they stop work.  Boys' behaviour then seems pretty universal!  While pressure from the West is making a difference to the cotton supply chain in India, there is not the same pressure from within the country.  Rampant poverty, high inflation, unemployment, and a lack of regulation of the industry make it difficult to see how things will change.  I have never felt guilty about wearing cotton clothes, but knowing now what I have just  learnt, perhaps I should.

                                                                             *

Only Cotton

In the Southern Punjab
the sun scorches, the insects hum,
small pieces of cotton dust
fill the air,
whirl, suffocate, poison.
Aruni and Paloma, ten and twelve,
bend and pick, bend and pick,
hour after hour.
Scratches on their arms
scab and bleed,
their heads ache,
their vision blurs,
their drinking water canisters
contaminated with lethal spray.
At dusk they crawl home.
At dawn, they start another day.

Mrs Anne Hudson-Berry
selects a cool cotton dress
adorns herself,
hails a taxi,
has lunch at the Ritz.

                                                                         *

Very best wishes for 2017, Patricia

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

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

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