Joy and Inspiration.

What does it for you, what brings you either or both of these gifts? It's the small stuff for me. Never the large.

I watch my African violets carefully for signs of buds. I get an unbelievable amount of joy from these tiny pleasures.

I don't think of the vast gardens of my past, I concentrate on the now of my life. What is one thing I can do today that will bring me joy?

Often I look through old knitting designs I created and work out something new, something to give away, something someone would like.

Othertimes, my energy is depleted. I never take a good energy day for granted as it fluctuates, as does the pain. Poor energy and I roll with it.

I take joy from a good coffee bean like this one, which is locally roasted and just how I like it.

I read, I learn. I write. I ponder the news, which isn't that great lately is it? I honestly feel that the planet, or Gaia, is on its last legs, howling in pain as us humans destroy it.

I stare at the dichotomy of all those unfortunate emigrants, leaving desperation, at the mercy of traffickers, drowning off an overloaded wreck of a boat, 750 crammed on board, women and children abandoned to the harsh sea and dying and those millionaires in their submersible getting all the news coverage. Was it ever thus?

I look to what inspires me. The diligent crows outside my window feeding their young. Sensing when I arrive with little tidbits for them. Just about tame as they land not too far from my feet. They know me.

I look at the bravery of some in my building, who are challenged in many ways but still get out of bed and get their exercise every day in the gyms we are blessed with or walk the halls like I do. I appreciate this building I live in for many reasons, not least of it in that I can see the ocean and the nearby lake and so many trees outside. And it's so quiet it's easy to climb into my thoughts and jot them down as I roll through my day.

Staying where my hands are, knowing how safe we are here on this island off the edge of Canada surrounded by breathtaking seascapes which inspire me every single day.

Inspiration

Mum with my daughters not too long before she died.

My mother will be dead 50 years next year. I've had difficulty in re-reading letters she sent me. For context to so many letters, I was an emigrant to Canada in 1967. Which I've written about many times on this blog. Without fail, Mum's weekly letter would arrive with all the news, even though on the date of this letter, February 18th, 1971, she had less than two months to live. And knew it.

"My dear M----
I am late in replying to your last letter, I got caught up in lots of chores trying to get things done around the house as it's only three weeks from today is J==='s (brother) wedding. D--- (my 13 yo sister) got a lovely cream trouser suit,it's really nice on her,it will look pretty on her at the wedding.

I must get a hat yet, I may go into town some Saturday morning with Dad, it will be very quiet then, and the shops will be slack.

M--(her pet name for me)the green blouse will be nice (I had bought her her wedding outfit when I went back with my kids a few months before this) as I will try and get a light brown hat to match the suit you bought me, don't you think that will be nice?

The wedding will be formal, so no new suits to be bought (she means for the men and boys of the family who'd rent morning wear). I hope this letter is readable as I am rushing for post.

A--- is having only two bridesmaids, A----(another brother) is best man and KR (friend of J--'s) is groomsman.

M-- they will love the sheets (my proposed gift for bro and bride), get them a good big size and do send them before the wedding as you said yourself before, presents that arrive late are not half as exciting, do your best anyway M--.

L & S (cousins) sent a lovely dinner service, real good ones and such lovely soups with little handles, that's their third dinner service. I have not seen the other ones as they are over at A--'s aunt's place. I told you I think that D----(her sister, my aunt) gave them Waterford Crystal, a 1/2 doz tall stem glasses and K----(another sister) gave them blankets. From this on, I expect the presents will come in.

G.O'C, (a neighbour) gave a lovely carving set, pearl handles. He is coming to the wedding too. I was glad that J---(my brother) asked him. (G was a troubled young man, a good friend to J--- who suicided a few years later.)

P & C (my parents' best friends)are coming and she rang to ask me what presents were they after getting as she would get a set of china or cutlery. So I said to please herself, M--, I'm sorry if I keep talking about the wedding, we are so caught up here.

I was down at the doctor's yesterday and when the wedding is over, I will have to get these nodules off much as I hate the thought.

Give my love to T (former husband)and O & J (daughters) all my love M--xxxx you are never far from my thoughts. Mum

PS P(her best friend) was asking for you today, she really cares for your O. Mum."

I was feeling particularly sorry for myself today, the pandemic, worsening mobility, just general woe-is-me and I thought of my mother and all she suffered with a horrible form of cancer. Multiple amputations and thought to re-read some of the immense correspondence i have from her. She wrote as she spoke and I hear her words and feel her love in every line. I can't imagine what she was going through leaving behind her young children and still writing so lovingly to me in Canada.

By the Lake/That They May Face the Rising Sun

I'm just about winding up reading "By the Lake" a novel by John McGahern. Like some other readers of this book I am putting off reading the last few pages as I just want to savour, more slowly, the language. The unspoken words lying underneath.

Like this - from the loss of a tiny newborn lamb on the small holding of the main protagonist and his wife, Ruttledge and Kate:

P283 "It was as if the black lamb reached back to other feelings of love and disappointment and gathered them into an ache that was out of all proportion to the small loss."

P234".....ran the sense, like an underground river, that there would come a time where these days would be looked back on as happiness, all that life could give of contentment and peace."

P141 "But how can time be gathered in and kissed? There is only flesh."

As I read his scrumptiously detailed writing about the ordinary local doings and the comings and goings of characters and seasonal changes, I find memories resurface, my words more fine tuned as I explore some poetry I'm writing, richer ideas for stories. For there are no plotlines to many of his works, it's all in his observations, of the lake, of candlelight, of sun and shadow and rain and most of all the complexity beneath the surface of his characters.

This book was John McGahern's swan song. He was dying of cancer at the time he wrote it. His other books and short stories are dark, with threads of anger and hopelessness until the characters escape from the savagery of rural Ireland, unsuccessful in the hiding of their scars.

30 Days - Day 21

The resilience of the human spirit is amazing. I was struck by this poem the other day and resolved to practise its principles:

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
- Rumi -

It seems to me I've experienced so much pain, loss, sorrow, injury, fire, flood, grief and malice recently. I was talking to the facilitator of an event where I was asked to be the after dinner speaker. I told her I'd been through so much hell in the last four months I had nothing inspirational to offer anyone, so please find someone else.

"Oh," she said,"You have everything to offer. You got through it all. How did you do that?"

I agreed to speak.

Humble Heroes

I wrote about her here she's one of those dear ones locked in my heart who will forever inspire me.

Today she lies in her casket up in the wake-room of the church. I haven't visited yet. Though I will. The finality of death is never more enforced than in a wake-room with an open casket and yes, I'm deferring the moment.

She was a dignified, pretty woman who kept her light under a bushel. Always superbly dressed even in a tracksuit for her road training.

"Hush," she'd say to me when I'd congratulate her on yet another Tely 10. She hated being in the limelight.

She had 9 children, all university graduates. Her husband was twenty years older than her and died in his nineties. She would speak of how wonderful he was. It always brought back my granny's advice of being with a man twenty years older: "Better be an old man's darling than a young man's slave." And Granny lived it also, being married at 18 to a man of 38.

Patricia hated being alone and could never understand my desire and choice to live in such a manner.

"I was born lonely," she said to me more than once as we played cards, "From then on I always wanted company".

Rest in peace, Patricia.

You never did believe me when I told you that you are one of my stars.

Inspiration

We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing. Action always generates inspiration. Inspiration seldom generates action.
- Frank Tibolt

I often grab one of these little quotes that slide into my mailbox every day and print it and study it and maybe spend a bit of time with it.

Like today's. I often say: I'll wait till the notion takes me, which is something my granny, my own personal hero, would say. I loved her casual approach to life and its necessities and requirements. Enormous fun for a child to be around. But not so much fun when you're an adult and waiting for the whatevers to strike.

They don't is my conclusion. Or rarely do.

I find that the action does precede the creative thought, the light bulb going off is nearly always preceded by the effort of getting up and going to the switch on the wall and actually flipping it.

I find the best writing or photographing or knitting I do is when I take the time to doodle around first. To play with a sentence, to take my hands and frame out a shot. To troll through a host of old knitting patterns and actually knit a swatch. To actually do the legwork, the painstaking setups.

I remember getting into some walking a long time ago. It started by walking 10 minutes around the block in the dead of night. Then into some long range walking on the weekends. I never could have even imagined where it would eventually take me: marathon running. I would have laughed at anyone who would have even suggested it.

Action steps are all important for it is all in the journey. The destination is never that important. But it is such a mind blower when it turns out to be something of a blind-siding gobsmack.

Tiny first steps, yeah?

Inspiration & Perspiration

It is not big starry folk who inspire me - the big names, the successful multi-mills, the famous actors and writers, the gurus and the big-buck shamans.

But rather it is the ordinary, the sometimes-down-in-the-gutter but still seeing the stars types.

First of all the perspiration:

Patricia. In my village. She’s 83 but completes the Tely 10 (oldest road race in North America, they say) every year. That’s 10 miles of road, up hill and down dale.

I see her out and about doing some hill work here. Now she’s inspired me to do the same. I was getting lazy when out walking, I was avoiding the hills and could roll out a barrel of excuses at the drop of a hat. The last few days I’ve done some really good hill walking. Not quite buns of steel yet but one never knows.

The following few bloggers, amongst the many I read and enjoy, inspired me today, as they do every time I catch up with them:

Over at Sharon’s, I read about her struggle with her size, how she faces life’s challenges head on and doesn’t give up. She inspires me to keep on keeping on.

And Nick always tosses some great topics out there. Something to chew on. Some dearly held tenet perhaps tossed on its head, It inspires me to view life a little differently even if only for a few minutes.

And Hullabaloo is always quirky, even when dancing devils beset her and family challenges can make her scream. She keeps her sense of humour and her innate gentleness.

Old Fogey draws in charcoal and writes movingly of all things Jane Austen and music and books and family. When I visit him, I feel like I’ve taken a warm bath with an excellent book.

La Bete is not afraid to bring up any topic, any life challenge, any quirkiness of his own nature. He loves to examine every thing, does Bete, and go out there and risk. He inspires me to just do it.

To these five I offer an award:




And a great big thank you!