Some days and weeks all mix and merge together, where you can feel like life is okay.
Where you will look back on things and have a rememberance of the experience, but not be able to feel it anymore.
Then you will have these weeks.
Where it becomes overwhelming. Where the point and meaning to you being here is entirely lost, buried and forgotten with the dreams and hopes and eyelashes of his life.
These weeks the failure of my job is greater than the air I breathe. My instinct to protect has no where to go.
The tears that shine bright beneath my eyes spill over and form pools of disbelief and hopelessness.
My little brother is gone. And I do not know what to do with myself.
My pain is too great for my body.
Too great for this pen and page.
Too great for my house and my streets, it flows faster than the river and grows
higher than the trees.
Love remains but all is lost.
When we think of God, and
angels and the Angel,
we suppose ineffable light.
So there is surprise in the air
when we see him bring to Mary,
in her lit room, a gift of darkness.
What is happening under that
huge wing of shade? In that mystery
what in-breaking wildness fills her?
She is astonished and afraid; even in
that secret twilight she bends her head,
hiding her face behind the curtain
Of her hair; she knows that
the rest of her life will mirror
this blaze, this sudden midnight.
- Luci Shaw
i wrote it on mine. but it's been so dark all day there was no point in taking a photo.
but it is there. and that's really all that matters.
Christmas cakes are kind of a British tradition. Growing up we knew the season was upon us, because the scents of spices, fruit, and brandy would fill up the house as my mother slow baked our christmas cake for a good 4+ hours. They would continue to linger around for the whole day, clinging to the air and sashaying in and out of each room.
Truth be known, this would be anytime from mid to late October. Christmas used to start early in our house. It would have started the beginning of October if my youngest brother could of had his way.
When he died, the Christmas cake went with it. Along with the music. The majority of the decorations. The Joy. It was too painful for my mum to take a whole day out to bake a cake that only three of us would now eat. I don't think we even would have been able to eat it.
The dense fruit base, force fed a diet of straight up brandy for at least a month, covered in layers of sweet marzipan and thick crunchy frosting hasn't graced our homes in the last 5 years. Until today.
Today I baked my very first Christmas Cake. I soaked the currants, raisins, sultanas, and cherries in brandy for 14 hours. Mixed up all the ingredients, and baked it for a good 4+ hours. The scents danced around the kitchen, whisking up the stairs, filling up the rooms with the memory of 21 years worth of Christmases. They are hanging around, hitting you in the face as you enter the house, whispering their words of comfort, and sympathy, and gratitude.
My cake is the 'second' cake. A cake of After, of a new kind of Christmas.
It's not bad for a first 'second' cake. It all went pretty well. Other than that bit where it came out of the tin in two parts. But the real test will come December 25th when my dad tastes it. He's the biggest Christmas cake lover in the family now.
It may feel a bit early for Christmas for some, but this project has a deadline. Operation Christmas Child means filling one empty shoebox full of gifts and educational supplies for one child in a third world country to receive. You have to drop off your shoebox between the 1st and 15th of November, at one of the many designated spots around the country. Or if you are American, here is your site.
I am very aware there are complaints about Operation Christmas Child, and Samaritan's Purse who it is run by. It would seem it isn't made clear that this is an evangelical Christian company, who include evangelical Christian pamphlets in up to 95% of the boxes.
I understand the argument, should humanitarian aid and evangelism go hand in hand? Does it cause confusion? Maybe. Maybe not. My concerns would be more along the lines of, 'what version of christianity is being sold to people in desperate need of humanitarian aid?' I understand non-religious people feeling lied to when they realise they are aiding in a christian movement, also.
But I have thought about this. Having missed the deadline for the Link Romania shoe box appeal, this is the only other one I can find. And if I have to weigh up a whole shoe box full of fun and necessary items for a child who would love to receive them, against a pamphlet of Bible Stories. The shoe box has to win out for me.
I'm linking this up in case any of you want to fill a shoe box (or two!) up with goodies, for a child who will appreciate it ten times more than the new pair of socks you buy your dad, or the piece of jewellery you purchase for your friend.
*EDIT* Sarah linked up Blythswood in the comments, who also run a shoe box appeal. They give boxes to not only children, but teenagers, and adults. (Please note, they don't seem to have a drop off location in Wales, for any Welshies out there!) Thank you for the info, Sarah!
The truth is we never had a summer. But yet I still can not bare to admit it is September, having therefore lost all hope of having a summer.
To be a little bit fair, there was that one week back in June when all the overly tanned pot bellied men took their tops off and wondered around the streets of Neath, because the good lord blessed us with unusually high temperatures.
And then London last month, where we had 5 whole days of glorious sunshine, enabling me to lay around the garden in a pair of Dan's boxers and books 2 and 3 of the Stookie Satackhouse collection.
But this a summer does not make.
Alas, it feels it has come time to bid fare thee well to the glorious ball of heat. The leaves are changing, and it has become essential to throw a hoody/jacket on. Here on in I guess I have to embrace long scarves, wooly hats, tights, boots, and these beautiful arm warmers. Maybe.
Autumn makes me me want to paint, and collage, and drink fruit teas, all the while lighting scented candles early evening, and listening to Iron and Wine.
i want to ride around on a hot pink bicycle that has white streamers flowing from the handle bars. i want to taste the perfect key lime pie even though i have never ever tasted any key lime pie. i want to travel to paris with just one backpack, a pair of kicks on my feet, and a camera in my hand. i want to live at the heart of a group of friends, reading and painting writing and loving the world a better place. i want to wear the same pair of jeans every day for months on end so that they become a part of me, all frayed and creased and beautifully tattered. i want to read books full of glorious words all strung together to make magnificent sentences. i want emily dickinson lines tattooed on my arm. i want to put my mattress on the floor and make a fort out of sheets and feather fairy lights and paper lanterns above my bed. i want to feel like i want to paint stuff again. i want best friends here, in my town, for weekly coffee and trips to the museum. i want to do something that will change something. that will make something different and better. i want to sit in my back garden and listen to the birds and the stream and gaze up at the sky and breathe in and out and in and out. i want to know that i believe what i believe because i believe it and not because i don't believe the other stuff. i want bubbles sparkling in sunshine. and long grass brushing against pale legs. i want toenails i can paint blood red and my plants to grow with abundance. i want to not be so distracted by what i should be doing, who i should be being, how i should be feeling. i want a sims character designed to look exactly like me. i want to not be so me me me. and be a lot more you you you, us us us, them them them. i want to not be so angry. i want to dance to styx and van morrison in flipflops and drink ice cold lemonade. i want to stack up the books by my bed so they reach to the stars. or at least my ceiling. i want pure white walls and dark wood floors. i want home made ice lollies. and to make pretty things out of doilies. i want to know that he is there. in the quiet. where he says he will be. i want to maybe just once not have to decide that i know he is there, but actually know that he is there.
I talk a lot about being barefoot. I like to be barefoot a lot. But even barefootedness is a luxury that I can choose. Imagine if you didn't have that choice? I obviously can't. But it strikes me again, just how privaledged I am to have been born and brought up in this Western capitalist country.
This video is a pretty cool statement. And the shoes on the website are pretty amazing too. I've been wondering about fairtrade environmentally friendly shoes for a while now, so these are interesting.
Do you dare to go barefoot April 16th?
1. it's cold out there.. I really miss the spring!!, 2. Home Sweet Home, 3. happiness, 4. Spring inspired shelfs, 5. Egg Legs, 6. Spread some la la la looooove, 7. clouds polaroid, 8. the home of ladybugs, 9. Untitled, 10. Машенька, 11. Untitled, 12. day 94, 13. eye spot me14. Not available15. Not available16. Not available
the clocks went forward, and the rain came down.
spring is the time for planting seeds, holga photos, mowing the grass so it can grow in time for summer, catching the ever illusive british sun glare, reading by a window, snap shots of the sky, glimpses of hot pink, cherry blossoms and vanilla scented candles, newness and freshness and creating mini pieces of blooming art.
here's to spring *chink chink*