Risk

I've been mulling over Tarakuanyin's recent post
which eloquently puts into words much of my own thoughts and feelings about blogs and blogging.

My favourite bloggers have a common thread: a degree of self-revelation. They are personal bloggers. They communicate in prose and poetry and pictures. They write about places they have visited. They write about their passions, their loves, their children and their childhood, their interests, their joys, and a connection is forged. They sometimes post pictures of the intricate and beautiful things they have made. Perhaps they write about their politics. It doesn't matter to me whether they are "good" writers. What is a good writer anyway? From heart and mind to heart and mind and my online world becomes a larger yet more intimate place. They may write about more general topics as well, and I'm glad to read these posts, but I'm not sure I'd be visiting the blogs regularly without the personal.

Having said that, although I would class myself as a personal blogger I'm finding it difficult currently to blog about myself in any great depth. At one time I was far more open in cyberspace but now there are draft posts galore where I've opened my heart and where I hold back from pressing the Publish button. Some of it is a desire to remain anonymous. I can't resist posting about the area I live in - so much is new (to me) and fills me with joy and pleasure to the point that I want to share it in words and pictures - but I shy away from self-revealing in case an acquaintance hereabouts homes in on a give-away detail. I think about boundaries and this gives me more reason to pause.

So. I don't tell you about the therapy that is helping unclog the metaphorical passages nor the man I am attracted to (but I'm not sure how much he's attracted to me. Watch this space.) I don't write about loneliness or fear. I don't write about about my concern over what we are doing to the planet to the point where I blank out a lot of the news that I read. I don't tell you about the bad habits and compulsions. I don't tell you how badly I missed my father, even when he was alive and present. I pride myself on seeking harmony and beauty so I won't write about my dark side nor about my laziness. I don't tell you about my spiritual life and the unreasonable conviction that in spite of everything the future holds love, the daily new beginnings that I make, how my life is a series of moment by moment new beginings. I don't write about the mystery of the early mornings, and today's early morning in particular, and how privileged I can feel at times to be alive in the here and now.

Except I just have. This is the best I can do.

Lost

Bank Holiday rain. In torrents.

Undaunted on Sunday S drives over in her trusty white van and we head off towards the border with the general idea of visiting the Knights Templar Church at Garway, a first for us both. We never made it. It would have been helpful if I'd thought to bring the Ordnance Survey map. Even more helpful if the local signposting were less eccentric. The skies are heavy, the hills shrouded in rain and mist and the windscreen wipers work overtime.

Once off the main road we navigate narrow lanes bordered by high hedges and crane our necks at T-junctions. Occasionally we pass an isolated farm. No churches. Now and again we get out of the van briefly to look around. Nothing but fields, dripping trees, pure air and ecstatic birdsong.

I think of the documentary of the life of Annie Liebovitz, the photographer, I'd caught a few days previously. She describes her childhood as an airforce brat, the driving from one air base to to a new one by car. How for her the landscape became an endless series of pictures, all framed by the car window. It's a bit like that.

Some of the things S and I talk about during our search:

Friendship; a mutual friend; living alone; gardening; maps; directions; vitamin supplements; pyramid selling; cults; loneliness; a weekend away we've planned in September; men; money; peak oil; electric bicycles; hybrid cars; my latent codependency in relationships; her irritability; my mother; therapy; Mars conjunct Mercury in Scorpio; the place I work; her boss; a former boss; the place we used to work; vegetarianism; where we might get a meal.

We end up in an old pub for Sunday lunch with no vegetarian options and hunting prints and stuffed animals on the walls. Still raining but neither of us are bothered, we're just enjoying each other's company. She's buying, I leave the tip.

I value my friends, now more than ever.



A sign on the wall of a house, passed en route.

Thoughts

Click to enlarge.

A photograph taken this week on the regular morning walk/commute. It's amazing I make it to work at all these days.

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Two male blackbirds perched a hundred yards apart, sing out piercingly beautiful warnings to each other. Stay away. Stay away.

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The electrician in the office takes his time, working steadily and methodically. He pauses for a moment to chat and asks about plans for the weekend. I stop what I am doing to reply. There's no hurry.

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V, wearing a green jacket to go with her Irish lilt, brings me an armful of flowers from the farmers' market as a birthday surprise. I'd mentioned to her in passing a few days ago how much I liked that particular flower stall. Unkempt and wonderfully imperfect blossoms, redolent of another era, so different from the tidy bouquets in the florists. The tansies and cornflowers - and many others whose names I don't know - in my bunch are plucked in local gardens and tied together with thick, rough string. As best I can, I thank her.

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J's eyes are exactly the same shade of dark brown as mine. It's unsettlingly like looking at a male twin. Previously I've been attracted by opposites: men with blue, or grey, or green eyes, the colours of the sea.

I doubt anything will come of it.

Energy

Half way through the yoga class Susanna talks us through the Padma Mudra. We kneel, palms facing the floor, wrist against wrist, fingers hanging downwards.

“The roots of the lotus flower”, says Susanna, “reaching deep into the mud.” We press our wrists together.

We reverse the position, drawing the hands through. The fingers point heavenwards, thumbs and little fingers of both hands touching, the remaining fingers forming a flower shape. Susanna guides us into a short meditation on the lotus in full bloom.

The silence and the simple grace of the mudra are powerful.

The class continues. Cobra. Camel. Resting Locust. Spinal twist. Corpse posture. The breathwork the string holding the beads together. Time to go home. My right shoulder still twinges but for the first time in many days I am calm and my body is temporarily at peace. This calls for celebration: long-stemmed yellow lilies and a taxi instead of the bus.

The young woman driver is dark and wiry and has an accent.

“Are you Polish?”, I ask.

“No” she replies, “Brazilian.”

She tells her story. A failed marriage to a Brit whom she had met in Brazil. Three years ago they parted but by now she has a young son.She decides to stay in England: this is the only country that her boy has ever known. She works in a supermarket then decides she needs more flexibility, so goes into the taxi business.The last time she saw her family in South America was seven years ago.

At a red traffic light she spots an English friend. Leaning forward over the steering wheel she waves animatedly.

"When I was a child in Brazil I never imagined my life would be like this", she says without self pity. A simple statement of fact. She didn't sound unhappy. Not at all.

Photography, photography

A thought-provoking visit to the local photography festival, examining rural change and disruption in a globalising world and featuring the work of both South African and local photographers. I was particularly moved by the photographs of young people on the fringes of South African society, Between Dogs and Wolves by Jodi Bieber, and - closer to home - by the exhibition by college photography students.

It's inspired me to post some of my own recent shots taken around town. Nothing to do with globalisation. Just for the pleasure of it

Behind the counter ...

Overhead ...


Message ..

Crossing the river.

Cathedral: Stonemasons' yard

Tools for restoration: wooden workbench, the block of red sandstone, a hammer and chisel. A large mug for tea.

Later I notice the man, half hidden in the shadows.

Change of Pace

My right shoulder and upper back are in a bad way. Muscle spasm and it's getting worse. Pain has started to spread down the right arm as well.

"Not more than 20 minutes at the computer without a correspondingly long break", said the nice young man who is my new remedial massage therapist yesterday.

Which means that habits will have to change. It's not work that's doing the damage. I have frequent breaks from the computer and am more than happy to take them. It's blogging, blog reading and generally surfing the net at home.

When I'm writing a blogpost I go at the first and second draft for an hour, maybe more, without moving. Then maybe a few hours, maybe a day later I might revise for another hour. If I posted the first draft you wouldn't understand a word. Neither would I. I'm not a naturally fast or ordered thinker or writer and the drafting and editing become part of the thinking process. I lose myself, my sense of awareness. in the whole deeply enjoyable, compulsive exercise. Only on closing the lid of the laptop after a marathon session do I realise that my body has been suffering. And I haven't even mentioned the lengthy delights of a wet afternoon's blog reading.

Not good. The rules of health aren't any different for me than for the rest of humanity.

At least for a while until things improve physically I'm going to experiment with shorter posts, so that I'm not fretting to get back to the computer and finish the project. I've started to investigate blogs that make a feature of brevity and it will be an interesting change of pace. More stand-alone photographs. Maybe some link posts. Blog reading for limited times only.

I'm alarmed that I've allowed things to get to this stage, in spite of regular yoga classes. I know this stuff, for heaven's sake. There's nothing new in what the massage therapist said. And yet I enjoy my online life and don't want to give it up. I need a special back chair. I need to set gentle limits. I need to get well and to treat my body kindly.

Misrule (Updated)

"It's a three day visit by the Lord of Misrule", someone who should know tells me. "All bets are off.".

He's talking about the May Fair, which has just ended. Apparently a fair has been held here in one form or another since 1100-and-something, and it almost certainly originated as a pagan celebration that the church was canny enough to take under its wing.

These days though it's nothing more than a gigantic funfair. Now I'm used to such things in allocated, contained areas - parks, fields, open spaces, whatever - generally out of town and well away from the real world of offices and public buildings. But the fair rolls into the centre of our town and just takes it over.

The main streets are closed to traffic: big wheels and dodgems, roundabouts and burger bars, candy floss and helter-skelters - often strung out the length of a road in a long narrow line - replace the usual cars. Locals grumble about the consequent traffic jams and dearth of parking spaces and even on the outskirts you hear the distant thump-thump of the music. Squeezing past the hordes of parents and excited children, the groups of teenagers, you go about your business on the way to work or shop, step over unnervingly large electricity cables and enjoy the crackling energy and excitement of it all. But there's also a jittery nervousness in the air and the noise can be deafening.




The rides start around lunchtime so the early morning is relatively peaceful. The sacred provides a backdrop to the secular.

By mid afternoon the crowds arrive and the action will continue well into the night, when things really warm up. People travel here for miles, from way across country.

"Look at the faces", says my local friend.

Rides soar above the throng of pedestrians, dwarfing the cathedral skyline ...

... just yards away from banks, solicitors offices and GPs' surgeries. Heaven knows how all this is squared with current Health & Safety legislation.

In my own life during these three days there were two unexpected events - one tantalisingly agreeable, the second less so. Upheaval and catharsis.

Maybe it's easier if you work with Misrule, or Chaos, when he comes to visit. He's not necessarily an enemy.

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Although I didn't like it for writing purposes, I've a smidgin of nostalgia for the template of my previous blog which allowed larger photographs. It's really, really worth clicking the photos to enlarge.

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Update: More photos of the fair on Flickr.

R & R

Bank holiday weekend. I've changed plans and stayed close to home, mainly out of fatigue. Intermittently I've gardened, cleaned house and pottered. The last weeks at work have been difficult. Much distress and upheaval, not involving me directly but the cumulative effect has been draining. Until recently I've enjoyed this job: the organisation's work ethos is an excellent one and the people are more than compatible. In fact they've been a gift, which makes it worse. One day the acceptance will come that this is how life is sometimes.

Early morning. In my dressing gown I take a cup of tea outside and sit on the patio. It rained during the night and the paving stones are still damp, the sky heavy and overcast. The temperature is comfortably warm: for the last few days - the first time this year - there's been no temptation to switch on the heating. Daisies and dandelions have sprung up overnight on the lawn, scatterings of white and gold, and the scent of the blossom from the next door neighbour's fruit trees permeates the morning to the point of sensory overload. I sit back and try to disentangle the threads of birdsong: blackbird and thrush are simple, the rest need work.

That evening I go to take out the scraps for the compost. The blue crocs - kept outside for garden wear - have been comandeered.

People (Updated)

Update: Gut feelings are generally a good guide. I've taken down the additional photos that were posted here and to which the first two comments refer . After overnight reflection I wasn't comfortable having them them up on the blog - just too intrusive. Maybe I'll leave people shots to others. A shame because I find humans fascinating, but I don't have the stomach for it.

I'm still very fond of the juggler though.

A solitary juggler puts in a bit of practice on a rainy day in the park. I request a photograph.