As it was our last club this time round in Castlenel,I did something different ! i consulted I ching about "The Art of Counselling"
The response was extremely favourable!
We enjoyed talking over John book. I read a recent addition, and John wanted some feedback on this,which I gave him.
We also enjoyed chatting about I ching.
Adios May 22nd club for a while.
Friday, 11 June 2010
May 22nd Club 11th June
John chose to read from his book Latitude Chapter 12 Seltz, 67, Bas Rhin, Alsace et Lorraine, Alsace1
This is a reported observation of bells ringing once on the hour at Seltz, close to the German frontier, an observation made by a long range walker on the Camino del Cid, while she paused in Castalla. She was a surprise visitor. The only hotel was full that evening and it is expensive. The tourist office phoned to ask if we could help out and we said yes as they know us well. She was glad of the use of a Villeneuve futon and the promise of breakfast at seven. I was in charge of toast and omelettes. Tourists are quite rare here but she was a traveller on a two month sabbatical travelling back to Paris from Cadiz. She had started in Elche yesterday and today she would be off to Alcoi. So she was doing about 30 kilometres a day.
I was fascinated having a conversation with someone actually doing what I reckoned the Clockmakers did, carrying very little and being resourceful as witness our late evening phonecall. Yes, she would be back in Paris by Autumn. The paths were clear to see and mostly well maintained. I eventually outlined my theory to her partly to excuse my breakfast interrogation, partly to test my theory. It seemed suddenly very real. ‘They would travel early Spring and in the Autumn, she said. Its too hot to do distance like that in the summer. She had walked in Savoie and the Jura. ‘I’ll give you one for your book’, she said. The town of Seltz near the German border. I studied there and lived in an upstairs room, a room just like last night. The church was just outside my window. It had a clock which rang all day and all night and I never got used to it. I can hear it now. Ding dong every quarter’. ‘How many times did it ring the hour?’ I asked. ‘Gruss Gott’, she said, or something like it. ‘Once was enough’.
This is a reported observation of bells ringing once on the hour at Seltz, close to the German frontier, an observation made by a long range walker on the Camino del Cid, while she paused in Castalla. She was a surprise visitor. The only hotel was full that evening and it is expensive. The tourist office phoned to ask if we could help out and we said yes as they know us well. She was glad of the use of a Villeneuve futon and the promise of breakfast at seven. I was in charge of toast and omelettes. Tourists are quite rare here but she was a traveller on a two month sabbatical travelling back to Paris from Cadiz. She had started in Elche yesterday and today she would be off to Alcoi. So she was doing about 30 kilometres a day.
I was fascinated having a conversation with someone actually doing what I reckoned the Clockmakers did, carrying very little and being resourceful as witness our late evening phonecall. Yes, she would be back in Paris by Autumn. The paths were clear to see and mostly well maintained. I eventually outlined my theory to her partly to excuse my breakfast interrogation, partly to test my theory. It seemed suddenly very real. ‘They would travel early Spring and in the Autumn, she said. Its too hot to do distance like that in the summer. She had walked in Savoie and the Jura. ‘I’ll give you one for your book’, she said. The town of Seltz near the German border. I studied there and lived in an upstairs room, a room just like last night. The church was just outside my window. It had a clock which rang all day and all night and I never got used to it. I can hear it now. Ding dong every quarter’. ‘How many times did it ring the hour?’ I asked. ‘Gruss Gott’, she said, or something like it. ‘Once was enough’.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
May 22nd Club June 9th
John read a beautiful french poem then translated it for me,quite beautiful.
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”
Ronsard wrote many poems to a woman called Helen.
I read from a dear friend Dave Cormack's ( now passed)book Peacing Together
I have not seen this book for a while but when i noticed it on the shelf it took me back to summer evening in a Hotel in Manchester many years ago when he mentioned he was writig a book about conflict resolution.
I being quite young idealistic,and in the peace movement said " why do you have to write about conflict? write about peace" he laughed at the time,but when i met him a year or so later,he showed me this book,with its rainbow cover and pointed to this passage,he said it was because of what I had said the first night that I met him that he chose this title.
Peacing Together
Dave's passage.
" Peacing"?
I had some difficulty in arriving at the title Peacing Together.
The English language is righ in words relating to conflict-
we have words such as "fight"and"fighting" ,"war" and "warring","conflict" and "conflicting","battle"and "battling " and so on-all the nouns and their accompanying
verbs.But we have not verb in English to correspond with the noun "peace".But this book is about doing peace.It is a guide to action for peacemakers,and i could find no word that satisfactorily captured the concept,so i have taken the liberty of creating a new one--peacing.
Peacing is a hig rist business.The forces that seek to divide,as we shall see,must not be underestimated.The lone peacemaker is too vulnerable,too exposed and under too much pressure to survive long in the midsts of damaging interpersonal conflicts.
Peacing is, then,a team game,to be done with the support of others.So Peacing Together will encourage you to revise your ideas about conflict and reconciliation and to work with others in new ways to bring a greater degree of stability and peace to the lives and organisations of those around us.
Thank you Dave--we have some good times!
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”
Ronsard wrote many poems to a woman called Helen.
I read from a dear friend Dave Cormack's ( now passed)book Peacing Together
I have not seen this book for a while but when i noticed it on the shelf it took me back to summer evening in a Hotel in Manchester many years ago when he mentioned he was writig a book about conflict resolution.
I being quite young idealistic,and in the peace movement said " why do you have to write about conflict? write about peace" he laughed at the time,but when i met him a year or so later,he showed me this book,with its rainbow cover and pointed to this passage,he said it was because of what I had said the first night that I met him that he chose this title.
Peacing Together
Dave's passage.
" Peacing"?
I had some difficulty in arriving at the title Peacing Together.
The English language is righ in words relating to conflict-
we have words such as "fight"and"fighting" ,"war" and "warring","conflict" and "conflicting","battle"and "battling " and so on-all the nouns and their accompanying
verbs.But we have not verb in English to correspond with the noun "peace".But this book is about doing peace.It is a guide to action for peacemakers,and i could find no word that satisfactorily captured the concept,so i have taken the liberty of creating a new one--peacing.
Peacing is a hig rist business.The forces that seek to divide,as we shall see,must not be underestimated.The lone peacemaker is too vulnerable,too exposed and under too much pressure to survive long in the midsts of damaging interpersonal conflicts.
Peacing is, then,a team game,to be done with the support of others.So Peacing Together will encourage you to revise your ideas about conflict and reconciliation and to work with others in new ways to bring a greater degree of stability and peace to the lives and organisations of those around us.
Thank you Dave--we have some good times!
June 8th
John read a few lines from John Betjeman’s ‘Parliament Hill Fields’
in the fresh air this evening on the balcony.
The poet recalls a tram ride; a summer outing to Parliament Hill.
‘Outside Charringtons we waited by the ‘STOP HERE IF REQUIRED’,
Launched aboard the shopping basket, sat precipitately down,
Rocked past Zwanziger the baker’s and the terrace blackish brown,
And the curious Anglo Norman parish church of Kentish Town.
….
Oh the after tram ride quiet, when we heard a mile beyond,
Silver music from the bandstand, barking dogs by Highgate Pond;
Up the hill where stucco houses in Virginia Creeper drown-
And my childish wave of pity, seeing children carrying down
Sheaves of drooping dandelions to the courts of Kentish Town
I (helen) did not read tonight,but love thid poem,I remember picking dandelions for my mum and them drooping almost immediately!
in the fresh air this evening on the balcony.
The poet recalls a tram ride; a summer outing to Parliament Hill.
‘Outside Charringtons we waited by the ‘STOP HERE IF REQUIRED’,
Launched aboard the shopping basket, sat precipitately down,
Rocked past Zwanziger the baker’s and the terrace blackish brown,
And the curious Anglo Norman parish church of Kentish Town.
….
Oh the after tram ride quiet, when we heard a mile beyond,
Silver music from the bandstand, barking dogs by Highgate Pond;
Up the hill where stucco houses in Virginia Creeper drown-
And my childish wave of pity, seeing children carrying down
Sheaves of drooping dandelions to the courts of Kentish Town
I (helen) did not read tonight,but love thid poem,I remember picking dandelions for my mum and them drooping almost immediately!
Monday, 7 June 2010
June 7th May 22nd club
an evening when we were both tired and I was feeling slightly under the weather,
I found this little rhyme on the last page of The Artist's Way
It is comforting.
WORDS FOR IT
I wish I could take language
And cool moist rags.
i would lay words on your forehead.
I would wrap worsd on your wrists.
"There ,there",my words would say--
Or something better.
I would ask them to murmur,
"Hush," and "shh,shh,its alright,"
I would ask them to hold you all night.
I wish i could take language
And daub and soothe and cool
Where fever blisters and burns,
Where fever turns itself agains you.
i wish i could take language
And heal the words that were the wounds
You have no nams for.
Julia Cameron.
I found this little rhyme on the last page of The Artist's Way
It is comforting.
WORDS FOR IT
I wish I could take language
And cool moist rags.
i would lay words on your forehead.
I would wrap worsd on your wrists.
"There ,there",my words would say--
Or something better.
I would ask them to murmur,
"Hush," and "shh,shh,its alright,"
I would ask them to hold you all night.
I wish i could take language
And daub and soothe and cool
Where fever blisters and burns,
Where fever turns itself agains you.
i wish i could take language
And heal the words that were the wounds
You have no nams for.
Julia Cameron.
part 2 June 6th
John chose this lovely passage from the Tempest, Act 4 by W.S.
"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep".
"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep".
June 6th may 22nd club
Balcony Castlenel.
I read from the last page of 44 Scotland Street. a blessing,I think.
Here in this place,
Of angled streets and northern light,
Under this particular moon,with Scotland
Quiet and sleeping behind and around us;
Of what may I speak but friendship,
And of our human wish for love-not just for me
But for friends too,and those who are not my friends;
So if you ask me now,at this moment,
What is my wish: it is for love over Scotland,
Like tears of rain- that is enough.
Alexander McCall Smith
I read from the last page of 44 Scotland Street. a blessing,I think.
Here in this place,
Of angled streets and northern light,
Under this particular moon,with Scotland
Quiet and sleeping behind and around us;
Of what may I speak but friendship,
And of our human wish for love-not just for me
But for friends too,and those who are not my friends;
So if you ask me now,at this moment,
What is my wish: it is for love over Scotland,
Like tears of rain- that is enough.
Alexander McCall Smith
Saturday, 5 June 2010
June 4th May 22nd club
No reading tonight.
We had Pilar Orion Africa and Sammy here for supper.
We heard they are moving to Finland and we enjoyed listened to tales of Orion's visit to Helsinki---long dark winters a lot of snow---wonderful working conditions--and Santa is close bye.
Good luck to you all on your next adventure.
We had Pilar Orion Africa and Sammy here for supper.
We heard they are moving to Finland and we enjoyed listened to tales of Orion's visit to Helsinki---long dark winters a lot of snow---wonderful working conditions--and Santa is close bye.
Good luck to you all on your next adventure.
May 22nd club. June 3rd
Castlenel June 3rd.
today we had wonderful news,David has signed his contact with the chinese.
A long awaited reward for many years of hard work.
For the first time in a long while we felt celebratory and we drank some of the 1.65
I said my favourite poem to John .
A Piper by Seamus O'Sullivan. ( a moment of Joy in another wise ordinary day)
A piper in the streets today
set up, and tuned, and started to play,
And away, away, away on the tide
of his music we started; on ev'ry side
Doors and windows were opened wide,
[And men left down their work and came,]1
And women with petticoats coloured [like]2 flame.
And little bare feet that were blue with cold
went dancing back to the age of gold,
And all the world went gay, went gay
For half an hour in the [street]3 today.
John read this beautiful passage from his book (in progress) Latitude?
We had some lovely memories of our time on holiday in Spain many years ago.
Clepsydra
Three millennia and more before them, on the far shore of the Hellespont, potters worked making jars. With some they made a tiny hole in the base before firing the clay. These were their timing mechanisms, true clocks, and strangely they were alarm clocks. They called them Water thieves, Klepto Hydras hence the title of this chapter.
For the peoples of Asia knew exactly what time of day it was. They had the sun, the moon and the stars. Particularly they had the Morning Star which hangs brilliantly and alone in the dark sky when all others fade. That marks aprecise recognisable moment every morning which lasts as long as it takes to boil a kettle. The dawn begins, bats are flying, a cock crows in the old town and the star begins to lose its brilliance. In minutes it is gone. A swallow joins the bats. The sun gleams. That precise period of time before the day begins is the Madruga in Spanish and is the first hour of the ancient day.
The evening stars appearance marks the last hour. Helen and I lived one summer when we were first married, in a house with a view of the sea and of the lighthouse of San Sebastian. After sundown, but while it was still light, we would sit outside and drink a glass of something. A bat would appear each night flying once round our table and then be gone. The moment it left us the lighthouse would light up. As the long summer progressed into Autumn the time by the clock of these events crept earlier and earlier but the sequence was always the same. The bat would circle. The light would gleam.
That moment is the last hour of the ancient day and men and women sense it as much as bats and lighthouse keepers. And once a month the new moon hangs in the western sky and on truly auspicious evenings the evening star keeps it company.
And with that moon, we know a month of evenings has passed and another is about to begin.
As the sun appeared, Cleopatra’s Needle and all her companions became the day time clocks. The inhabitants of busy metropolitan cities in the east could tell with a glance at her shadow which of the daylight hours it was.
During the day, water clocks were used for timing more precise shorter intervals, from the length of a court hearing to the baking of cakes. After sundown they were useful for timing the night watches for wakeful guardians.
Marcus Aurelius the great Roman Emperor left some wonderful meditations on what it is to be human and in one of them, unwittingly I think, he gives us an insight into one wakeful guardian, a sentry on guard duty in an armed camp. He is speaking about death and how to behave when that time comes and he says,’ be like a soldier on sentry duty, stay watchful. When you feel the hand of your replacement on your shoulder, do not make a fuss but stand aside quietly and take your leave’.
He is describing I think an essential military drill but imagine it. Have you seen the film? Gladiator with Russel Crowe, yes Richard Harris. Where are we then. Germany, forests, wolves and some very ferocious enemies about. It’s a dark night and you are on duty. Been there a few hours staring at the forest, all ears. Suddenly a hand on your shoulder? A muffled shriek more like. Or an ‘ Oh my God don’t Do that!’ Or if you’re the replacement and don’t want to be stabbed first, official enquiry afterwards, you might try a little cough as you come up behind the guy, surely. Or a tuneless whistle?
No sign of my father’s, ‘ Halt who goes there! Advance friend and be recognised!’ Who makes these drills up? Not a Marcus Aurelius that’s for sure. He knew about surviving in hostile territory. At least not until.. no I wont spoil the film if you haven’t seen it. I reflect now on the relaxed state of total awareness behind such trusting communications which the Legions must have cultivated when on duty.
From Latitude (unpublished ) by J.L.
congratulations David---the 1.65 was delicious.
today we had wonderful news,David has signed his contact with the chinese.
A long awaited reward for many years of hard work.
For the first time in a long while we felt celebratory and we drank some of the 1.65
I said my favourite poem to John .
A Piper by Seamus O'Sullivan. ( a moment of Joy in another wise ordinary day)
A piper in the streets today
set up, and tuned, and started to play,
And away, away, away on the tide
of his music we started; on ev'ry side
Doors and windows were opened wide,
[And men left down their work and came,]1
And women with petticoats coloured [like]2 flame.
And little bare feet that were blue with cold
went dancing back to the age of gold,
And all the world went gay, went gay
For half an hour in the [street]3 today.
John read this beautiful passage from his book (in progress) Latitude?
We had some lovely memories of our time on holiday in Spain many years ago.
Clepsydra
Three millennia and more before them, on the far shore of the Hellespont, potters worked making jars. With some they made a tiny hole in the base before firing the clay. These were their timing mechanisms, true clocks, and strangely they were alarm clocks. They called them Water thieves, Klepto Hydras hence the title of this chapter.
For the peoples of Asia knew exactly what time of day it was. They had the sun, the moon and the stars. Particularly they had the Morning Star which hangs brilliantly and alone in the dark sky when all others fade. That marks aprecise recognisable moment every morning which lasts as long as it takes to boil a kettle. The dawn begins, bats are flying, a cock crows in the old town and the star begins to lose its brilliance. In minutes it is gone. A swallow joins the bats. The sun gleams. That precise period of time before the day begins is the Madruga in Spanish and is the first hour of the ancient day.
The evening stars appearance marks the last hour. Helen and I lived one summer when we were first married, in a house with a view of the sea and of the lighthouse of San Sebastian. After sundown, but while it was still light, we would sit outside and drink a glass of something. A bat would appear each night flying once round our table and then be gone. The moment it left us the lighthouse would light up. As the long summer progressed into Autumn the time by the clock of these events crept earlier and earlier but the sequence was always the same. The bat would circle. The light would gleam.
That moment is the last hour of the ancient day and men and women sense it as much as bats and lighthouse keepers. And once a month the new moon hangs in the western sky and on truly auspicious evenings the evening star keeps it company.
And with that moon, we know a month of evenings has passed and another is about to begin.
As the sun appeared, Cleopatra’s Needle and all her companions became the day time clocks. The inhabitants of busy metropolitan cities in the east could tell with a glance at her shadow which of the daylight hours it was.
During the day, water clocks were used for timing more precise shorter intervals, from the length of a court hearing to the baking of cakes. After sundown they were useful for timing the night watches for wakeful guardians.
Marcus Aurelius the great Roman Emperor left some wonderful meditations on what it is to be human and in one of them, unwittingly I think, he gives us an insight into one wakeful guardian, a sentry on guard duty in an armed camp. He is speaking about death and how to behave when that time comes and he says,’ be like a soldier on sentry duty, stay watchful. When you feel the hand of your replacement on your shoulder, do not make a fuss but stand aside quietly and take your leave’.
He is describing I think an essential military drill but imagine it. Have you seen the film? Gladiator with Russel Crowe, yes Richard Harris. Where are we then. Germany, forests, wolves and some very ferocious enemies about. It’s a dark night and you are on duty. Been there a few hours staring at the forest, all ears. Suddenly a hand on your shoulder? A muffled shriek more like. Or an ‘ Oh my God don’t Do that!’ Or if you’re the replacement and don’t want to be stabbed first, official enquiry afterwards, you might try a little cough as you come up behind the guy, surely. Or a tuneless whistle?
No sign of my father’s, ‘ Halt who goes there! Advance friend and be recognised!’ Who makes these drills up? Not a Marcus Aurelius that’s for sure. He knew about surviving in hostile territory. At least not until.. no I wont spoil the film if you haven’t seen it. I reflect now on the relaxed state of total awareness behind such trusting communications which the Legions must have cultivated when on duty.
From Latitude (unpublished ) by J.L.
congratulations David---the 1.65 was delicious.
May 22nd club. June 2nd
We took part in Gavin's funeral today by webcam.It was a comforting experience a beautiful tribute to Gavin.John and I then went into Alicante and walked along the beach and watched the sun coming up over the sea.We came home for breakfast and had a long sleep.
I wakened up feeling much better with a huge sense of gratitude for my 43 year long friendship with Gavin.
I chose to read the introduction to A Gift from the Sea"
( I felt I got a gift from the sea this morning, hope returning)
Introduction.
I began these pages for myself,in order to think out my own particular pattern of living,my own individual balance of life,work and human relationships. And since I think better with pencil in hand,i started naturally to write.
I had the feeling,when the thoughts first clarified on paper,that my experience was very different from other people's. (Are we all under this illusion?) My situation had,in certain ways, more freedom than that of most people,and in certain other ways,much less.
Besides,I thought,not all woman are searching for a new pattern of living,or want a contemplative corner of their own. Many woman are content with their lives as they are.They manage amazingly well,far better that I,it seemed to me,looking at hheir lives from the outside.With envy and admiration, I observed the porcelain perfection of their smoothly ticking days.Perhaps they had no problems,or had found the answers long ago.No I decided,these discussions would have value and interest only for myself.
But as I went on writing and simultaneously talking with other woman,young and old with different lives and experience--those who supported themselves,those who wished careers,those who were hard-working housewives and mothers,and those with more ease--
I found that my point of view was not unique. In varying settings and under different forms,I discovered that many woman and men,too, were grappling with essentially the same questions as I,and were hungry to discuss and argue and hammer out possible answers.Even those whose lives had appeared to be ticking imperturbably under their smiling clock-faces were often trying,like me,to evolve another rhythm with more creative pauses in it,more adjustment to their individual needs,and new and more alive relationships to themselves as well as others.
And so gradually,these chapters,fed by conversations,arguements and revelations from men and woman of all groups, became more than my individual story,until I decided in the end to give them back to the people who shared and stimulated many of these thoughts. here ,then,with my warm feelings of gratitude and companionship for those working along the same lines,I return my gift from the sea.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
John chose Shakespeare ,he also had a sense of the cloud being lifted,and he chose ,a favourite of mine, because it is mentioned in Sense and Sensibility Jane Austen
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet 116 W.S.
I wakened up feeling much better with a huge sense of gratitude for my 43 year long friendship with Gavin.
I chose to read the introduction to A Gift from the Sea"
( I felt I got a gift from the sea this morning, hope returning)
Introduction.
I began these pages for myself,in order to think out my own particular pattern of living,my own individual balance of life,work and human relationships. And since I think better with pencil in hand,i started naturally to write.
I had the feeling,when the thoughts first clarified on paper,that my experience was very different from other people's. (Are we all under this illusion?) My situation had,in certain ways, more freedom than that of most people,and in certain other ways,much less.
Besides,I thought,not all woman are searching for a new pattern of living,or want a contemplative corner of their own. Many woman are content with their lives as they are.They manage amazingly well,far better that I,it seemed to me,looking at hheir lives from the outside.With envy and admiration, I observed the porcelain perfection of their smoothly ticking days.Perhaps they had no problems,or had found the answers long ago.No I decided,these discussions would have value and interest only for myself.
But as I went on writing and simultaneously talking with other woman,young and old with different lives and experience--those who supported themselves,those who wished careers,those who were hard-working housewives and mothers,and those with more ease--
I found that my point of view was not unique. In varying settings and under different forms,I discovered that many woman and men,too, were grappling with essentially the same questions as I,and were hungry to discuss and argue and hammer out possible answers.Even those whose lives had appeared to be ticking imperturbably under their smiling clock-faces were often trying,like me,to evolve another rhythm with more creative pauses in it,more adjustment to their individual needs,and new and more alive relationships to themselves as well as others.
And so gradually,these chapters,fed by conversations,arguements and revelations from men and woman of all groups, became more than my individual story,until I decided in the end to give them back to the people who shared and stimulated many of these thoughts. here ,then,with my warm feelings of gratitude and companionship for those working along the same lines,I return my gift from the sea.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
John chose Shakespeare ,he also had a sense of the cloud being lifted,and he chose ,a favourite of mine, because it is mentioned in Sense and Sensibility Jane Austen
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet 116 W.S.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
May 22nd club. June 1st
Castlenel.
This is the night before Gavin's funeral.
i feel upset and weird yet determind to keep the routine going as routine really does help.
John chose the last few lines of
" Frost as Midnight"
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness,
or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch
smokes in the sun thaw; whether the eave drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles
Quietly shining in the quiet moon
I felt the need to cheer us up so I read a passage from "Whatever makes you Happy"
by william sutcliffe
Carol Mat t's mother arrived out of the blue, a most unusual event,and Matt's rather nervously to hear what has brought her here.
"Well" she said,allowing her body the slightest of yields to the temptations of modern upholstery,"I've been having a long hard think and you are my only child,and..."
"Is somebody ill?!Are you ok that matt had ever heard.
"I'm fine,everyone is fine.I am just trying to say that I feel as if our relationship has fizzled away to nothing. I don't think i know you anymore.And i would like to rectify that."
this was the scariest Matt had ever heard.The hairs on his neck prickled and his tongue went numb.Maori war dances were less frightening.
"So I thought maybe i would move in for a few days",continued Carol."You've got a spare room. I won't be any trouble.in fact,I'll help out.This place could do with a tidy.just a week or so.Untill we know who each other is again.I thought if i said it on the phone you wouldn't understand,and you'd think of some excuse,so i decided to just turn up"
Carol downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp."I'm dog tired" she continued"mind if I turn in?"
and with that ,she stood and made for the spare room,pausing on the way to pick up a capacious abg she had concealed under a draped raincoat."I am sure we won't be bored," she said perkily,shutting the door behind her.
matt was too shocked to respond,or even move.He realised that his mouth ws open,but no sound had emerged.
Of all the apocalyptic scenarios that had been running through his mind since her arrival,this was one he had never even begun to imagine.
What on earth could have prompted this?
A week?
She came out of the spare room a minute or so later,wearing a nightie,clutching a faded purple sponge-bag mattvaguely recognised,and gave him a quick thin smile as she walked rapidly passed.As she was closing the bathroom door,Matt heard himself himself stuttering,"But wwhat about Dad?"
"Seven frozen lasanges,"
The door clicked shut and locked.
When she re-emerged,the sight of his Mother's legs renderded Matt speechless,as she disappeared into the bedroom before a word of protest passed her lips.
This is the night before Gavin's funeral.
i feel upset and weird yet determind to keep the routine going as routine really does help.
John chose the last few lines of
" Frost as Midnight"
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness,
or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch
smokes in the sun thaw; whether the eave drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles
Quietly shining in the quiet moon
I felt the need to cheer us up so I read a passage from "Whatever makes you Happy"
by william sutcliffe
Carol Mat t's mother arrived out of the blue, a most unusual event,and Matt's rather nervously to hear what has brought her here.
"Well" she said,allowing her body the slightest of yields to the temptations of modern upholstery,"I've been having a long hard think and you are my only child,and..."
"Is somebody ill?!Are you ok that matt had ever heard.
"I'm fine,everyone is fine.I am just trying to say that I feel as if our relationship has fizzled away to nothing. I don't think i know you anymore.And i would like to rectify that."
this was the scariest Matt had ever heard.The hairs on his neck prickled and his tongue went numb.Maori war dances were less frightening.
"So I thought maybe i would move in for a few days",continued Carol."You've got a spare room. I won't be any trouble.in fact,I'll help out.This place could do with a tidy.just a week or so.Untill we know who each other is again.I thought if i said it on the phone you wouldn't understand,and you'd think of some excuse,so i decided to just turn up"
Carol downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp."I'm dog tired" she continued"mind if I turn in?"
and with that ,she stood and made for the spare room,pausing on the way to pick up a capacious abg she had concealed under a draped raincoat."I am sure we won't be bored," she said perkily,shutting the door behind her.
matt was too shocked to respond,or even move.He realised that his mouth ws open,but no sound had emerged.
Of all the apocalyptic scenarios that had been running through his mind since her arrival,this was one he had never even begun to imagine.
What on earth could have prompted this?
A week?
She came out of the spare room a minute or so later,wearing a nightie,clutching a faded purple sponge-bag mattvaguely recognised,and gave him a quick thin smile as she walked rapidly passed.As she was closing the bathroom door,Matt heard himself himself stuttering,"But wwhat about Dad?"
"Seven frozen lasanges,"
The door clicked shut and locked.
When she re-emerged,the sight of his Mother's legs renderded Matt speechless,as she disappeared into the bedroom before a word of protest passed her lips.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
May 31st. May 22nd Club
Los Angeles
I have been so sad all day I listened to some old favourite pieces of music and found it so powerful for evoking feelings and memories.
I thought this passage from "simple abundance" on loss, was right for tonight May 22nd club.
October 18
Loss as muse. Loss as character.Loss as Life.
Sarah Ban Breathnach begins by talking about a group of woman who go off on a day trip by plane,sadly they never come back because the planne crashes.
" If we are alive,we cannot escape loss.Loss is part of real life."Have you ever thought,when something dreadful happens,a moment ago things were not like this; let it be then and not now,anything but know?" the English novelist Mary Stewart asks."And you try and try to remake then,but you know you can't. So you hold try to hold the moment quite still and not let it move on and show itself."
Today might be tough for you.You might not want the next moment to show itself,to reveal the twists and turns of life's mystery. But at least you have it.You still have life.A choice as to how you will live this precious day.
Don't wish it away.Don't waste it.For the love of all that is holy,redeem one hour.Hold it close.Cherish it.Above all,be grateful foor it. Let your thanksgiving rise above the din of dissapointment--opportunities lost,mistakes made,the clamor of all that has not yet come.
And if today is so horrendous that the gift doen.t seem worth acknowledging,if you can't find one moment to enjoy,one simple pleasure to savor,one friend to call,one person to love,one thing to share,one smile to offer;if life is so difficult that you don't want to bother living it to the fullest,then don't live today for yourself.
Live it for Nancy,Cheryl,Valerie,kathleen,Gilda,Elizabeth,Patricia( and may I add ) Gavin.
We talked about the truth in this passage and cried a little more.
Then John thought is was time for some Burn's poetry and what better that Tam o 'Shanter.to bring a little laughter to the May 22nd club this evening.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm. -
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
We were able to laugh talk about "cutty sark"- short shirt-- or the winsome wich.
And remember with great affection my beloved Grandfather who recited this poem with a genuine scots tongue and great myrth
I have been so sad all day I listened to some old favourite pieces of music and found it so powerful for evoking feelings and memories.
I thought this passage from "simple abundance" on loss, was right for tonight May 22nd club.
October 18
Loss as muse. Loss as character.Loss as Life.
Sarah Ban Breathnach begins by talking about a group of woman who go off on a day trip by plane,sadly they never come back because the planne crashes.
" If we are alive,we cannot escape loss.Loss is part of real life."Have you ever thought,when something dreadful happens,a moment ago things were not like this; let it be then and not now,anything but know?" the English novelist Mary Stewart asks."And you try and try to remake then,but you know you can't. So you hold try to hold the moment quite still and not let it move on and show itself."
Today might be tough for you.You might not want the next moment to show itself,to reveal the twists and turns of life's mystery. But at least you have it.You still have life.A choice as to how you will live this precious day.
Don't wish it away.Don't waste it.For the love of all that is holy,redeem one hour.Hold it close.Cherish it.Above all,be grateful foor it. Let your thanksgiving rise above the din of dissapointment--opportunities lost,mistakes made,the clamor of all that has not yet come.
And if today is so horrendous that the gift doen.t seem worth acknowledging,if you can't find one moment to enjoy,one simple pleasure to savor,one friend to call,one person to love,one thing to share,one smile to offer;if life is so difficult that you don't want to bother living it to the fullest,then don't live today for yourself.
Live it for Nancy,Cheryl,Valerie,kathleen,Gilda,Elizabeth,Patricia( and may I add ) Gavin.
We talked about the truth in this passage and cried a little more.
Then John thought is was time for some Burn's poetry and what better that Tam o 'Shanter.to bring a little laughter to the May 22nd club this evening.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm. -
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
We were able to laugh talk about "cutty sark"- short shirt-- or the winsome wich.
And remember with great affection my beloved Grandfather who recited this poem with a genuine scots tongue and great myrth
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