Record

2008. The ones that got away.

Many photographs never made it to the blog at the time they were taken. I am drawn to those taken in the colder half of this year. The clean lines. The light.



December. Christmas decorations. Taken in a local cafe.



December. London dawn. Awake early in a strange bed.



December. A commuter on the Tube leaning against a glass partition immediately to my right. If I were a palmist, he would have been offering up his life up for my inspection.



October. The neighbour's cat and the aloe plant.



November. Winter beans. Now sprouting.



October. Reflections, Durham.



February. Local park. Fog. Emptiness. Silence.



February. Detail. Water of Life Fountain by Stephen Broadbent, Chester Cathedral.


****

When we met, Relatively Retiring and I spoke about our respective travels. Did you keep a journal, she asked. No. And that is sad. In those days I relied on an excellent memory and an unreliable camera. Twenty five years on I understand that the former is neither trustworthy nor time-proof and that uncared for physical photographs eventually fade, are mislaid or you spill coffee on them.

And now I have a blog. It is a record, of a kind. Blogging has shown me the extraordinariness of the ordinary and the value of naming what is there. And that the quest for perfection is pointless if it leads to paralysis. There are times when you just have to shrug and press Publish and move on. It's still worth doing.

It is.

Happy New Year!

Red kite

Mobbed by crows,
rising high,
high,
out of danger
effortless,
wings invincible,
wide as the world,
and silent,
riding an invisible wind
floating in blue.

On the other side
of the valley,
watching,
I drink tea
from the flask.
I eat my sandwich
then the banana,
carefully packing up
the rubbish
to take home.

Deo gratias.

Solstice

Too many people on the bus from the airport
Too many holes in the crust of the earth
The planet groans
Every time it registers another birth

But among the reeds and rushes
A baby girl was found
Her eyes as clear as centuries
Her silky hair was brown

Paul Simon
Born at the Right Time

The birth of a child. I'm from a branch of family which is disappearing. No babies. No children. No nephews or neices.

The Winter Solstice, the pagan festival, comes closer. The red of the holly berry on the winter wreath. Pale green hyacinth bud. The joking and banter at the checkout at the local mini-market. Even the office jollifications on Friday. Celebration. Light.

Feeling my way this holiday season with, by choice, far fewer plans than usual. People are coming by but I am not sure who or when. Volunteered for the soup kitchen but they have all the helpers they need. Today I cycle to a solstice celebration in a village hall in the middle of nowhere. The places I go, the people I meet. All new. Everything at the moment is untried. Everything ahead unknown and not without risk and danger. But there are always possibilities.

Solstice. The Sun stands still. Have a blessed and joyful time.

****

I have Something Understood, on the radio as I awoke, to thank for the reminder of this gem by Paul Simon. Eminently danceable. The complete lyrics are here.

Passing

Tube

Impressions

The scale and grandeur of the buildings, public and private. The pillars and porticos, the flights of high stone steps. The relentless hardness and shine of the marble. Left overs from the days of empire or steel and concrete temples to Mammon, so plentiful I barely noticed them when I lived here. After two years away, a surprise, a shock even. Acres of concrete. Scurrying people. Flocks of men in suits. Christmas muzak. Icy, grey dampness as we walk across Albert Bridge and P, always upbeat, says that Monet would have painted the view with its diffused, nebulous light. The dawn chorus of mobile phones and switched on laptops on the train that had carried me back to the capital that morning. The cough that I couldn't stifle. Buses. Trains. High prices. Noise.

Being greeted with such unexpected, tentative warmth by H it brought tears to my eyes. Realising that I am an uneasy houseguest as I hate to be beholden, but I make a huge effort not to let it show. Understanding that it is wise not to accompany P on her shopping trips - much better to arrange to meet at the coffee shop afterwards. Saying goodbye to P, hugging, then breaking free, then thinking of something else to say, three times before I make it through the ticket barrier to catch the train home.

London and me. So long together, reunited again for a few, short days.