Sunday, 30 September 2012
Saturday, 29 September 2012
Sand, sea, sky, rainbow. All just being.
Beyond roles, beyond responsibilities, beyond any definitions of being. Just being. A grain of sand is a grain of sand. For thousands of years. A rainbow is a rainbow. For a few seconds or minutes.
Bounded in this body for a few decades, being all the roles life brings; daughter, mother, student, worker, professional, friend, helper, teacher - endless roles. Beyond the roles, who would I be?
(with thanks to Quinn McDonald at Quinn Creative for prompting the questioning http://quinncreative.wordpress.com/ )
Friday, 28 September 2012
Wednesday, 26 September 2012
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
Sunday, 23 September 2012
The girl reads her book.
Dad feeds the baby and
stares into middle distance.
Mom tries to enjoy the fact
that her hands are free, stares
out the window and back again.
Family Sunday. At peace.
No drama. No drama at all
Saturday, 22 September 2012
Out walking a stray caterpillar - a hairy molly - wiggling its way across the road. It's way too late in the year for caterpillars. But still, there it was, an autumn equinox caterpillar.
Telling me, "maybe its not too late, as autumn arrives, to start a new journey of transformation".
Looking at buddha from a different angle. Looking at life from a different angle. Equinox.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
Wednesday, 19 September 2012
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
Monday, 17 September 2012
Sunday, 16 September 2012
I've just walked the dogs down the road, across the crossroads, and over towards Carrig. One car passed us. The winds are strong today, although it's dry now after this morning's heavy rains. The trees and hedges either side of the road seem to dance in the wind, and a crow and two magpies lift above the trees, almost as if they're competing to see who can glide on the wind for longer. A few late swallows swoop low over the road, preparing for their winter migration. They'll be back next year, I know.
I grew up in inner city Birmingham. Sparkhill - rough and tough. Not sink estate rough. Just melting pot rough. Men vomiting outside pubs on Saturday night, gingerly stepping around the pools of sick as we made our way in our best clothes to the bus stop on Sunday mornings to go to mass at the Polish Church in town.
We played out all the time, in the summer until after ten at night. What did we do? Climbed onto the electricity generator, played in abandoned cars, played cricket, chalking the stumps on the brick gable wall of a house. I couldn't have imagined living somewhere like this.
My world was concrete, brick, ashpalt, plane trees enclosed by paving slabs, buses and cars and smells, rubbish blowing around outside the newsagent's shop. I used to escape to what passed as country. Tritiford Park - a stream with a few trees between the backs of rows of houses. The weir - a few concrete slabs across the stream where we'd swim in the murk The canals - so neglected that no-one else went there. The waste ground, up behind the old BSA ground, where wild flowers and grass had started to grow again.
There was no way to imagine this life to imagine this beautiful place where I live, less than an hour from the capital.
I wonder what lies ahead, things and places I can't even begin to imagine?
And then I look back, and look back again. These self imposed duties, stretching back through the years, back to the start, where the task of fixing the world seemed to fall on my shoulders and mine alone.
I dreamed last night of going home in the middle of the day, of leaving the work and the duties, and sinking into a pool of warm water. It felt sweet and good.
The world overwhelms with all its demands. And I remind myself these demands come from within. The world just keeps on turning, as worlds do, and we play out the stories we've made up about our lives.
Wednesday, 12 September 2012
The world hurls its outrageous arrows at you, an unjust world, as the arrows pierce the skin,
and still, late afternoon sunshine penetrates the trees between showers,
and around you ancient trunks,
and before you a straight path,
and those arrows land harmlessly in the grass as you walk towards the sunshine.
|At Huntington Gardens, Co Wicklow, Ireland|
The quote "I would like to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding" is by John O'Donohur
When I was small, we had an old army greatcoat in the house. When you put it on, it smelt dour and heavy before you were even aware of it's weight. The material was rough and scratchy, so thick you could hardly bend your arms in the sleeves. And it was heavy, heavy, heavy.
Some mornings, the world feels heavy too. Responsibility weighing heavily on my shoulders and enfolding me in is stiff cloth. "I would like to live like a river flow, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding".
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Monday, 10 September 2012
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Saturday, 8 September 2012
Maybe our own shaky starts give us what we need to spread our roots wide and hold ourselves rooted in our lives. And yes, despite the unpromising start, we can reach the light.
Friday, 7 September 2012
after lifting the sleeping boy into the house, step outside and down to the end of the drive.
To the North, the hills behind Roundwood silhouetted against the sliver of pale orange light that is Dublin. To the South, ghostly white behind clouds as the moon begins it's rise. South West, and the lights of Rathdrum twinkle silently in the valley. And directly above, the Big Dipper dips in an inky black sky. A lone sheep somewhere calls to itself and falls silent for lack of answer. And then, all is still and silent.
There is nothing to be scared of, here in this dark. The night is still, and finally, at the end of the day, the week, so am I.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Apparently, the dragonfly symbolizes change, and change in the perspective of self realisation. The kind of change that has it's source in mental and emotional maturity and the understanding of the deeper meaning of life.
You can read more about the dragonfly and myths surrounding it here:
I was struck most by how still it was as it hovered, almost motionless. Still and present. It's attention wholly on the flower. A dragonfly lesson.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Monday, 3 September 2012
Days of Indian summer, followed
By swift descent of sun, with
Softly muted colour on the horizon.
Autumn arrives, with berries plump
And black on every bush between
Here and the crossroads. The grass
Still growing strong but wetter for
Longer, making the cutting a gift,
A blessing perforformed in a
Sweet sanctuary of place. Autumn
Srrives with the school notes and
Timetables and satisfying conflicting
Rights. Autumn. Stand tall and taste
Each sweet berry. Autumn. A precious
Gathering in, of all that was sowed.