Here, where I type

I have no camera at all with me here, where I type. This here is just an anywhere here. It has a keyboard and a connection and a warm radiator at my feet with an open window at my chin. So I have comfortable heat and the benefit of uncold Spring air! Not my heating system in this particular here, so I shan't worry about the fossil fuels...


Here, where I type, there is a gentle buzz of voices and very soon I will cross the wide room to bring this week's order to shelves of novels. Here, where I type, if you could listen with that particular ear, you would hear voices of countries and characters and journeys from far and near. Although what is near to me here, where I type, may be far from you there, where you read. And what is far to me here, where I type, may be near to you. I'll think of that as I move the author beginning with S from the shelf beginning with D. They've probably had more than enough of Twits and Witches by now anyway.


So far today in my here I have been reading and scribing and encouraging and discussing and supervising and emailing and preparing, so this is a little hiatus of gentle buzz and gentle air before I order and tidy and then spend the afternoon downstairs in another wide room. There will be colour and fun and chat and the subliminal push to stay on target but to do it in so jolly a way that you will hopefully not notice that you are working at all.


And then another week will come to its abrupt end with a bell and a rush and a push and a drive home along the coast road listening to professional gardeners advising amateur gardeners on matters completely too hard for me, but their words will announce two days to me of not here, but there.

An Alphabet of Authors: A to E

I have been reading since January. This is more of an achievement than it sounds! I have obviously been reading for quite some time. Not quite since prodigal pre-Primary education days but when I tell it to the suns I do resemble Matilda toddling off to the library all by myself. It was the only place to which I was allowed to go all by myself in 1970s Belfast. I did not have a small red cart, and I could not make things move. I still can't. Except biscuits. Not only can I make them move; I can make them disappear, but I have already complained about that in a recent post...

So, back to the Alphabet of Authors. Inspired by my Heather-Boss who last year read those 52 books in 52 weeks, and has the list to prove it, I thought that 26 would better my chances of success. A fortnight per book, and has the novelty of matching the alphabet. So far so mostly good!

Most of January was taken up with Sense and Sensibility, made more poignant by the fact that Colonel Brandon Alan Rickman died as I was reading. Jane Austen's work really does remain incredibly fresh in its wit and observations and truth. It was a delight to be working slowly through the stories of the sisters and the families and the angst and the patience and to be thinking about what we value in society and what we seek in love. I wanted to start right back at the beginning as soon as I got to the end.

But on, to the new-to-me Saul Bellow and Him with his Foot in his Mouth. Get it now! Read it now! I only found it because before Christmas a friend asked me to read The Day the Machine Stopped by E. M. Forster. So, I did, and realised that here was the short story I'd read a teenager in a science-fiction collection that I hadn't kept because I don't like science-fiction, the disposal of which I subsequently and deeply regretted because I could never after find this story which is arguably the most frightening depiction of what is becoming us in this virtual social sphere in which we sit at keyboards. However, as I was ordering the little book on Amazon, said book-seller recommended Saul Bellow's book, and he began with B.

Fabulous. Hilarious, sad, recognisable, wholly alien. It was everything. I loved it. I suppose it most reminded me of Gilead, in that here you meet an old gentleman looking back over his life, it achievements and perceived failures, but this time with great pathos. It is a little gem of a book. I wanted to start right back at the beginning as soon as I got to the end!

In February I looked along the bookshelves and found a book by Chris Cleave that had been a Christmas present a while ago and that I thought I hadn't read. I was wrong. With every page enough was familiar to convince me that I had read it already, but not enough was familiar for me to know what would happen next. It was like watching Agatha Christie films at Christmas. The Other Hand is a moving account of life as a refugee, of the horrendously corrupt systems that throw them from their countries, and is a topical read as our world descends into migratory hell. The development of the flawed narrators is cleverly done. Cleave manipulates his reader well. I didn't want to start right back at the beginning though; I wanted this time to remember that I had read it at all.

The Language of Flowers is a narrative. My favourite sections of the book were definitely those where the discussion of the flowers' symbolism was paramount. The idea of a relationship built on communication through flowers was wonderful. At times though I did find the protagonist dubious. I work with some very troubled children, and while I would love to think that one day some deus ex machina will make it all go away, I'm not so sure. I did like the portrayal of early post-partum life with a baby. I was nonetheless happy to be at the end and be done.

This month has been all about the Prague Cemetery. Oh my goodness. Now, know that I love The Name of the Rose and have read it many times. Yes, I liked the film too. However I tried, and failed, three times to read The Island of the Day Before. This should have confirmed to me my colleague's warning that PC is a hard read. But Umberto Eco is an E, and on I went. I finished it this evening. I did not read every single word. I skimmed whole passages. Reader, I skimmed whole pages. I was upset that now Eco had died while I was reading. If you want an epic read where the fictional main character takes part in real and devastating world events, read Louis de Bernieres. His mandolin-playing army officer and young friends with bird whistles will become beloved figures over whom you will happily sob in the last ten chapters. If you want a main character who will play an active if incredible role in every world event during his lifetime, read The One Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared. You will laugh heartily, freely suspend your disbelief and savour every outrageous word. If you want a disturbing history with pre-Holocaust references, steel yourself for The Book of Samson by David Maine. Uncomfortable, bloody, and consuming. If you really must fill your head with conspiracy theory read The Men who Stare at Goats by Jon Ronson. It is ridiculous enough to be believable, and sadly so.

If you want Umberto Eco, be cleverer far than me or stick with the accessible Name of the Rose. If Prague Cemetery explains how the Holocaust could happen, it does so with no sympathy. If it presents an allegory of how our religious suspicion becomes persecution at every strata of society, it loses itself too often in perniciously detailed historical pedantry. If it condemns governments and their hypocrisy, it exhausts the reader to the point of apathy. Did I want to start right back at the beginning as soon as I got to the end? No.

And my F? No idea. Jane Brocket cites The Home-Maker by Jane Canfield Fisher as an inspiration. As a former librarian I am aware that this would not be shelved under F, but it may just be a much needed antidote to E.

The weekend, a pause in Lent and a pause in life

We had a glorious weekend. The sun shone, and we realised that we were fully out in the world of Spring, fully out of hibernation! On Saturday we finally made it back to Castle Espie, lured by the prospect of a Lego Trail.

Castle Espie lies on the banks of Strangford Lough, and is managed by the Wildfowl and Wetland Trust, who keep safe an important stretch of land for the migrating flocks who refuel here in Northern Ireland every year.

 However, for high octane suns, the Secret Swamp with its fairy doors, wishing tree, mud submerged tightrope, and indeed zipline were the icing on the Lego cake.

There were huge Lego birds and creatures in abundance, at strategically distanced points around the domaine, and there was music in the woods..

 .. but we did actually stop to admire the live things as well! 

Then on Sunday we had an evangelist from an Irish organisation called Crown Jesus Ministries who came to speak in church. His passage was II Corinthians 2:14 - 3:6. It was an interesting time. In work we are feeling a strong call to a clear witness, and there was much in the talk to inspire and challenge. But, in the context of a super few days with all my men, and with lots of friends who passed through the house as well, I thought about our domestic spheres and about the legacy we leave in the hearts of those we know. I thought about our suns, and hoped that I might be able one day to say,

You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everybody. You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of human hearts.

I say this in gratitude to those who nurtured me. Despite all the ridiculously awful things that I have done, and that are heavy on my mind this week, I can be sure of grace and hope. So I hope that despite all the ridiculously awful things my boys tell me they have done, and that are heavy on my mind every week!, they will one day be a letter of Jesus to their spheres.

The last time I looked down and couldn't see my feet I was pregnant with a boy. This time I am not pregnant. I am a middle-aged, biscuit guzzling mother of two boys and daughter of two parents who works five days a week- school hours and term-time only- and who is hungry all the time. The disappearing feet were nonetheless a disconcerting discovery one morning this week in the shower.

For a few Lents I have deactivated my Facebook account. This is very easy and very, very effective. That is time you can tangibly retrieve and put to prayer or Bible reading. For another few Lents I have tried to deactivate my gorging on junk food to get me through the next chunk of the day. This has never been successful! I suppose endeavouring to put a spiritual slant on the fact that your clothes don't fit anymore is just not the right motivation.

I wish it was though. Those of us born into first world places and kind families push through into our earthly life with all good things on our side. And what do I end up doing? Bemoaning the first world problem that too much food in my belly means that none of the many clothes hanging in my wardrobe hang on me quite as roomily as they did two years ago. Clearly the fact that I now drive everywhere around my five square miles existence burning significantly more fossil fuels than I do bodily energy is not helping.

Before I went back to working five days I walked to and from their school with the boys, and cycled or walked to my evening library job. I did a little bit of housework everyday instead of collapsing onto the sofa at any given opportunity. I did spend some mornings praying and Bible reading too. I used to say that I didn't believe in exercise, but in an active lifestyle. It all seems very halcyon now!

I clearly need to practise some self-discipline. It makes me think of the verse in Hebrews, which I'd only ever considered as a rebuke to children or wrong-doers:

No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it. (Hebrews 12:11)

I think that the way I'm living now is a form of wrong-doing. I am not respecting the body God has given me; I am not respecting the privileged position I am in with first world abundance of food and fuel. I think that if I lived more gratitude and generosity I certainly wouldn't eat my way through the biscuit tin every afternoon after school, and I would get us out of the car a bit more. 

I just think that I'd manage that if I was more worried about the world, than about my girth. And I'm not sure I'd deserve any righteousness and peace that came out of dropping a dress size!

I like Lent. It's not much of a part of my Presbyterian heritage, and I'm not sure how I came to be such an admirer. I think I was in Belfast's big Christian bookshop one year wondering about Lent and picking up Delia's Feast for Lent, and there I was. Lentenised!

Six years in Anglicanism while Prince Charming led worship there helped, and now we do try in our own very small way to follow Jesus through forty days and forty nights of God. Certainly it has always been my experience that I have but to stop and find God rush to meet me. Father hurrying down the lane to take back the prodigal before words are even formed on lips.

It's half-term here this week, and I was struck yesterday morning by my reading of Jesus Himself getting up early or withdrawing to lonely places to pray. This time two years ago, on half-term, we had sold our house, discovered that the house we thought we were buying had been strangely sold to someone else, and were potentially homeless! There was nothing else on the market in the area that we could afford. Uncharacteristically, instead of weeping and wailing, I decided that I would get up early every morning of half-term and throw ourselves at God. Every morning that week I read about the importance of not worrying, of the birds of the air, read in Psalm 37,

³ Trust in the Lord and do good;
    dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture.
⁴ Take delight in the Lord,
    and he will give you the desires of your heart.

By Tuesday afternoon the local godly estate agent rang me and told me to view a house that night. He told me that it was the answer to my prayers. It was. And six weeks later we were here. God moves. (He moves houses.) He moves mightily and every Lent reminds me of the great, good things He still does for us. 

This year on Shrove Tuesday Jo and I stood beside the book stall in our church halls. It happens to be outside the kitchen, and we were waiting to go in and judge the BB pancake-making competition. On impulse I took this booklet home:

This is our Lent time with Jesus this year. For just five minutes over dinner we read the passage and all have a little pray- out loud or not. And do you know, God has come rushing down the lane to meet us. This week the reading are all from Acts- the disciples about to go out and preach but first waiting for the Holy Spirit and His tongues of fire. I am thinking about work and our need to be overt in our witness there, Mattman is thinking about all the new languages he's learning at school this year, and all around us we have passages from Acts in church and even on the billboard opposite our GP yesterday. Jo asked why Acts was everywhere suddenly and I said that God had lots to tell us from Acts just now.

God speaks, and loudly, but it is very often in Lent for me, when I find Him rushing down the lane.

Not still Advent, but in fact Lent!

My goodness, doesn't time fly when you're doing Christmas, New Year, back to school, school exams for Sun 1, looking at new schools for Sun 2, hibernating, stretching and breathing on occasional bright days when the real sun shines blue, organising the gamut of everyone's appointments for approaching half-term!


Time flies. I embraced hibernation between Christmas and the end of January. There was little else to do with everyone so busy! It was a revelation, though, to stop fussing about what needed done, about what wasn't being done, and just reconcile myself to a month in the house surrounded by one revising boy, one Victorian project researching boy, and one very work-stressed daddy! There were cakes as well as revision timetables, it was warm and dry inside, and the weeks whispered past into daylight.


Prince Charming cleared the garage and declared it a boat shed. He and the boys and our farmer neighbour and a school colleague have been sawing and filing and surveying and drinking tea for many cold weeks now, and apparently the bits are ready to be assembled. This has been most exciting!


I cleared my head and declared a Year of Ants and Elephants. I'm still not entirely sure what this means, but it came from friends with whom I was discussing my myriad of unfinished crochet projects. We were weighing the relative merits of clearing big things or small things first. In their house they call this squashing the ants before you can squash the elephant- or something to that effect! Maybe you know of this concept already? Anyway, I am determining to squash an ant or an elephant every month: January saw the completion of my Africa Blanket, and this month I really must finish the tank-top that was started two Springs ago! In fact, the trousers with which I envisaged wearing said tank-top are long past their best!


I also hit on a reading project. Last year a friend made it to the end of 52 books in 52 weeks- impressive. Knowing from past experience that I wouldn't make it past this point in the year, I  thought I would try to read an Alphabet of Authors instead. So in January I read Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, made all the more poignant by Alan Rickman's death mid-way, and Saul Bellow's Him With His Foot In His Mouth.  I am coming to an end of Chris Cleave' The Other Hand, and have Vanessa Diffenbaugh's Language of Flowers lined up and ready to bloom.


The reason why I have not blogged any of this is partly because I have no camera bar the one on a tablet, and partly because I never find the time. Jo's preparation for the transfer test has been replaced by Interesting Homeworks and Days in School. So once a week for more than a month now I have been racing about with him making and sourcing Victorian costume (visit to Folk Park), snow items (Book Day: the Snow merchant), baking and decorating many, many, many buns (P7 Fun Day), and reading all about the Irish Famine, the Victorian Workhouse, Victorian toys....


Conscious all the while that time flies, and that my high octane suns are becoming their own men, circling their own orbits now, and providing sources of energy in other places as well as in mine. Thank goodness for books and crochet!


Wishing you all a gentle end to your winter, or summer! I'm hoping to post some photos and some book reviews and some tales of life outside the Meadowplace, but in the meantime, Happy February x

Second Pause in Advent: Peace

 There isn't a jot of peace to be had in my world! I got the essay handed in, I got prepared for Preparing for Advent (and it was a lovely evening), I watched the fabulous DVD lent to me by a very long-suffering friend from church. The tree is up, the lights are on, the Amazon order is placed. Lists are written, including Mattman's exam revision timetable which started last night. This all sounds very good and glorious when set down in type.

 Along with the chocolates in our Advent calendar this year I have put a challenge a day into the pockets. I stole this idea from Ang. All the best ideas come from Ang, and all you other, better than me folk! Because we take a day each, it means you get four days to complete your challenge. This is just as well as although I gathered together my books to take to the charity shop, they are still here in a pile. Manana. Which is when I will be leaving happy notes for someone to find. I might start under some pillows tonight...

So I suppose in the midst of it all I could sit down and clear my head, but I am afraid to because many sad things are all around us this winter. I fear there is not much peace to be found. Last Thursday night at Preparing for Advent we thought about how we need in this dark world to wage peace, hope, love, joy as assiduously as the world wages war and despair. Admittedly we did end the night with a thought from Rend Collective's blog: "The message of the manger isn’t that we need to make sure everything is right before Jesus comes, it’s that he makes all things right WHEN he comes."

Shalom x