Trust my timing

This has a special meaning for me right now. After Christmas, perhaps because I was just recovering from Covid, I started to feel that I should prepare to move house, to downsize to a flat that would be future-proof, or as much so as any place can be. This came unexpectedly. I'd often thought that 'one day' I'd do this, but then lately I'd been thinking that flats were not a good investment and I'd be better staying put in this house (where I've been for nearly 25 very happy years) and making sure I was fit enough to manage it. The sense strongly came that I should start to declutter, to get rid of all the things I've accumulated that I really didn't need - and once I started it was surprisingly easy.  The hardest bit isn't deciding what should go but, once decided, getting it out of the house to the charity shop or the tip or wherever. I've more or less completed that stage now. I've been praying to be guided to the right place at the right time, and sensing and trying to be obedient to the promptings - viewing a couple of flats when they came up, putting my name on the waiting list for a complex I like, getting the details of my house logged with an estate agent ready to 'go' when I wanted to sell. Various avenues for various reasons proved to be not the right direction.  Then a couple of weeks ago I was contacted by the site manager via the waiting list to say a flat had come up there. I viewed it, it feels right, I've made an offer. I've put my house up for sale, I've had viewings and offers this week.... but until my offer on the flat is confirmed I can't do anything - and I've not yet heard the results of the most recent viewings either. I'm champing at the bit but I can't do a thing to progress it; it's all in the hands of others right now... and firmly in God's hands, I believe. I've really sought to be patient, obedient and discerning. I'm sure God is saying: 'I've heard your prayers, now trust me.' I'm really trying to. 

Autumn musings

'It was a beautiful, bright autumn day, with air like cider and a sky so blue you could drown in it.'   

Diana Gabaldon

'How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.'  
John Burroughs

We've had quite a few of those beautiful, bright, blue sky autumn days and they do lift one's spirits. For most of us in the UK, spirits are badly in need of lifting, what with the mess the government is in, the lack of true leadership or even common-sense, the energy crisis, the cost of living crisis, the effects of Brexit, the war in Ukraine, the climate change crisis - to mention just a few things, in no particular order. I can't ever recall a time, even when things have seemed 'bad' before, that things nationally and internationally have been in quite such a storm. (Nearly said s***storm and that's what I mean!) Nevertheless, I'm enormously grateful to be where I am, at this stage of life, with everything that I really need and knowing too that my family are as resilient as they can be to weather these storms. I alternate between feeling angry, sad, ashamed, worried... But no amount of worry makes any difference; there's little most of us 'ordinary people' can do apart from what many of us always do, which is to take responsibility for our own lives; vote sensibly when we get chance! ; notice, care and try to support others where we can and nurture ourselves with food, sleep, exercise and whatever calms one's own particular soul. 

As is obvious from my blogs, my own main 'calming' comes from nature. Just being out in the fresh air, walking and enjoying the rhythmic movement of my own body, noticing all the small things - the birds, trees and other aspects of nature's bounty; the colours; the light and how it affects the scene; the sounds; the scents - all those are gifts. Sometimes I'm able to capture some of those gifts in a photo and then I can share a little of what I experienced with others. If I can write an uplifting blog post or share a beautiful picture, I know that there are a few people, perhaps less able to get out themselves, for whom that picture and those few words might provide interest, a spark of reminiscence or a little hint of pleasure in an otherwise quiet day. That in itself is worth celebrating, I guess, though that is not why I take photos and write my blogs, which is entirely a matter of self-interest and self care. It makes me feel better, brings me joy, provides a focus (if you'll excuse the pun). Similarly there are many who bring me joy, in the same way, through their blogs, their writing or their art and photography. 

Each of our seasons (and I'm glad to live in a country that does have definable seasons) has its own merits. Personally my favourite time of year is spring, when warmth creeps in, light rises, soft greens unfurl, flowers and blossom appear - bluebells and cherry blossom being particular treats for me. Spring also seems full of new beginnings, fresh starts, new energy. My whole being starts to uncurl in step with nature. I wake from sleep, stretch, feel energised. 

Then, I suppose, autumn would be my second favourite time of year, though somehow I feel I never quite make the most of it. It has echoes of a new school year (even so very many years since I started one!) It's a bit of a blank page, rather intimidating somehow. The lifestyle magazines are full of warm colours - reds, oranges, russets and browns - none of which are 'my' colours. There are cosy throws, mulled wine, candles, a sense of closing in, snuggling down. Hygge is the trendy word: a mood of cosiness and 'comfortable conviviality', with feelings of wellness and contentment. Bearing in mind that many of my autumns start (as this one has done) with a not-very-healthy dose of a heavy cold (blame children and grandchildren going back to school!) and it doesn't somehow help me to find that mood. Nor does the fading of the light, our long northern nights. 

I'm not a huge follower of astrology, I have to say, but my star sign is an air sign, whereas autumn always seems to be about earth and fire. (Even in that photo at the top, I thrill as much to the blue sky as the russet leaves.) So the season never seems to be a good fit for me. It does, however, lend itself to musings. As Nietzsche said: 

'Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.' 

For me there is some grief in there, a sense of things slipping away. It's not called 'Fall' for nothing. Yes, I know things in nature often have to die before they are reborn; I know all about there being times and seasons for everything and I respect that, yet I still feel sad. I still feel like cutting myself off from the world, even the conviviality that others can create. I want to hibernate. It feels cold, not cosy. I wonder what autumn and winter must have been like for my ancestors who were farmers, out in all weathers, breaking the ice on the water trough so their stock could drink. I wonder how my coal miner forebears could bear the monotony of going to work in the dark, working all day in the dark and then going home in the dark, to sleep in the dark. Must have needed a lot of forbearance. 

Things change; new generations reinterpret things in new ways and yet often have to learn again many of 'the old ways' in order truly to survive and thrive. 

'And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves...' 
Virginia Woolf

'Another fall, another turned page...' 

Wallace Stegner

Cathedrals of industry

I took this double-exposure image on a recent visit to an exhibition in the roof space at Salts Mill. The vast spaces up there always inspire me as much as whatever event I've gone to see. The roof trusses remind me of the arches in cathedrals. This one, made of wood and iron, was leaking a rust stain down the stone wall. I've overlaid it with a rather battered and random piece of metal gridwork I found, screwed to the wall and fashioned as though it were small shelves or a rack, though for what purpose I have no idea.  

It got me thinking that, in their own way, our northern textile mills, these relics of the Industrial Revolution, were truly 'the cathedrals of industry'. I'm glad that some, like Salts Mill, are able to be preserved and appreciated for their scale and the quality of the work that went into the buildings themselves, not to mention the craftmanship of the machinery (like spinning machines and looms) that filled them - and the fine fabrics they ultimately produced in large quantities.

'And no bobbins and spindles and shuttles are left

Where weavers once tended the warp and the weft

To fettle to fabric with fine-spun thin threads

But axes have fallen and silenced the sheds.'       C Richard Miles

'A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.'   Antoine de Saint-Exupery

(For 'rock pile', please read 'textile mill'.) 

'I went and looked at one of these great cathedrals one day, and I was blown away by it. From there I became interested in how cathedrals were built, and from there I became interested in the society that built the medieval cathedral. It occurred to me at some point that the story of the building of a cathedral could be a great popular novel.'    Ken Follett

The story of the building of Sir Titus Salt's great mill and his village of Saltaire is told many times in many books - though I don't know of a novel yet. And what a story it is; what a legacy he left us!

'Beauty is not generic, bland, and clinical. It isn't all things to all people. The Cathedral of Notre Dame in its endlessly intricate detail was beautiful. Modern office buildings are not.'   Michael J. Knowles

One of the aspects of Salts Mill that continually blows my mind is the elaborate detail that adorns it. The Victorians were never interested in utilitarian architecture. These buildings were statements about their founders, in a way that our bland modern office blocks are not. 

'For me, the reason why people go to a mountaintop or go to the edge of the ocean is to look at something larger than themselves. That feeling of awe, of going to a cathedral, it's all about feeling lost in something bigger than oneself. To me, that's the definition of spectacle.'  Diane Paulus

'But the first step inside, and a silent gasp -

it's bigger inside than outside...

and the sound of your steps soars to the high

indescribably glorious roof like a

small bird looking for an escape....

and you feel an intruder into the space of history

waiting for you to find your place.'   Michael Shepherd

Broody!

My Facebook feed throws up all sorts of enticing things (as well as stuff that I would never be interested in - and some things where I can't even begin to imagine what they are!) Today it excelled, with a whole piece about a company closing down and getting rid of its stock of Waldorf dolls. Now, I'm sad that so many small businesses seem to be closing (and don't get me going on a political rant!) But all these dolls needing homes.... 😢 Aww. I almost ordered up the whole lot! 

I have to confess I'm a sucker for dolls and always have been. I still have two or three, that belonged either to me or to my daughter. I have of course, as an involved gran, supplied a number of dolls to both my granddaughters at various times, one of which happened to be a Waldorf doll. (They have minimal features and natural materials and are supposed to be designed so that a child can project their imagination onto them.)  Perhaps strangely, the girls never really seemed to 'take' to dolls for very long. The cuddly toys that have had lasting impact for them have always been of an animal kind - dogs, cats, even monkeys and sloths have been carted around until their fabric has worn thin. Even my daughter favoured a large stuffed Eeyore character that one of my friends made for her when she was born. I think it is still just about 'alive and kicking' in their house somewhere. 

So, no more dolls, though I was truly tempted by these adorable munchkins. (That little moppet in the blue hat, with the rabbit... 😍😍😍)

In memoriam

I came across this beautiful bouquet of roses on a bench on Shipley Glen, no doubt intended as a memorial to one of the people named on the bench. It struck me as an extravagant gesture and made me wonder about the nature of love and loss. 

One of my early memories is visiting the town's cemetery with my mother, to lay flowers at the grave of her mother, who died just before I was born. I know it was a heart-breaking and life-changing loss for my mother. I don't think she ever really got over it. It may even have been a factor in my parents buying a plot of land right beside the cemetery, where they built their home. The flower-leaving habit gradually diminished and, as far as I recall, other members of the family (including my mother's father) were cremated, though my grandad's name was added to the gravestone where his wife was buried. 

Then my parents were both cremated and the only tangible memorial to them is entries in the Book of Remembrance at the local crematorium. My mother wished to scatter my father's ashes in the crematorium grounds, within sight of our family home - and, out of respect, my sister and I took my mother's ashes to the same spot. My sister then went up there every year for a few years, to mark the anniversary. I (emphatically) did not. To be honest, it wasn't something that really meant anything to me and I sometimes wonder why not? Am I odd or unfeeling? I'm pretty sure I'm not but, despite (or perhaps because of?) professing to be a Christian, I feel sure that after death a person's body doesn't have any meaning. My memories are there in my mind and places are not that significant. 

That doesn't stop me being curious to (re)visit 'family places' or to photograph significant things, and I am hugely enjoying researching our family tree, which activity in itself feels often like honouring those who went before and to whom, collectively, I owe my existence. But I don't feel any sense of loss or of trying consciously to illuminate or heal anything, in doing so. 

Perhaps the greatest loss I feel I've suffered - thus far, and thankfully - was my marriage break-up, a long time ago now. I once read a quote from Madeleine Albright, former US Secretary of State in Clinton's administration. She said: 'Divorce has been catastrophic in my life. It would have been easier if he'd died.' That so sums up my own feelings, though I have largely and successfully worked this through to a place where I am at mostly ease with myself and don't really think a great deal about it (or him) any more. Perhaps if he had died, almost certainly if my child had died, I'd want rituals and flower-leaving to help deal with the loss. I can only hope that whoever left the beautiful yellow roses did feel it helped. 

Ocean

'You can either see yourself as a wave in the ocean or you can see yourself as the ocean.' 

(Oprah Winfrey)

'The ocean has a life of its own. Its tides, whirlpools, currents and eddies are 
a testament to its conflicting emotions.' 
(Anthony T. Hincks)

Walking the other day and listening to my own heart (as you do) I felt like the ocean. On the surface all is relatively calm, even sometimes sun-kissed, with a myriad little sparkling diamonds and turquoise, luminous depths. The waves are mostly gentle, lapping the shore. There is a pattern to the tides, not exactly the same each day but still reliable, orderly, dependable. Sometimes I hit against rocks, painfully, spray surging up with the impact - and then that too ebbs away. But I am also aware of undercurrents, rip tides, strong and tugging, trying to pull me down. In places they boil into whirlpools. I fight but perhaps the best strategy is to let myself go with it and bob up somewhere else, lifted on to a different shore.  Some day, I suppose, I will drown, claimed by the depths. Maybe by then I won't mind. 

Heavenly host

I popped into Sandsend's little Victorian church, St Mary's, whilst I was on holiday. It had all these paper angels flying around the nave - rather pretty. It also had a yoga class going on and I think the instructor thought I was taking a photo of all the ladies lying on their mats! I didn't hang around!

I do find I love depictions of angels, in graveyards and in paintings: all those cute, chubby little cherubim, especially that wonderful pair in Raphael's 'Sistine Madonna' painting.  There are angels mentioned many times in the Bible, and some people believe they are here on earth as well as in heaven. I tend to think our angels don't have wings...  It is, however, somehow comforting to me to think that we may each have a guardian angel. There have been times in my life when I felt maybe there was an angel nearby watching out for me. When my daughter first left home for university, one of the ways I coped was to pray and believe that there would be an angel watching over her. I still remember the tingle I felt when I went to visit her and looked out of the window of her room. Although it was a fairly modern accommodation block, it was adjacent to a much older building with fancy carved stonework - and yes, there was a stone angel there, looking over and into her room. 

"For it is written: 'He will command his angels concerning you to guard you carefully.'" Luke 4:10

'See, I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared.' Exodus 23:20

"And suddenly there appeared with the angel a great multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying:: 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favour rests!'" Luke 2:13

Retreating

This painting, a watercolour called 'Medieval hall' by Rachel Wood, was hanging above the desk in my room at the retreat house where I stayed in Sleights. (The copyright will be hers, not mine, and I hope there is no objection to me sharing it.) The more I looked at it, the more I appreciated it - the soft, loose strokes and gentle neutral tones appealed to me very much. It's the kind of scene I'd photograph if I came across it. Furthermore the empty, cell-like space increasingly spoke to me. 

The week I was away coincided with a heatwave, not the record temperatures we had a few weeks ago but still too hot for me to feel comfortable by the afternoon. (I don't know how I do it... That's the third holiday I've had in succession that coincided with a heatwave - 2019, 2021 and now 2022! Different weeks too.) Some people would love the sunshine but I like to explore and walk on my holidays and it was too hot to do that.  So the week, for me, turned into a bit of a challenge to my boredom thresholds. The wi-fi at the retreat house is, sadly or perhaps deliberately, abysmal, only properly available in one room  and even then so slow as to be fairly impossible to use successfully. So, perhaps fortuitously, my 'go-to' time-waster wasn't readily available! That still left books to read and I finished one and started another, and managed to restore to some extent my powers of concentration, generally rather badly eroded by too much reliance on tech/computer/iPad. 

The week also provided, for me, a way back into a regular rhythm of shared prayer and worship, since guests are invited to join the community in their chapel for short services of morning and evening prayer. Since Covid came along and we all had to lock-down, my regular church going has broken down. I did try a couple of services once things were going back to normal (or as normal as they are now) but I found problems with hearing properly and difficult issues with wearing a mask and specs at the same time, and things went on too long for comfort and then I was pinged by the NHS app for 'being in close contact with someone who later tested positive for Covid' - and it turned out I'd been surrounded by about-to-be-ill people! Though I didn't myself succumb (as far as I know!) that was pretty off-putting. So I haven't so far been back. I suppose I should make the effort again but it hasn't really felt as though it has impacted my faith or my personal rhythm of quiet prayer time. I was having issues before with all sorts of aspects of 'church', which are not resolved...

Anyway, the gentle, quiet discipline of short times of shared worship proved comforting. The Community use several parts of the Northumbria Community's Celtic devotions and, having used those myself (and indeed spent time with the Northumbria Community in the past) it was familiar, like rediscovering a favourite and comfortable garment. I have resolved to go back to using those verses again at home. When the worship sticks to a liturgy that is incredibly helpful to me (being deaf), though I can never hear people's offered prayers, which feels both slightly annoying and slightly disenfranchising, since I dare not pray aloud myself in case I'm just repeating or cutting across someone else. Never mind, I just pray my own prayers in those bits.

On the Thursday evening before I left on Friday, there was a simple, shared Communion, the first I have taken since before lockdown. So that felt warming and nourishing, soul food. 

Retreating... re-treating... perhaps moving forwards rather than backwards? 

'Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.'  Psalm 118.