XS4all

At my last place of work we had a Box. The Box was the general repository for all ‘unwanted valuable items’ and its invention was one of the best strokes of genius I have come across in a long while. Sadly, now I have left that place of work and moved to another location and the Box is no longer available to me.

I could really use that Box now! The idea was that anyone on the 400-strong staff could deposit their unwanted books, CDs, clothes, household goods, Christmas presents and ‘excesses’ in the Box and be rid of them without guilt or waste. Someone else always wanted and appreciated them and bore them away, rejoicing at their good fortune. Problem solved! No blame, no shame. A win-win situation.

But now I have no access to the Box and the post-Christmas blues have set in. The fridge is too full; I didn’t need that extra tea cosy – I already have three; I don’t like rum-flavoured sweets; I’ve already read the book I was given and I’m sick of mince pies! If I could just gather up all these unwanted leftovers and well-meant gifts and make someone else happy it would make my Christmas complete: giving and receiving, recycling and redistributing. No-one need know. No-one need be offended. Win-win all the time.

I have a plan. At the moment it is ill-formed and incomplete but it is turning into a campaign – a New Year’s Resolution of grand proportions. I shall institute the Neighbourhood Box, to go alongside the Neighbourhood Watch in my street. Maybe the idea will catch on. Maybe in this age of electronic mailing we could recycle some of those redundant red letter boxes and develop a recycling box on every street corner. We would be free to post our unwanted items in the top and each resident would be issued with a key, like the postman, to help themselves to whatever they fancied or needed.

 

Maybe next year my idea could go global. However, there would have to be a few rules about what could be posted, however much we would like to be rid of them and no matter how guilty we felt about the waste. No yapping dogs, no irritating teenagers, no cast-off spouses and, above all, no leftover turkey or brussel sprouts! Some things just can’t be boxed. But some of us have so much and some of us have too much, so why not spread it around and benefit some of those who have too little? One man’s poison is, after all, another man’s meat.

Room at the Inn!

It's a strange Christmas this year... In October I decided to make my Christmas cake and puddings. My mother always said these should be made early in order for the flavours to develop and mature so that they would be at their best by the time Christmas came. I took her advice for once this year, although she has been gone for nine years now. Mothers know best.

Late in October I sold my house! Since then there has been a mad, crazy scramble to sort, pack, clean, tidy, organise, cancel, say goodbye... no time for baking; no time for Christmas.

Now it's Christmas Eve and I discovered that this year, just like before, there is room at the inn! We're homeless since three days ago - new people own our house now, our belongings are in store and we're off to find a new home. But we haven't found one yet and I'm so glad that I have a family back home and they're willing to share theirs with us! Thanks sis!

We have two whole rooms and a bathroom of our own. We have shelves and a couple of cupboards. We have overflow space in the garage for all our extra things we may need before the removal company redeliver our things to our new address. We have central heating. We have a warm bed and we're invited for Christmas. We have a turkey. And there's Christmas cake and pudding! But best of all we have family. Pretty good for a couple of refugees!

Thank you family! And a very merry Christmas, one and all.

Such Sweet Sorrow

It’s in my thoughts all the time at the moment. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’ wrote Shakespeare and it’s true. Like a helping of sweet and sour sauce! We’re leaving the Netherlands and every move I make the thought comes back – is this the last time? I sit on the tram, not reading my book this time, but gazing silently out of the window, lost in thought…

Things I love, things I hate drift past the window: the grey fog, the ugly buildings in the poorer parts of town, the graffiti (not always a work of art) and the drab clothing that emerges each winter – black and grey, grey and black. But I pass sights that I love – the lifting bridge over the canal, a work of mechanical genius that the Dutch are so good at, a barge gliding softly along the smooth canals, a flower shop, a shop selling cane furniture and wicker baskets and the bikes – trailing dogs, carrying babies, sleepy toddlers, crates of beer … almost anything, whilst their owners answer their mobile phones or warm their hands in their pockets!

Parting – it happens to me every day. Is this the last time that I will make this journey? Is this the last time that I will sit at Kathy’s table, laden with the results of her lovingly produced creative cooking, surrounded by familiar friends with whom I can forget to brush my hair, tell my secrets, risk exposing my attempts at writing a literary masterpiece? There’s sadness involved in parting.

But it’s sweet too. It focuses the mind. Each time it happens I am filled with joy that these things, these places, these adventures, these friends have been mine. And they will always be mine to keep: memories filed away, shared experiences, high points and low points. Yes, I’m leaving, but I am enriched, enlarged, inspired by so many things. There are painful partings, I know, but this is a good one and I shall remember it with happiness.

Neighbours

I shall miss my neighbours when I move...

Her Afghan hound

Is straining at the leash.

Her hair is plastered down,

Mirroring the bedraggled coat

Of her unruly pet

Who, skittish in the wind,

Pulls at the lead

And turns her full circle.

Pink umbrella catches my eye,

Twirling her round

And transforming her

Into an awkward marionette,

Pirouetting on the pavement,

As the rain pours steadily down.

A stylish pair they make,

Even in the rain.

Old man walks past my window,

A comical figure,

Full of pathos, with

A small cigar protruding from his lips,

Intent on his daily jaunt,

His constitutional,

And the small, brown dog

Trotting along beside him.

He looks straight ahead

And mutters a gruff ‘good evening’,

Tamed after years

Of my persistent attempts

To draw this neighbour of mine

Into conversation.

But his best friend of all

Already walks beside him.

‘Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone… but it was good!’

A tribute to my friends in the Writers Circle…

We’re on the move! After living almost a quarter of our lives in the Netherlands, we’re leaving! We never expected to stay so long when we came – but that’s what they all say. Fifteen years! It’s a way of life: the Dutch language, Dutch lifestyle, Dutch customs (and the expat ones), favourite places, favourite foods, favourite bars and restaurants and, of course, favourite friends… my friends.

I shall miss you all. There, I’ve said it. I’m looking forward, of course – to the next adventure; but I’m looking backward too, over my shoulder - already. I know I shall miss you. It’s a very special place, this writers circle, and each one of you is special – irreplaceable. You’ve known me for some years now, you’ve welcomed me, shared my ups and downs, laughed at my jokes, listened to my stories and praised my writing attempts, taking me seriously and giving me constructive criticism with a smile and the sincere encouragement I needed to go on. And I love each one of you – so gloriously different, so wonderfully unique. We’ve a wealth of talent here and I am proud to know you, proud to be part of you, happy to eat your scones, touched by your hospitality, invigorated by your enthusiasms.

So I’m taking you all with me (did you know that?), packed in my suitcase. I haven’t finished with you yet – I shall need you in my new life. Well, maybe not in my suitcase, but in my heart, in my memories box, in my fund of inspiration and my sense of self-worth. You’ve all given me so much.

I’m packing up my home right now. There’s a lot of it to pack – you wouldn’t believe how much (yes, maybe you would!). Packing up my life and putting it in store. I’m going home… well, home from home. Which one’s home? Hard to know really. I’m going home for Christmas. I’m going home to my sister’s. But I shall be homeless for a while: a displaced person… a bag lady! In transit. In process. In a muddle!

But, I promise you, when I’m settled in, I’ll unpack it all – including you. I’ll unpack you all from my memory box and you’ll occupy pride of place on the mantelpiece – well, probably on the bookshelf, next to my writing desk or beside my Parker pen. A fitting place for my inspirational friends. Thank you all – for a box full of memories, a bundle of laughs, a warm blanket of friendship around my shoulders and an immeasurable richness of stories, poems, moments of shared madness, outpourings of passion and sheer literary genius. Thank you most of all for your acceptance, which I accept gladly, and will take away as a part of me wherever I go.

Weather Alert!

It's Sherlock Holmes weather! A thick mist has settled over the canals and if this were London in times past it would be a good day for a murder...

These days weather seems so 'global'. Maybe it's just that we are more aware of what is going on in other places. Huge weather systems develop and sometimes the whole continent seems enveloped by the same weather - whether it's drought, storms, or torrential rain and flooding. The weather is a wild card these days and even more unpredictable than ever.

I watch the weather's progress on TV. 'Exiled' in the Netherlands, I still like to watch the good old BBC 'back home'. Carol, in her latest outfit, with her never-failing neat hairdo, tells us that a depression is sweeping westwards across Britain. It will cause heavy rain and maybe some flash flooding - there are flood alerts out in many areas - but it will move away eastwards by tonight, so a better day tomorrow. 'Thanks for that, Carol!' I think. Where will it move to? Oh, just into northern Europe, France, the Netherlands - somewhere far away! In Britain they are looking forward to a fine weekend, but we shall be wearing their cast-offs.

Is our weather always someone else's cast-off? Rain today there means rain here tomorrow. Strong winds there are repeated here tomorrow, but hopefully a bit weaker, some of their initial fury gone. Somewhere, surely, the weather must be brand new! Like pristine, crisp, sparkling snow falls, with not a footprint to be seen, somewhere there must be shiny new weather - sparkling new raindrops, bright, shiny sunshine, pure, clean, soft rain that has never before touched the ground or glistened on the first rose of summer.

I imagine some kind of cauldron, or maybe a furnace, with weather elves, dressed in green, a bit like Santa's little helpers. They are busy creating weather. They hold pressure gauges and test their very own new recipes for high and low weather pressure systems. There are grumpy elves, down in the Doldrums, creating low pressure and gloom; bright, chirpy elves making bright, sunny days and happiness. Fresh off the peg!

There are dark, gloomy days, hurricanes, each with their own name, ready to roll and spread abroad chaos and destruction. In another place, there is a small store of perfect summer days, ready to be let loose sporadically, just when the inhabitants of earth have started to despair - the perfect blue sky, perfectly shaped, fluffy white clouds and soft gentle breezes. They are all new. Somewhere, high above earth's atmosphere, or in a deep, dark cavern far below us, this is for real! I know it. Just like the red sweater, I remember from my childhood, with its cuffs rolled up three times over, everyone's cast-offs were new once upon a time.

Grandma in Waiting!

It’s nail-biting stuff! I’m a 26 week grandma-to-be and I’m discovering it’s really a lot like being pregnant all over again! Well, not really – I’m spared the nausea, indigestion, exhaustion, sleep disturbances, internal football practice in the small hours and all those other delights that go towards making that first pregnancy so fascinating. But the waiting is the same and the sense of expectation. The same period of adjustment is provided for grandparents as for parents-to-be, thankfully, so I can just daydream these nine months away, imagining how it will be, who it will be and how my role will turn out in the whole proceedings.

So I’m waiting – and knitting! Yes, that time-honoured tradition of the authentic grandma role must be observed and there are tiny items of clothing being lovingly fashioned, stitch by stitch, so that this very special (most special ever?) baby will have the best start in life, warm and cosy and clothed from head to foot in garments ‘made with love’.

Each week on the pregnancy calendar there are new events to record. Telephone calls to our daughter are longer than ever, with each new detail to discuss and digest. Furniture removals are going on in order to transform their home into a suitable ‘nest’ and the nursery is taking shape. The nesting instinct is strong. Items of nursery equipment are being researched and the hitherto neat and tidy apartment is going to be inundated with a barrage of necessary clutter.

Next week there will be a visit to us from mum-to-be (whilst the airlines will still take her on board!) and we shall go shopping, of course. We can drool over all the latest baby fashions together, agonise over options for prams and car seats and help choose maternity wear – now much needed with all the expansion that has been going on. Yes, I’m a grandma in waiting! And enjoying every minute of it! I’ve been transformed into one of those stereotypical, sentimental first grandchild expectees (is that a real word?) and I find myself exhibiting all those nauseating, over-emotional traits that all the others exhibit. If I’m like this now how will I be during the birth? Oh, I have all that to come! Bring it on – I can stay up all night in sympathy - and don’t forget all my grandma congratulations cards afterwards… I’m going to be a star!  

I Think I Have a Leak in my Brain

I was sitting at the dining table last night, spooning cherry yoghurt out of the pot, when an image popped into my mind. It came from nowhere apparently. One minute I was at home in my dining room sharing a meal with my husband on Saturday night and the next it was summer and I was sitting at a table in the garden of a rather nice seaside café in the Welsh resort we frequented whilst on holiday just this year. I was eating a cream tea.

Why do these things happen? Or perhaps they only happen to me. I don’t know. Maybe you haven’t experienced this particular weird phenomenon. There seemed to be no reason for the sudden flashback. I wasn’t thinking about Wales, about cream teas or even about gardens. It was a dark, rainy, autumnal evening and I was sitting indoors with the curtains drawn, thinking about clearing away the meal and settling down to another episode of our current, favourite DVD series. A few days previously the same thing happened, first to me and then to my husband, who confessed to finding himself momentarily in a car park in Tenby, also on our Welsh holiday, where we had parked the car overnight close to the guest house. So I’m not the only one. We discussed the subject for a while and then gave up trying to understand it. Now it has happened again.

The mind seems to be a strange thing. More and more it seems to me like a sophisticated computer. Sometimes when I cannot remember something from the past I mutter in frustration: ‘wrong disc’. It seems that much of the information we amass from the previous years of our lives is stored in our brains on separate discs, one per subject or theme. It sometimes seems if only we can access one half-remembered fact from a particular ‘lifetime’: a previous job, a group of friends, a former school we once attended, then the whole ‘disc’ opens up and a flood of related information pours out. Suddenly, when once we have remembered the name of one former school friend, we can remember almost the entire class from that era, as if it were only yesterday. Isn’t it strange?

Similarly, I have a whole album of photographs and images stored somewhere in my brain – a bit like my very own Google images folder. It is this that appeared to be leaking the other night. Suddenly, an unsolicited image from my past escaped from the folder and leaked into my present day consciousness. I never asked it to. I never clicked on it. The mind is a fascinating thing, but I never realised before that it leaks. Maybe it’s because it was raining. Any ideas?

Old Friends

An Old Friend

Mottley, spottily, speckly brown,

Golden and russet leaves tumbling down.

Burning and turning like flames in the hearth,

Burnished and bright as jewels, cover the path.

Streakily, sneakily, soft, with no sound,

Drifting on air currents, fall to the ground.

Yellow and mellow, like gold-tinted rain,

Season of fruitfulness, autumn again.

Kaleidoscope patterns it skilfully weaves:

Treasures untold in a handful of leaves.

I love the way the seasonal things come around each year like old friends visiting. I made my Christmas cake today - a tradition that pays tribute to my mum's wise advice to always make your cakes and puddings well in advance, preferably in October, to allow the wonderful flavours to mature for as long as possible before cutting into that first longed-for slice at Christmas. It's a tradition - another of those old friends - and her advice is still good after all these years.

With the cake safely in the oven I wondered what to do next and ventured outside into the garden to see how the annual leaf fall is doing. The creeper on the back wall is just beginning to turn all those glorious shades of red and orange and the pyrocanthus berries are still glowing orange too, at least those which the pigeon has allowed us to keep. No doubt he will finish them off before too long with his apparently insatiable appetite. As for the leaves, there's plenty to sweep up again. But that's all part of the passage of the seasons and something to look forward to (mostly).

I wrote the poem to celebrate some of these old friends and especially the delights of autumn. Maybe the leaves can stay on the path for today - they look so pretty...

Living in the Future

“Koffie verkeerd?” “Ja – jazeker!” I reply, accepting her offer of a mug of hot, milky coffee. She has anticipated my order – a sign of my regular attendance at this charming café at the heart of the town and conveniently situated just at the point where I am starting the journey home, laden with shopping bags. But it’s not enough. I have a routine, it’s true, but not a life here. I have outgrown my life here, tried all the options, enjoyed them for a while, but I’ve run out. What I have is good but it’s no longer enough. I want to move on.

So the endless discussions rumble on. When we retire, where shall we go? Back to our home country, of that we are sure, but where? Back to where we came from? Or back to where we spent the early years of our marriage, bringing up our young daughter, close to the seaside, in a gentle, relaxed part of the world that is also tempting for a laid-back retirement lifestyle? Shall we have a garden? A bijou patio garden, full of pretty pot plants but not too much to care for? Or one of those corner plots with room to grow our own veg? Should we head for a quaint cottage or settle for a modern home where we can at least have a few years of peace before we have to worry about its upkeep and repairs?

The future is a foreign country – unknown, uncharted and bristling with adventure. Although we are heading home to our countrymen who speak our language and think like we do about most things, we are heading for unknown territory and the details, the questions and the dilemmas fill every waking hour. One day there will be an end to all this. We shall live in the future. Our fate will be sealed and we will find ourselves in need of new topics of conversation. Daydreaming will be over and we will wake up to a very present reality.

How will that be? I have no idea. This transition stage of our lives drags on and on. It has become a way of life. We can no longer see beyond it. But one day it will be over. We must keep our eyes fixed on that point for one day it will come. The present will be past and then we will live in the future. It’s a sobering thought. We must be careful how we build that future. We may have to live in it for a long time.

Where are you Going?

'Where are you Going?' This strange title of a famous painting by Gauguin which I saw recently in the Amsterdam Hermitage Museum is apparently based on a traditional Tahitian greeting and it set me thinking.

There are times when our language usage and especially our sayings can reflect a lot of our culture and national view on life. In Britain we say formally 'Good morning', Good afternoon' or 'How are you?' Informally we say simply 'Hi there!' But to me 'Where are you going?' seems at first sight a strangely intrusive question to use as a common greeting. It made me wonder what kind of a culture gives rise to such a question and why they spend their time asking each other where they are off to. The Tahitian culture portrayed in Gauguin's colourful paintings seems laid back, natural, unsophisticated and primitive. Scantily clad young women with flowers in their hair adorn his works, suggesting a relaxed and exotic lifestyle with a touch of '60s free love thrown in. However, we are looking at the nineteenth century with our modern mindsets in a foreign land about which most of us know little. The question could perhaps imply instead a focus on activity and a purposeful, work-orientated people. On the other hand it could simply suggest a friendly, inquisitive sense of community spirit and neighbourliness. 'Where are you going? How are you doing? Are you OK? Can I join you?'

We are accustomed to our own greeting style, I suppose. 'How are you?' sounds, to our modern ears, casual and is often simply returned without being answered: 'So how are you?'. 'Hi there!' is even more relaxed and undemanding, asking nothing of the other person at all, just a friendly acknowledgement of their existence. However, if taken at face value, the question 'How are you?' could be threatening - similar to that famous counselling question: 'So how did that make you feel...?'  Demanding to know how someone is might be interpreted as a rather intrusive insistence on personal and private information. I remember once being asked by a perceptive friend as I arrived at church on what was for me a very bad day: 'How are you?' I could think of nothing truthful to say without exposing the specific anguish I was going through at the time and, rendered speechless, I floundered and said nothing. 'Oh, that bad!' said my friend, smiling sympathetically, without waiting for any further explanations. His response caused me to laugh, alleviating the embarrassment of the situation and saving me the trouble of explaining. British humour at its best!

Certainly, ' how are you?' puts the focus on our physical and mental state in a way that 'where are you going?' does not. It puts us on the spot if we are in fact having one of those days we would rather not talk about, unless we have learned to lie bravely. 'Where are you going?' presents no real problems unless, of course, we are off to commit murder or play truant from school. For us, 'Fine, thanks' is probably our most popular response and actually means nothing any more. We are now free to go on to discussing the weather - our next favourite subject of conversation. Many people are content to make do with such a shallow response as their question was not interested in eliciting the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, which would probably bore them and cost far too much time out of their busy lives.

So, after all that, I will save you the trouble and content myself with telling you that I'm off to the kitchen to make a cuppa! Thank you for asking. 

Perspective

It was blue. It was sparkling blue and idyllically pretty when I sat transfixed, watching it, from my wooden bench beside the water’s edge. I saw the sun reflecting in the shallow waters as they trickled slowly across the yellow beach down to the shining blue expanse of the estuary. I saw it and it was blue like the sea, as it glittered between the brown rocks and the fronds of seaweed and reflected a perfect blue summer’s sky.

I watched the children, playing by the water, perching on the smooth, flat, grey slate that formed a bridge where the water emerged from the hill and out onto the sand. They tramped about in the stream, their sandals wet and muddy, and gathered round the slate bridge for a moment’s rendezvous to decide what to do next.

I got up. I wandered aimlessly along the grassy bank and peered more closely at the stream bed. To my amazement, the blue vanished. Green mossy pebbles mingled with bronzed iron-tinged rocks. Rivulets of gold glistened between the rocks and over the muddy surface beneath. The scene had changed and with it the mood, from summer to autumn, from brisk, bubbling joy to calm serenity. Gone were the dancing, sparkling lights, gleaming on the bluest of blue water. Instead, as I looked down into the stream, I saw mossy green banks and the golden glow of the bronzed stones beneath the calm, unruffled surface. I marvelled at this instantaneous change – not a real change, but a change in perspective, brought about simply by the change in angle, from sitting to walking, from one direction to another. I began to wonder how much of life and our changing mood is a matter of perspective.

What is This Life if Full of Care?

'What is this life if, full of care,

There is no time to stand and stare...'*

Today, as I hurried to catch the tram, I passed a scene that caught my imagination and sent me scurrying back into memories of my childhood. In the early morning sunshine a workman had set up on the pavement, ready for his day's work, two trestles with a piece of new, white wood balanced across them. A small pile of wood was propped up by the open door of the house and a little boy with a smart green T shirt and the blondest of Dutch hair looked out from the window, eyes wide with anticipation. The youngster had evidently found his own morning's work, spellbound at the window, watching the odd-job man's every move.

The scene sparked something in me as I remembered simultaneously the lines from W.H. Davies' poem and a morning that I vividly recall from my childhood. It was raining torrents and I wanted to go out to play. Five years older than me, my sister was already at school. My mother was busy with baking. It was up to me to amuse myself for a while. Frustrated because I wanted to play in the garden, I began to idly watch the rain droplets as they gathered on the window of our half-glazed back door. The watching turned into a game and for a long while I stood in a happy daydream gazing at the rivulets of water pouring down the glass, gathering together, receiving tributaries of water from other parts of the window, joining, dividing and transforming themselves into patterns before they finally slid down the window and disappeared off the bottom. Isn't it amazing the capacity one single solitary child has for inventing playful activities and filling time in a totally non-productive but enjoyable way? It's a gift.

As an adult my success at this is somewhat limited. Mostly life passes as a series of tasks, achievements, deadlines, crossed-off lists and more or less productive pastimes. Only at odd moments, weekends and holidays does it take a more frivolous turn and life can be enjoyed simply for itself with no particular end in view. These moments are wonderful - why on earth don't we do them more often?! Children really have the right idea before we grown-ups complicate up their lives. But life is busy and opportunities are limited.

On holiday recently I experienced once more something that only happens to me when I have time - time with no agendas, no necessary programme of things to do. I love to walk, enjoying the scenery and wildlife as I go. I love the countryside and I love coastal walks. I also love (and need!) to sit. For me the two go hand in hand and there is nothing better than walking till I am tired out and then flopping onto a well-positioned bench, donated in memory of someone who enjoyed the place, on a remote hillside with a view stretching out beneath me or beside a glorious stretch of coastline with the dark blue sea shimmering in front of me - just stopping there and drinking it all in. After a while, when I have got my breath back and looked all around me in wonder at the views, there often comes a moment when I think 'I'll get up now. It's time to get on...'

But I don't. I've learned now. I just sit there. I look at the view again. I focus on a clump of trees and admire the variety of colours. I shut my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my back and the breeze blowing in my face. I watch a lamb feeding from its mother, buffeting her mercilessly and drinking its fill in the self-absorbed, greedy way of the young. I gaze out to sea and spot a tiny yacht on the horizon. And then it happens - I knew it would. I get that feeling: 'I could stay here forever!' I've found my rest, my inner peace, as well as the rest my body needed. 'I could stay here forever!'

As Mr. Davies said:

'A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare'.

* Leisure by William Henry Davies

Friday 13

It’s Friday today. It’s also the 13^th day of the month. Traditionally speaking, in my culture, this is a day of potential bad luck! However, today, as it happens, is also the last day of the school year and, consequentially, the beginning of those glorious school holidays. Surely, a day of wonderful possibilities! An interesting conflict…

“Friday the 13^th – unlucky for some!” the saying goes. What a lot of superstitions we modern, 21^st century people still hang on to! A black cat crossing my path, a ‘money’ spider landing on my head, walking under a ladder left out on the pavement – these all have their place in the jumbled thoughts in our heads concerning the advent of good or bad ‘luck’. Our thoughts are still full of these apparently outdated cautions even today: “it must have been meant” we say, vaguely or “it seems that it wasn’t to be”. What do we mean by these vague assertions? Who meant it – or didn’t? Why wasn’t it ‘to be’? Why do some of us erect mini-shrines to Buddha and other deities in our living rooms and gardens, despite the lack of any formal affiliation to any religion at all?

Ex-Calvinists, ex-Catholics, ex-Muslims, liberated fundamentalists – many of us are desperate to be free of our outworn straight-jackets of thought and belief. But are we simply enmeshed in an alternative system of limitations and superstition? “Trust in the process” advises a friend. “Don’t fret” says another – “Something better is round the corner. You’ll see.” “God never closes a door, but he opens a window” jokes Terry Wogan, that veteran of broadcasting and humour. In Switzerland scientists are spending billions searching for that elusive ‘god particle’ that gives shape and form to living organisms. Now they think they have found it. How will that affect our lives? What will it do to life and faith?

These are interesting times. Caught between old and new, discarded religions and a burgeoning fascination in yoga, meditation and peace-enhancing forms of interior decoration, we stumble on through the maze, looking for something, but not sure what. So Friday, the 13^th – what will you bring? Are you part of the outworn tradition or do you still have power to intimidate? I’ll tell you tomorrow!

There's Thunder in the Air...

Temperatures are rising. Humidity is soaring. There is thunder in the air. The long range forecast for Britain is for ‘a bit of everything’ – a traditional British summer! So we are used to it. We are promised periods of warm, dry, settled weather, punctuated by yet more changeability. It’s a lottery! But so far in this strange season, we have been plagued first by drought and then by floods. The forecast seems somewhat optimistic.

Here in the Netherlands it is a similar story, but not so extreme. Nevertheless summer is finally here. After all the weeks of waiting and the frustrating, changeable weather, it is finally warm. OK, it is wet too. The atmosphere is charged with moisture and soon a thunderstorm will be the result. The only predictable thing about the weather has been that it is changeable. But it is summer.

I remember so well those heavy, humid, threatening summer days of my childhood in London. Humidity and pollution joined together to create sultry days, with dark clouds looming overhead, threatening rain. I remember dragging my school bag home up the long steep hill, sucking an ice lolly and complaining of the heat. I remember arriving home, peeling off my sweaty school uniform and begging to be allowed to play under the garden hose or get the paddling pool out. It was summer but it was far from idyllic.

But I remember too those glorious days when summer lived up to its promise – those days when the sun shone out of a bright blue sky, with fluffy white clouds that promised only happiness and not rain. A soft breeze would spring up to create the perfect temperature, the trees provided a perfect mix of dappled sun and shade and it seemed as if summer happiness would go on forever. These things belong to my childhood. But they also belong to my adult life today.

Summer comes in a variety of ways. I love it!

I can’t resist a bit of poetry! It is so much easier to express mood in poetry. Manorbier belongs to that first kind of summer:

Manorbier

Tortuous trail

Over dusty red rock.

Wearying,

I pull myself up

The yellow-fringed path.

Yellow petals drop

Onto damp red earth.

Tall brown grasses

Barely stirring

In sultry air.

Red-brown rocks

Fall away beneath me

To waves, breaking below,

Edged with white lace.

Solitary gull

Drifts overhead.

We gather energy

For the long climb.

At the cliff edge

We pause, silent,

Draw breath.

Lonely headland

Between two bays.

Relentless,

The sun beats down.

Time stands still;

The dusty trail

Winds on.

There is Hope belongs to the second. Here is an extract:

There is hope

I wandered on the pine-fringed shore,

The sky was blue as blue;

The soft white ripples of the sea

Brought memories so clear to me.

I dreamed of days when, as a child,

In carefree mood I’d laughed and played,

Exploring life with you, my friend,

In times we thought would never end.

We found a starfish by a pool,

A pebble on the shore,

Adventure, life, discovery

Brought pure delight to you and me!

This summer there seems to be a whole new manifestation of the season. Britain is plagued by flood warnings - amber warnings and red, where danger to human life is a possibility. In the Netherlands we have had a share too. More rain in a short space of time than we could have dreamed. 'Summer is a-flooding in...' I have no poetry as yet for this kind of summer.

So is the idyllic summer's day a thing of the past? Is it just an idle dream? Has life moved on to a more threatening phase? I hope not. It is only July. There is still time for the optimism of the long range forecast, still time for those periods of warm, dry, settled weather. Isn't there?

The Summer of My Dreams

So what’s so great about summer? Those ‘lazy, hazy days of summer’? We long for them all through the winter. We anticipate them from the very first day of spring. We dream of sauntering along the prom in the sunshine, ice cream in hand, wearing our favourite summer outfit, with not a care in the world.

That’s the point, isn’t it? ‘Not a care in the world’. It’s not really about the weather, but about how the weather makes us feel. The sun on our shoulders, that gentle breeze blowing our hair, the sounds of the seagulls in blue skies above us and not a worry in our silly heads! It’s a throwback to our school days – end of term, no more homework, no more responsibilities, no more need to be sensible and dutiful, punctual and regimented. No, we can throw the rule book out of the window and relax. Put away our school uniform and be ourselves. For a glorious six weeks’ freedom there are no teachers to demand that our latest science experiments are neatly written up, together with accurately labelled diagrams; no parents to utter those fateful words as we sneak out the door, doled up, made up and raring to go: “Have you done your homework?”; no exams to revise for; no need to go to bed early to be up in time for school. It’s summer! It’s going to be fun!

Summertime! The stuff songs were made of. George Gershwin made summertime famous and poignant. Mungo Jerry, the Beach Boys, John Travolta and Olivia Newton John all made summer a thing to be craved for. That summer magic! Summer days – and oh, those summer ni-ights! The music belonged to an era when life was maybe less serious, job queues and pension funds less pressing and youth was something to be enjoyed – at full tilt.

But that was a long time ago. It’s years since I sat behind a school desk. Years since Mungo Jerry made my heart skip a beat with that carefree summertime rhythm. But I still feel the same. This summer has been so frustrating, so elusive. One day on and then five more back in winter. Never knowing what to wear – is it a day for thick tights and shoes or a day for bare legs and sandals. Maybe I’ll wear my jeans yet again, just to be on the safe side. When can I get out my flimsy sundresses I’ve been saving since last year? And when it finally gets warm it rains!

This year of all years we need some summer. Recession, drought, floods, banking crises (again), paralysis in the housing market, eurozone issues, redundancies, benefit cuts, protests and riots, governments in crisis… We’re feeling the pinch. At least give us some sunshine! Is my mood tied to the weather? Am I a slave to the sunshine? Am I winter-phobic? Well, yes, if I’m honest I am.

It’s not too late – still two months to go before the dream fades. Come on summer – get on with it!

Sick as a Parrot

Nowadays I only have to hear that phrase: ‘sick as a parrot’ and it takes me straight back to one of the most fun-filled family holidays I can remember. I suppose it was that way because for us, at that time, foreign travel was new. It was a wonderful novelty. It must have been in the good old 1980’s. The first time in Majorca, that glorious, sun-drenched island (well, some of the time!), we woke early in the morning after a late night arrival at our new hotel. We drew back the curtains and looked out of the window at the scene beneath us. It seemed like a film set in some exotic location – maybe a James Bond movie - and we pinched ourselves to make sure it was really true and not some fantastic dream. White fairy lights still blazed out over a huge empty swimming pool surrounded by neat rows of sunbeds. The cool, pristine walls of the hotel gleamed and there were flowers on the balconies. It was very early and no-one in the hotel was stirring. The lights were still on. The pool was a very deep blue and the sun was coming up. In the distance were the mountains. It was just how we had dreamed, but not dared to imagine. The Villa Concha – our own island paradise! Could this amount of luxury really be meant for us?

The second time we stayed in an apartment block closer to the centre of town and not far from the stylish waterfront with its mix of bars, restaurants, marina and palm-fringed beaches. Just opposite was a typical tourist bar, tweaking the Mediterranean cuisine that we were still getting used to into subtle tourist shapes and offering chips, burgers, salads and the most amazing gateaux, light, fluffy and full of chocolate, cream and strawberries. As a family we were hooked. The restaurant owner, Pepé, was keen to please, of course, sparkling with fun and humour and oh, so sweet to our small daughter. She drank it all in, the excitement, the laughter, the other families, our special table to which we were ushered as if we were honoured guests and, best of all, the parrot! Pepé’s parrot was his trademark, on a perch just outside the door. We went back year after year and business was good. Same menu, same décor, same merry banter and (probably) same parrot!

We were new to travel, new to sunshine and sand Mediterranean style, new to garlic and olives and new to large bottles of very drinkable wine. Each evening we ordered a bottle of Pepé’s wine to stand on our table during the meal. Each evening we drew a little closer to the bottom of the bottle at the end of the night. As we ate we retold our day – the hours on the beach, the car we had hired to drive through the mountains, the fish we had caught in the little green fishing net, the state of our sunburnt bodies… We ate, we drank and, most of all, we laughed! The holiday brought out the best in us. We relaxed, laid back, enjoyed each other’s company and enjoyed our small daughter.

Holidays are funny. For a while normal life is abandoned, routines are relaxed, normal rules don’t apply. We let our hair down. We stayed up late. It was a holiday full of laughter. At some point during the meal, every night, it seemed, our daughter would turn to her much-loved daddy, and say: “Say it again, daddy! You know, the one about the parrot…” and he would bring out the same old joke again – clowning about and saying “as sick as a parrot” in that silly, Freddie Davies voice and we would fall about laughing. The more often he said it, the funnier it became and we rolled about helplessly, enjoying hours of harmless, family fun. London-based Freddie, children’s comedian, with a famous line in jokes about budgies, never knew how he inspired us. Night after night we collapsed over the table, giggling, with diners at neighbouring tables looking on. Funny how funny things can get when you say them often enough. Little girls can be very silly and giggly. We often find their humour hard to understand. Imagine our daughter’s delight then when, with the help of a day of sunshine and relaxation, followed by an unaccustomed bottle of wine, mum and dad joined in. At the end of the meal we would stagger back to our apartment, studiously avoiding the edges of the swimming pool, and giggle all the way back home. To this day any mention of parrots can raise a silly smile.

Today I really do feel sick as a parrot. A week long fever and a hacking cough have taken their toll and I’m fed up with it! I’ve missed work, my social life is destroyed, communication has dissolved into endless coughing fits and I’m feeling very bored. However, even today I can’t help grinning at the thought of that parrot.

Finding joy

At a recent gathering of the writers circle I belong to we were set the task of spontaneously writing down the things we find joy in. The results were revealing, giving us space and time to think about the things that make us really happy - a heart-warming task worth trying, especially on a rainy day like today!

I find joy in the early morning city streets, in the sunlit pavements, in the quirky shops in quiet backstreets, the cafes where sleepy passers-by sip cappucinos and plan their day. I find joy in the tall, white gracious embassy buildings, hiding their secrets, the untold stories of a thousand expats, each with their own histories, living in this bustling, surprising city.

I find joy in companionship. I find joy in the exchange of gossip, of individual lives lived in such a variety of ways. So many expressions of life.

I find joy in the sharing of our creativity. So many angles and perspectives. So many ways of saying the same thing. We experience life and death, sickness and health, friendship and alienation, joy and grief and our history, in so many ways, is the same - and yet differently expressed. I find joy in that.

I find joy in my garden. That is no secret. This year I have found joy in an abundance of blossom. It is a good year for blossom - I find joy in that. I find joy sitting in my garden, on the little terrace outside my back door, with the sun overhead, pouring its warmth and blessings on my little garden. I find joy in frothy, white hydrangea blossoms, yellow roses, perfectly formed, tall, slender foxgloves opening up their patterned trumpet flowers to soft, velvety bees. I find joy in that.

Joy can be a mindset - or not. I must work a little to find joy. There can be hindrances, sickness, griefs and irritations of all kinds so I must find my joy. I must choose to make time for it.

                                 Delft Blues

                                 Under the shade of a tall, willowy poplar

                                 I lay down to rest.

                                 The water drifted lazily by me

                                 And I slept.

                                 The rustle of the leaves and the rippling of water

                                 Mingled with my dreams.

                                 The blackbird sang in the tops of the trees,

                                 Drew my attention.

                                 ‘Rest here awhile in peace’ whispered the poplar,

                                 It seemed to me.

                                 ‘Slow down, slow down’ bubbled the stream,

                                 ‘No need to rush.’

                                 The blackbird called from the tops of the trees:

                                 ‘Make time to be joyful!’

                                 And under the shade of the willowy poplar

                                 I smiled and was at peace. 

Multi-tasking again!

I am sitting beside the Deben estuary. At last summer has arrived and the sun beats down. It is almost too hot, but it would be churlish to say so. The tide is low and the little ribbon of water meanders gently between the mudflats, sparkling in the warm sunshine. Everything in this peaceful, sunwashed landscape is blue-brown, except for the soft green meadows that flank the river on one side and the marshland beneath the dyke on the other. Vision predominates. It is a powerful image and a view I am fond of.

But I have five senses. What of the rest? I lean back against the wooden bench and shut my eyes. A soft, cool breeze is blowing, wafting past me the scents of clover and cow parsley, the salty tang of the sea and the pungent smells of seaweed and mud, exposed by the receding tide. There are the sounds of silence: that special kind of silence that is composed of the absence of unwelcome noise – traffic noise, loud, intrusive conversations, mobile phones, dogs yapping… An aura of calm rests upon the place and I am at peace. As I listen to the ‘silence’, I am arrested by a plethora of sounds: peaceful sounds. An oyster-catcher flies overhead. I hear his soft, but piercing, ‘peep-peep’ in the distance. A lark is soaring, high above me, singing for joy – or so it seems. It is a beautiful, beautiful morning, so I can understand why. There is aeroplane noise in the far distance and somewhere, far across the estuary, a dog barks. There are footsteps along the dyke behind me and snatches of quiet, leisurely conversation. But nothing to disturb the peace.

The breeze caresses my skin. It is pleasantly cooling, perfectly matched with the comforting warmth of the hot sun. Now I am the ideal temperature and when I return home at the end of the day I know that I shall be pleasantly aware of a healthy glow, a sense of well-being and a soft tan to my skin. The weather is kind to me and I appreciate its gentle touch. I lick my lips and enjoy the salty tang. But I am thirsty. I pick up my water bottle and let the cool, refreshing liquid trickle slowly down my parched throat. It feels good.

Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. Even on my day off, I am doing it again – multi-tasking!

The Home Visit

We visited a lonely teacher in her house the other day. Well, not her house; she was the poor unfortunate tenant and the landlord was selling her house… well, not her house, his, but it was her problem.

It was a modest kind of house. Not your dream home. A newbuild, but already falling down. Even the entrance way had been partly demolished – a kind of brick, ornamental archway connecting it with next door. Obviously someone preferred to be disconnected and had partly taken it down, leaving the remaining bricks protruding from the front wall. Inside it was dark and cramped and the floorboards creaked ominously. The over-large furniture didn’t fit. The sofa would have looked nice in a generously proportioned country mansion. Upstairs, the tour was soon finished, leaving you wondering where the real bedrooms were and why the broom closet was so big.

“Is it a nice place to live?” we asked. “How are the neighbours?” “It’s quiet” she said, after some thought. “There are squirrels… and a badger comes sometimes… even a deer.” “Bit too quiet, then?” we inquired perceptively. “I guess so,” she said. “And the neighbours?” “Very quiet” she said. “Single woman, elderly couple…” “We met an elderly couple over the road” we ventured. “They didn’t seem very welcoming.” “Oh, them” she said. “Someone I know at work lives next door. They accused her of fly-tipping rubbish in their bin.”

“Is this the state of community living in our villages?” we wondered, feeling a bit depressed. It seemed such a nice little village – a bit of a rabbit warren, it was true, where the new homes had been constructed, all higgledy-piggledy, in a hollow. The shop assistant in the village store had told us where to find it; in fact the whole shop had joined in, with helpful directions and advice. “Just keep on down” they said. “Down and down and you’ll find it.” We left the shop, a bit doubtful. The directions didn’t seem much to go on – no street names, no landmarks, no right or left turns, but sure enough, after following the dubious advice we reached the end – down and down and down… past the library, past the children’s playground, past the little green areas, down and down and there it was, the address we had been looking for, just like they said.

It was the end of the line. A sleepy little hollow. Obviously no-one passed by. There was nowhere to go, except a teacher’s lonely let, visited only by wildlife. But she was sorry to be going, evicted, moved on, against her will, from the squirrels and the deer and the badger and big tall dark trees that surrounded her house, preventing anything from growing in the garden. But it was home. Quiet and peaceful. Home alone… there’s no place like home.

True Friendship

Takes a long time… or takes just a moment. It’s a tricky concept this friendship thing. True friendship breaks through the pain barriers – that stiff, awkward feeling that often goes before a real friendship is struck. Some lucky mortals don’t appear to go through that stage: the life and soul of the party from that first moment, easy-going conversation, rapport, lack of self-consciousness… But, in reality, probably we all have a pain barrier to go through in pursuit of that warm, feel-good factor of real friendship. Some of us just hide it better than others.

Some of my best, closest, most relaxed friendships were forged before I even knew how to spell ‘worry’. They were the easy ones. “Would you like to play with my dolls?” “Yes” – easy! Teenage friends were less easy. Hard to be cool sometimes. In my twenties and thirties I knew more of that community feel than at any other time. It’s maybe a thing I hanker after even now. Sitting on the floor, sharing a coffee or a glass of wine, pouring out your heart (in the days before you knew it was dangerous to do so), laughing, crying… That’s what true friendship can be made of. Forged out of crises, struggles, good times, bad times. Shared experiences while the kids were growing up…

But sometimes it was quick as a flash. We just hit it off. We shared a sense of humour. We got angry about the same things… Who knows? But it worked. The chemistry was there. An instant friendship of that kind once led to sharing a flat with a girlfriend. We hardly knew each other and yet, after that first long evening of endless cups of coffee and endless chatter, we just knew – we could be friends. It would work. And it did. Just as well – we had only one room between us and no money!

Then I fell in love. When we got married she was my bridesmaid. I gave her my teddy bear to make up for moving on! I didn’t need it any more; she did. I had found another true friend. Thirty-seven years later, she’s thrown out the bear, she told me, but I still have my best friend. He was a true friend, it seems. You can weather a lot of storms with a true friend. They’re hard to find but, when you find one, it’s worth hanging on in there, despite the ups and downs. They don’t come along all that often.

Cycle and Recycle – a Day in the Life of our Planet

I was pondering the other day on the ‘cycle of life’! A big subject for one so young…

In recent weeks we have had both a death and a new birth in our family circle. A great aunt gone and a new baby arrived. What does it all mean? Well, it seems to mean different things on different levels.

Objectively speaking, it is simply a question of arithmetic. One in, one out. In statistical terms, we wiped the slate clean. No change. Still the same number in the family; still the same number on the planet. Life goes on. The family continues. Things are just a little re-distributed. On one side of the family there is an additional mouth to feed, an additional bundle of fun – and of trouble! On the other side there is one less aged relation to care for, but also one less human being and much-loved family member. But in the scales of life, it all weighs the same.

Subjectively, it is a whole different ball game. The loss demanded a funeral, a modest crowd of grieving relatives and a gap in the family which will never be filled, no matter how many new additions arrive in the family. So much individuality, creativity, personality and love lost, never to be recovered. Such a big gap to fill in the lives of those closest. As for the new addition – such a source of happiness, hope, expectations, warmth and vibrancy! A new life which just the other day did not exist – and now does.

People are born. People get old and die. On a similar theme, again just the other day, I was pondering the strange qualities of the English language, more particularly, the question of ‘opposites’. ‘Old’. What does it mean? We can learn more by examining the opposite concept. But what precisely is the opposite of old? On closer examination we find that old is coupled with young – yes, we knew that. But also with ‘new’! Young and old; old and new! So young and new – are they the same? Their opposites are obviously both contained within the concept of oldness.

In this spring season, I have been confronted with a lot of young-ness – baby chicks, lambs, ducklings, calves, piglets and the family of blackbirds that are in the process of hatching out in our hydrangea bush. They are very young, very vulnerable, very sweet. But also, of course, brand new! Their newness is exhilarating and a large part of their charm. Lambs on new wobbly legs; baby birds unable yet to fly; ducklings that have yet to be introduced to water. Why? Because they’re new. It’s all new – and exciting!

So the cyle of life goes on. Spring is full of it. Autumn sees the other end of the cycle. But that’s another story. Life and death: joy and grief. Hope and disappointment. It’s a big subject, the comings and goings on our planet, but one we take for granted every day. Funny that...

Lily Grace

We have a new member of our family now. She arrived the other day and was given the gift of a name on arrival: Lily Grace. She'll go far with a name like that! Some names just have a ring to them - a kind of flow. They sound like music.

What's in a name? What indeed? A name can make all the difference. Ask the marketing companies. There's a fortune in the right name for the right product.

Lily Grace is a product, of course. In the strictest sense of the word, she was produced by her clever parents, with a little help from the cosmic plan that underwrites all such happenings. One day her name may come in handy from a commercial, career enhancement point of view, but not just yet! Right now she's just Lily Grace - that sweet bundle of joy in a pink babygrow who delights the rest of her family with her charms. She has no idea what her fortune may turn out to be and whether her name will help.

A friend recently sent a joke via the internet about 'Being Poor'. The gist of it was the shame experienced by a young girl during her first ever school lesson on that age-old mystery: where do babies come from? Mortified, she explained to her parents her embarrassment when her friends voiced their various expert theories on the subject, from storks to gooseberry bushes to supermarkets and she was forced to admit that her own parents had been so poor they had to make her themselves!!! The truth will out! But the truth is we're all products and we all need the right name.

In many cultures names have a meaning. We researched our own daughter's name extensively. Catherine Joy: pure + joy = pure joy! Not a bad start in life. Does the name shape the baby or the baby shape the name? An interesting question. Names such as Faith or Hope, Charity or Verity give a child a lot to live up to but also mark the level of trust invested in them by their hopeful parents. It's good to have positive expectations.

So here's to you, Lily Grace! May you be blessed with the beauty and sweet temperament your family have invested in you. We look forward to meeting you.

Soft the rain is falling...

It's a pretty month - May. One of my favourites. It doesn't always come up to our expectations but when it does it is one of the best.  Sadly, spring is often swallowed up between winter and summer and barely happens. One minute we are frozen; the next minute, finally, it is summer. Not so this year. April has been  how it should be - a glorious start to spring with a typical mix of April showers and blustery days, punctuated by warm sunshine. May promises to follow suit, although we are only at the beginning. Maybe we've had a touch too much rain for some, but with a shortage of rain these last two years, we can hardly complain, and there's plenty of sunshine too.

It is not often I celebrate the rain. But at this time of year there is a special kind of rain which drops softly down on our gardens, encouraging fresh, prolific new growth and bringing hope. Winter is over and, no matter what the weather may do, it will not return until next year. Balmy days are on the way. We can even enjoy the rain... especially in these days of drought! 

Soft the rain is falling

Gentle on my garden

Sweetly gently falling

Bringing summer softness.

Gone the winter’s harshness

Melted now for summer

Memories of winter

Peaceful, flowing down.

Lilac brings forgetfulness

Like the pain of childbirth

Gently, gently borne

Into the soft and waiting earth.

Purple petals falling

Blossom drifting downward

Fragrance all around

Is scattered on the breeze.

Seasons bring new gifts;

Old ones are forgotten.

Bright the summer skies

As the rain falls gently down.

Healer of my winter times,

Time is flowing onward,

Mellows tones of harshness

Into softened shades of gold.

Like a gentle river

Time flows on unending

Bringing back perspective

And washing sorrows clean.

Come then gentle raindrops

Wash away my sorrows.

Bring your glistening rainbow

In the sunlight of new hope.