Tag Archives: garden

… notes on messy old women … 

p1100616Hurrah, today is poetry day in the UK.Where would our world be without poets?

I sometimes forget I’m a poet.

Waving hello to all poets the world over I’ll share here a poem I wrote years back for an artist friend and her family.

 

… notes on a messy old woman …

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in her art the charcoal mining hills

are shadow lands holding gold

and white mountains of china clay

spark New Jerusalem in her heart

 

she draws Cornish Cliffs rising black

from pale sands – jutting like mythic

creatures into a calm cobalt sea                                                      p1100619

beneath an impassive slate sky

 

she delights in the yellow of lemon

green of pear – shape of aubergine

textures of sunflower – curly kale

and the pink gleam on the skin

of fish – best caught on the day

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each thing away from its home

…solitary objects …

alone in space – the pot – pan

cup – knife and fork she paints

like icons on white and says

 

… they speak for themselves …

 

when spring brings pungent earth                                                     Rose, autum 4 low crop 2

she plants narcissus and hyacinth –

geranium and rose – tomatoes – mint

clematis – azalea and rose again

 

she bends low to weed her garden

but not to wash the kitchen floor

nor does she mind a grimy table

sink – bowl – glass or plate                                                                    Cornw. cross at Lamorna Cove 3

 

yet her home is bright with friends

walls are hung with paintings

shelves groan under books

colourful rugs blot out the dust

 

her stomach has hardened to bugs                                                  Farnham Easter 2011-45

and if a thing cracks or falls apart

one of her five children will come

to fix the chair – shelf – clock – tap

the leaking roof or creaking door

… her strategy works …

all objects she observes revert

to the empty spaces between them

Ashen, 2004

You may wonder what has been happening since my last post, to which many of you kindly responded in relation to my dream and my desolate, confused state, which was heartening.

The post coincided with my publisher coming clean after I had faithfully waited three years for the production work on Course of Mirrors to begin. Still, I’m thankful – at least the path is clear. I decided not to approach any of the giants. I’m taking control. Having had lots of time to compare self-publishing set-ups, I’ve chosen one that’s most respected in the trade and also stores and distributes books.

I believe strongly in Course of Mirrors – the book will be launched in spring 2017.  I’ll keep my online friends updated. Once my first novel is on the road, I may crowdfund for the sequel … and a collection of my poetry.

‘Faith is the evidence of things not seen.’ – W Hutchinson Murray

 

Sorry, the layout of this page turned messy  🙂

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… friends …

P1080320 - croppedAugust –

my birthday month tends to be a time of remembrance and gratefulness for the friends in my life, close, far, cherished or neglected,  people that taught me to be a friend to myself, people I bonded with through heart-sparks that left indelible marks. My friends are soul companions that became part of my journey, they form a flowing web of connections I’m held in.

So far it’s been a social month. Having reconnected with two primary school friends from Germany aDSC_0472 from Lieselotte few years ago during a reunion,  they sprang a surprise visit (their first to England.) We had a lovely meal in an excellent pub, with my son joining us. I toured the girls through the woods of a nearby sculpture park, through my town, and, of course, through London. We started with a riverboat journey (my first) under London’s time-honoured bridges, got lost in Covent Garden, which eventuated finding a café that served Black Forrest cake, which delighted Lieselotte, and surfaced at Trafalgar Square.

P1080394 - smallerFrom there we wove our way through St James Park and ended up at Buckingham Palace.

The girls had a great time, and good laughs, especially when, embarrassingly, I fell into talking German with Londoners, attracting the occasional blank stare of incomprehension.

What struck me was how ‘in essence’ we had not changed since we were children.  Intrinsic qualities stay with us throughout P1080361 - smallerlife, shine through our energy field, temperament, movement, voice, characteristics and life-interest. The qualities my friends nourished in me as a child, I still value today, the unconditional kind heart of Gaby, and Lieselotte’s ability to assess situations quickly and get things done. I saw that they also nourish these qualities in each other. Sadly they had to return home and miss my party last weekend.

P1080425 - smallerThe Party… lovely sunshine, guest coming and going. An unknown sponsor even ordered a birthday balloon to sail above my garden 🙂 My good-weather-wish came true. Some of us kept a circle outside until midnight among sparkling lights. The occasional apple dropped.

My favourite deckchair folded  under more weightP1080413 - smaller than my own. Glasses clinked. There was silliness, acknowledgements, revelations.

Seen through the eyes of our friends’ imagination, do the lissome fleeting shadows flitting through our personal frames influence us, each other? I wonder, but guess they do.

As the years crawl along, heart-spark moments never dwindle. Stories are transformed and woven into a new context. Life stations glide by and return as in a spiralling carrousel.

Even friends not present were with us in spirit, remembered, since, like Kahlil Gibran put it … for that which you love most in (a friend) may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

P1080431 - smallerFrom The Prophet …

And the youth said, Speak to us of Friendship, and he answered, saying:

Your friend is your need answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. And he is your board and fireside. You come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the ‘nay’ in your own mind, nor do you withhold the ‘aye.’ And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; for without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not; for that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend. If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? Seek him always with hours to live. For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.

In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Kahlil Gibran

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… blackbirds – another drama …

It’s been 5 years since the last blackbird drama in my garden (see links below,) which ended well. The family returns annually to a home they have grown fond of in bushy ivy that smothers my pergola.

P1080302 - smallerLast week, drama revisited. One of the fledglings fell from its nest. The parents called the alarm, showing me where to find the escapee, huddled in a corner, its beak demanding food. It was not quite ready to fly. I couldn’t find the nest, so I put the little one in an old cat 🙂  basket, which I fixed on a safe branch cats couldn’t reach. I made the basket homely, with leaves, arty pieces of dry roots – a cushion even. All was well. The parents came and fed their lost baby, which made me happy.                                                                               P1080307 smaller

Next day, seeking adventure, the fledgling squeezed itself through the barriers. The usual racket of complaint alerted me. A cat was near. The mother bird’s courage amazed. Descending to the lawn she attacked the cat, who was petrified. I found the little one, well camouflaged among dry leaves, and I deposited it once more to the basket, with added netting.

Peace prevailed,  the rascal was fed, until yesterday it escaped again. With my best efforts I couldn’t locate the fledgling. Either it had learned to fly, or the cat had a meal.

P1080303 - smallerThe luxury nest is now empty, and apart from a soft breeze ruffling flowers and leaves, the garden is strangely quiet today.

No sight of the parent blackbirds either.                       I wonder why and whereto they have suddenly disappeared. Are they hiding in grief somewhere, or are they accompanying their adventures offspring on its first odyssey?

 

The links below lead to the 2011 drama. Pages will open separately. You won’t loose this one.

Major drama in my garden – all my fault.       2011/07/03

Update on the drama in my garden                   2011?07/22

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Autsch

Autsch

Finding this photo reminded me of how I kept bloodying my knees on the sharp stones of circumstances, and still do. My hope for a warmer communication with my father was dashed. He revived, and with it a fierce need for control. Lines by Dylan Thomas come to mind:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light …

Humans are mortal, but maybe humanity as a whole is immortal, and particularly its desire to find a meaningful answer to the circus of life.

‘Mein Freund, die Zeiten der Vergangenheit // Sind nur ein Buch mit sieben Siegeln. // Was ihr den Geist der Zeiten heißt, // Das ist im Grund der Herren eigner Geist, // In dem die Zeiten sich bespiegeln.’  –                                                                 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust (I)

Just like the human brain receives and conducts thoughts and ideas (like a radio,) so genes may receive and conduct what a psychic seedpod brings along at conception, that is – familiar patterns drawn to new constellations as through a mathematical time-grid (astrology may not be far off) – so that our realities are really mirrored from other spheres.

Via this psychic seedpod our story seem to arrive with template personality types, whose potentials and constraints determine our genes, not the other way around, at least not until the body’s biochemical traffic assumes a habitual force. With the psychic seedpod comes a pack of shadows – talents, passions, traumas, hurts or humiliation engendered by generations before us. With this pack also come tasks: to tie up loose ends, and to redeem faults not of our making.

From the start out endowment attracts projections, like a magnet, coercing us to oblige the projectors. Forget about being right, about justice. The secret of transforming energy and doing better than those before us lies in responding to situations, even when our habituated cell-traffic unconsciously demands a knee-jerk reaction. Awareness slips easily. Faith by itself does not help the evolution of human qualities. Insight, humility and patience are also needed, but often lost when buried emotions pop up.

My father’s constitutional short fuse with the world at large had over time found creative outlets, but his recent outburst hooked me into early experiences of feeling manipulated and made small by anger that belonged elsewhere. I became his nearest Blitzableiter (lightning conductor.) A personal scar opened. Autsch.

Recovering in Munich last week, the fragment of a poem prodded to be recalled. Back home, I reached for my Richard Wilhelm edition of the I Ging – Das Buch der Wandlungen. Opening a page at random, the fragment I was trying to recall showed up as a footnote. Romantic poets may have lacked irony, but they often touched on a pulse of wisdom … these lines from the last stanza of ‘Die Ideale’ by Friedrich Schiller:

… Beschäftigung, die nie ermattet,
Die langsam schafft, doch nie zerstört,
Die zu dem Bau der Ewigkeiten
Zwar Sandkorn nur für Sandkorn reicht,
Doch von der großen Schuld der Zeiten
Minuten, Tage, Jahre streicht.

The quirky translation is mine …

… Activity that never tires                                                                                                                                       Slowly creates but never wrecks                                                                                                                                      That to the houses of eternity                                                                                                                                  Only sand grain by sand grain gives                                                                                                                             Yet wipes from the great guilt of times                                                                                                                   Minutes, days, years –

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I wish I had the patience and good humour of my little Garden Buddha …

*    *    *

Even ‘Brexit’ and the realisation that the good old UK is really a Divided Kingdom leaves my Buddha smiling.

The deeper problem – a runaway capitalism all over the world, makes people angry. The solution is pretty clear to me – give every citizen a basic wage, so they won’t have to go begging from the state every time they experience hardship or are out of a job.

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… Sun-charging the Scarab …

P1070817 smallerYears ago, a friend (thank you Shaz) gifted me a 6 cm long Scarab (Scarabaeus sacer) made of green-speckled black onyx. The object, as it sat on a windowsill among other tokens, curiously nudged my imagination the other day.

I intuitively put the Scarab in a glass bowl with water and placed it outside under the sun.

from livescience.com

from livescience.com

 

 

Dung beetles (Kafka’s Mistkäfer) fascinate me. They gather dung into orbs many times their own weight and drag them to a dug-out hollow as provision, but also as brood chambers into which the female deposits an egg. Once hatched, the larva feeds on the dung surrounding it. Here is a brilliant and cool TED Talk by Marcus Byrne about the amazing dance of the dung beetle: http://www.ted.com/talks/marcus_byrne_the_dance_of_the_dung_beetle

No wonder the ancient Egyptians made Khepri into a solar deity that rolls the sun each evening across the horizon, carries it through the other world, and returns with the star’s glory next day. Ra – the rising sun – was often depicted as a beetle-headed man.

P1070823 smallerThe onyx of my Scarab is Leo’s astrological gem stone, associated with grounding energy and a firm heart, another motive to charge the Scarab’s regenerative meaning for me. As the sun warmed the water in the glass bowl, tiny, oscillating air bubbles formed, which made the scarab seem alive and breathing.

Of course, none of this means anything whatsoever, apart from my wishful investment, a fancyful projection I won’t scrutinize and happily indulge in.

Turns out the environment agrees. In my garden, a highway for cats of all breeds and hues, sleek, bushy, black, white, grey, marmalade and surreally marked, one ginger tom seems in need of healing. On his daily round he has become totally addicted to drinking water from the bowl, greedily, in long slurps.

And today my blackbird friends re-appeared to partake of the holy beatle’s sun charged water. You may allow yourself a humoured smile, though what else is there but to cheer at the powerful symbol invested with the meaning of regeneration in the small universe of my garden?

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… recent instances that caused a smile …

 

Kalu Rinpoche

Kalu Rinpoche

Maybe brought on by the longer days and the increasing sunshine, there were more than the usual instances making me smile during the last few days, so I thought I share some of them …

Exploring with a client what it is that can shine through our eyes, and sharing an image of a Tibetan Lama, Kalu Rinpoche. We reflected on what is communicated  through our eyes. It is certainly informed by our inner attitude, by our projection. The way we look at ourselves, at others, at our surroundings, and at the world at large

Irrespective of the Lama’s Mr Spock ears, I feel deeply nourished by what shines through his eyes.

Hazrat Inayat Khan spoke of the smiling forehead. https://wahiduddin.net/mv2/XIV/XIV_1.htm

 

My resident blackbird family.

My resident blackbird family.

My resident blackbird family – dad plucking worms for his offspring.

Tiny plants in my garden, like Creeping Moss Phlox and London Pride.

Stories shared among friends about invisible presences that have come to say, ‘Hello.’

The intimation found in an old graveyard brushed by the evening sun – ‘Ha, ha, there’s no death – we’re having a wonderful time.’

 

Rhododendron flowers

Rhododendron flowers

A broken rhododendron branch – its budding flowers shouting, ‘Take us home and we’ll open’

The friend for whom I did photographic portraits, saying:

‘I must get to know this stranger.’

Strawberry soup my mother used to make – slice berries, add sugar to draw juices, let it stand, the longer the better, add milk and dabs of whipping cream.

 

And on days like today, the late sunrays visiting my garden.

 

Late sun rays in my garden.

Late sun rays in my garden.

Moments of being – an aware and restful state of mind, an empty sphere from where anything can emerge.

*    *    *   emptiness   *   *   *

… only the unfettered mind holds

the virtual teasing in poise

screeners ponder its Socratic

wisdom in the bright light of day

peals of laughter – a burst of love …

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… gossamer bridges and palaces …

I’m a terrible hypocrite. I can’t stand spiders in the house, but I adore them in my garden, where their bridges and palaces are now quivering everywhere, only visible against the sun or by the rare leaf suspended in mid-air … exquisite.

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A leaf floating free

From stem and branch – inholding

The ever-tree myth

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Once more nature translates its lore to the soil, carrying patterns of relationships to new settings.

We do the same, daily and all year round, translating our experiences to ourselves and others … our cells, bodies and minds continuously changing, never the same, despite appearances.

I wish for grace in waiting, the hibernating towards re-membering afresh the cyclic occurring wholeness in new formations.

And I wish for the patience and good humour of my tiny Buddha.

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… the vagaries of days …

My dream sinks to a timeless world the instant I open my eyes and take in the first impressions of the day – a shimmering spider web clings to the corner of the skylight, defined in the early sunbeam – a mosquito hovers drunkenly above my laptop. I recall a similar tiny vampire savouring the taste of my blood during my last day in Darwin; did it converse with this one across the oceans by morphic resonance? P1060804 - lower

Almost two weeks have passed since my return. I miss the Aussie company, and mornings at the pool under the palm roof.

Time is fitting hesitantly into habitual chunks. My body tweaks itself into smaller spaces, and tasks resume their orderly sequence. Breakfast oats don’t land in the coffee filter, and my head no longer collides with the chiming bells hanging next to the kitchen sink. Still, having inhaled another kind of dust for a while, an aura of mystery pervades my familiar environment, and routines are shifting, like I scoff at lists, allowing unimportant stuff to be just that, unimportant.

As the sun pours into the house through the garden door, I step outside. A bright orange hot air balloon almost shaves the branches of the high beech. Another follows, with noisy lettering, not as cheerful as the Virgin one with its clear brand. There being no boundaries to the sky, I’ve the visceral sensation of wanting to shrink and become invisible, musing how privacy and solitude are becoming an issue – there’s only in-back and no out-back left in England.

P1060820 - lower A poem stirs, wants out, but mail demands attention. I share my disorientation with friends. Ideas chatter and juggle into new frames, a changed perception of ‘home.’ What’s home other than moving with the experiences that carry us onwards?

I glance at the patch of Phlox waving from the lush green beyond the window and then distract myself from the screen by trimming a miniature Japonica tree into shape. My blackbird friend comes close enough for us to have a conversation.

I make time for a two hour stint of editing ‘Shapers,’ the sequel to my first novel. Moments of laughter – relishing my writing is surely a good sign, until the next stab of doubt – will anyone be interested in my scribbles? The solution is to keep writing, and trust readers will be pulled into my opus and enjoy the adventure.

Another shot of coffee before today’s therapy sessions begin – undivided attention to process, listening to stories. When silences linger in the devoted space, spirits assemble – we are a crowd of presences meditating on meaning, or the lack of it.

P1060831 - lower Though it was not exactly my birthday, I hosted a small garden party last Saturday, celebrating togetherness with friend. I managed to outwit Sunday’s Hurricane Bertha, which, in my corner, merely brought blustery wind and rain. Clouds parted in time to reveal the brilliant super moon.

Preparing for reading in bed, I catch a tiny movement – a huge spider. Totally irrational, but there’s a wrong time and place for spiders in my house … at night, next to my bed, and it’s a matter of scale. The scenario of a huge spider crawling over my skin plays havoc with my imagination. No time to get a glass and chuck the creature out. I’ve light in my maisonette, but take a torch for good measure, and wait. In a while the monster comes for me from its hiding place among books – full attack! While it baffles me that the sure crunch of a spider’s demise can in such instant bring me satisfaction, it’s also sobering to realise how discordant timing is neither good nor bad, it just is.

P1060834 - smallerGiven the vagaries of experiences each day brings, the only control given to us seems to be pliancy. As I write this, a rainbow flows across a cloud.

‘The same wind that uproots trees
makes the grass shine.
The lordly wind loves the weakness
and the lowness of grasses.
Never brag of being strong.
The axe doesn’t worry how thick the branches are.
It cuts them to pieces. But not the leaves.
It leaves the leaves alone.’
Rumi, The Essential Rumi

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… surprise – blog tour interlude …

Ruth - watering plants in her allotment.

Ruth – watering plants in her allotment.

Wow – my friend Ruth Paris  joined a blog tour, which is the ritual of charting and connecting-up undiscovered blog-islands in the virtual sea. I was so impressed she took on this challenge I’ve so far avoided, my hand reached for the baton before I knew it. Besides, Ruth’s posts about her ‘middle-of-the-roundabout allotment project’  on her Huerto site are a pleasure to share. Here some photos from Sept 2011. Her recipe page alone is worth a visit … and certainly the virtual islands of the friends she introduces. And it’s true, she does pick out the teeny little stones and whispers encouragement to the weakest seedling. Look at her ‘about’ page and you find she also wears another hat.

The theme of gardens has irresistible appeal. I like the thought Ruth shares, inspired by our joint friend Shazadi – since we can’t change the world we can at least cultivate our gardens – which applies to earth-tilling plots as well as the metaphorical kind. In that sense, here are my responses to the 4 deceptively simple questions this tour asks of its participants.

1 – What am I working on?

I’m editing my second novel, a sequel to ‘Course of Mirrors,’ completed two years back. Last year I was contracted by a small, devoted publisher and am looking forward to having my first novel released in a few months. English not being my first language (more about this here) – allows me the perception of a stranger in the strange land of my psyche, not unlike the protagonist in R. Heinlein’s book. In a way we’re all exiles owning a planet somewhere – be it an inner world.

2 – How does my work differ from others of this genre?

I puzzle over the term – genre. It may apply to career writers, which I’m not. Writing is my moving on from photography, another tool to symbolically express what drives me. Set in an imaginary world, my characters outward their inner conflict, the archetypal tragic/comic exodus I feel entitled to elaborate on. If genre it must be, my novels could be called mythic poetic adventures, gripping magical quests.

3 – Why do I write what I do? 

I may fool myself, but I can’t help thinking that re-creating or co-creating history can make us whole. I’m fascinated by how our fragile identity is formed through early mirroring, how people and environments define us. How we oblige like sleepwalkers and build a myth on these early templates, and inevitably mirror others.  And yet, small shifts in awareness can change our perception from deep within. Each of us brings along something unique we’re yearning to recognise. Without the recall of that signature we feel a lack.  Having been intensely involved with many groups and sub-cultures throughout my life I now tend the seeds I gathered and cultivate my soul garden. using the magic of words that string together and create music, sculpt feelings and even lift the invisible.

4 – How does my writing process work?

It didn’t, until the pressure became so great I decided a few years ago to reduce my professional work and commit time to writing. When a character takes shape and is called on a journey, I trust the narrative will unfold in my imagination. With consistent attention there eventually emerges the emotional coherence of a short story, or a chapter, and another. For me, this process, though enjoyable, happens in semi-darkness. I can’t force the outcome.

Editing is fun, and sometimes torture, which is when I crave diversions – watch birds, make coffee, fix things, blitz-clean the house, sort finances, prune hedges, cut grass … and relieve my pangs of guilt for neglecting friend by stepping out from my solitude. I may go harvesting in public spaces – that is, observing how people move, which I find endlessly fascinating.  On really bad days doubt intervenes and I sulk over the ‘who-do-you-think-you-are’ syndrome,’ until I accept I’m no Shakespeare.

In the end it is always being with friends and reading that refreshes my conviction in writing.  On many levels engaging with people and their stories helped me understand my private myth, and more.

*     *     *

A few entries on gardens from my archive https://courseofmirrors.wordpress.com/tag/garden/

The task of choosing further runners for this tour from a tapestry of amazingly creative people gave me a headache. To stem the flood, I’ll cheat the rules and introduce only 2 writers to weave the thread onward and hopefully reveal more secret islands.

Philippa Rees

Philippa

Philippa

The book that wrote my life … Philippa says of – INVOLUTION – an Odyssey Reconciling Science and God – an epic poem, and a spiritual revelation. It’s been called a tour de force. In nine cantos the work travels through pre-human involution, the enfolding of consciousness in matter, early man’s emergence on the Serengeti … through the recorded civilizations of Greece, Rome, the Dark Ages, the Renaissance towards Enlightenment and finally Modernisms’ success of science – of which the latter, ironically, obscures the internal story – the story of direct intuition, nous, experience.

I totally grok this.

And I’m looking forward to meeting Philippa this weekend. She’ll join a gathering of my friends and share what sparked her life-long project. I imagine she’s good company, holding memories of gripping stories, including her childhood in South Africa, which she’s beginning to share on her blog, ‘Careless Talk,’ accessed here.

Diane Dickson

Diane

Diane

Diane is a prolific writer of short stories and novellas. She hardly pauses, and generously shares the developing instalments of her work on her website. I’m totally addicted to her posts. Increasingly, she publishes e-books through Kindle and now also in print-versions.

Her characters are usually teetering on the edge of change before they slip into a life-changing crisis. The protagonists are often so hilarious you want to shout – get your act together. Then there’s a cliff-hanger and you’ve  to wait a day or two for the next instalment. Stories range from light-hearted, uplifting, to mysterious and dark and they all have surprising twists. As I said, I’m addicted. A recent published tale is:

The Man who lost his Manbag and Found Himself‘ Here’s a modern day odyssey, and a simple recipe for losing your identity.

Both authors presented here, like so many I came to know during these last years, fought their own publishing battles. I hugely admire and have great respect for their skill and perseverance. There was never a time I did not find selling myself daunting. Even during days of professional success I relied on others to shout out the existence of my ware. I need someone to hold my hand.

Some of my friends are slow in developing their island on the internet, yet offer compassionate mentor-ship I can’t emulate. Notably Evlynn Sharp  We worked on various projects together, and I feel deep gratitude for her support.

*     *     *

And here more cheating – I’d like to introduce the islands of two young people engaged in the buzz of life, with scarce time for leisurely blog-tours. They’re brilliant at what they do. They make me proud, my son, Yeshen  and his partner, Natasha.

I wrote about them recently https://courseofmirrors.wordpress.com/2014/03/23/weddings-still-happen/

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… my blackbird …

Cutting grass – a blackbird sings just for me – I delight in its delight of fresh delicacies.

My black friend

My black friend

Under slow-sailing clouds in shades of white, concluding my war-path on dandelions, and having put up my hammock, I sit and watch first apple blossoms and my black friend, hopping closer and closer in its ritual dance – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 –  pause – picking up a worm – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – within a meter – we look at each other.

Blackbirds are enduring friends in my garden, notwithstanding the occasional mishaps:

https://courseofmirrors.wordpress.com/2011/07/03/major-drama-in-my-garden-all-my-fault/

https://courseofmirrors.wordpress.com/2011/07/22/update-on-the-drama-in-my-garden/

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