A perfect medium to capture Venice
“There is a place where voices sing your beauty;
a place where every breath carves your image in my soul.”~Rumi
Italian Hibiscus
We arrived in Rarotonga, Cook Islands in the early hours of the morning, buds seemed to be scattered on every surface in our room. We awoke to the sight of fully opened brilliant red blooms. Since that day Hibiscus flowers remind me of the tropics.
I was pleased to see these beauties in Sorrento, Italy.
Sore throat memory
I had managed to dodge the coughs and colds during this unusually warm Antipodean Winter until this week. My throat feels like I’ve been gargling with broken glass. The last time my throat felt like this I was 10 years old. I remember waking up lying on my back, unable to move anything but my head as I was pinned down in bed by well tucked in stiff, crunchy sheets and blankets.
I opened my eyes a fraction, the ceiling seemed so far away, the highest I’d ever seen. When I turned my head to the right a marble fireplace against brown and cream walls came into view. I could hear the sound of hard soled shoes slapping and squeaking on a highly polished brown Lino floor. To my left and opposite there were other beds in the room and the murmur of people talking in hushed tones. My throat was so sore that it hurt to speak, relief came in the form of a nurse telling me that I needed to eat ice cream and jelly for tea and cornflakes for breakfast.
Having tonsils removed is now a day procedure, for me back in 1973 it involved three days stay in the Birmingham and Midland Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital. A grand Victorian red brick and terracotta tile building in Edmund Street. The Grade II listed building built 1890-91, by Jethro Cossins & Peacock in a classical “Queen Anne” style opened as a hospital in 1891 and closed in 1989.
The image is the front of a card from my family during my stay in hospital.
References:
Birmingham Roundabout
The Victorian Society – Brimingham
Go Historic
Harsh reality
Even though we lived in a south western suburb of Birmingham I felt a strong connection to nature. A chain-link fence ‘protected’ us from the wilds of neighbouring Welsh House Farm, it was a thrill to climb through a gap in the fence, to enter a secret world and to explore the overgrown fields and tumbledown buildings. Life in the grove was pretty uneventful, until one day I was woken up by the sound of unearthly screams. In one swift movement I threw back the bri-nylon sheet, blanket and candlewick bedspread and jumped out of bed.
Cool early morning light shone down the wall from beneath grey cotton curtains emblazoned with red, green, blue and yellow steam trains. Cautiously I peeped out between the curtains, by now the screaming had turned to an unpleasant chugging noise like an impatient lawn mower. I opened the curtains to find a scene of peace and quiet in the back garden. “Eeeeooow zzzzzow” I ran into my brother’s bedroom, the noise was louder, I still couldn’t see anything. I retrieved my slippers and ran to the front door, it was wide open. Gingerly I went out into the hallway of the building. The sounds were deafening, rebounding from wall to floor to ceiling, up and down the stairs making the painted metal balusters sing.
One of the neighbours was standing in the doorway to the front of the flats, I squeezed past her to join my mother and younger brother standing among a disorderly group of onlookers with silent faces gawping at the source of the noise. Just beyond an army of battered, yellow, monster JCB diggers, that weren’t there yesterday, a man wielding a smoke breathing chainsaw was slicing into the bark of my beloved horse chestnut tree. With wide movements he was making cuts into the side of the defenceless tree that had provided tons of conkers for us to collect, pickle, skewer and thread onto strings. In what seemed like a few moments a gruff voice told us to keep back. Obediently we shuffled back a couple of inches. There was a creaking and groaning followed by “snap, whoosh, thunk, rustle” as my friendly giant lay gracefully down.
By tea time the tree’s tangled branches and strong protective trunk lay lifeless on the ground, ready to be loaded onto trucks and taken away. On the following day the diggers removed the stump, churning up the surrounding grass in the process. By the end of the week calm had returned to the grove, however the diggers stood ominously in the spot where I used to evade capture in games of hide-and-seek. A foreboding washed through me as I wept for the loss of my friend.
Five images of Welsh House Farm by Nicklin, Phyllis (1961) (Unpublished images) University of Birmingham: Welsh House Farm
Not too big or too small
An insightful post !
Modern science is finding out that a lot can be learned from contemplative traditions, both in the East, as seen in Ajahn Sucitto’s quote this morning, and in the West, as can be seen in monastic orders like the Cistercians both here at Bolton Abbey in Ireland or all around the world. They both emphasize the health benefits of sitting still, which has effects on brain function, even in small doses.
The claim…that stillness of body leads to stillness of mind is not the exclusive preserve of Indian traditions: the desert fathers maintained that simply sitting still, preferably on or close to the ground, would greatly aid their attempts to keep the mind focused and thus resist the distracting chatter of demons. To sit still is to be present, and fully attentive to what is. How often do we really give our undivided attention to the things we do, or…
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Moving between worlds
I find it too easy for my inner vision to be clouded by every day concerns and responsibilities; my physical life often weighs heavy on my heart. The physical world is also provides the key for my sprit to be unshackled and to regain flight.
Knowing the cues
The sound of the breeze through trees; the swish of the sea on the shore; the scent of jasmine; or the sight of a gently flickering candle help me to make an inner connection, however this doesn’t always do the trick.
The next step
I have written posts about the challenge of capturing as many ideas as possible when my mind is abuzz with inspiration. When the opposite is true, it is like casting a fine mesh net into a sluggish sea. Most of the brainwaves flow through and only a small number of seeds of inspiration are collected.
As with all fishing, patience and taking a break can help achieve a result. As my thoughts spark, connect and add substance to the seeds, they often prove to be a catalyst for something worthwhile. Even if I don’t succeed, beating myself up about it isn’t productive and there will usually be an opportunity to have another go.
Related posts
Butterfly Thoughts
Creative Passion
Oscar Wilde | At Verona
AT VERONA
by Oscar Wilde
HOW steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound’s table,–better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.
‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day’–
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars
I do possess what none can take away,
My love, and all the glory of the stars.
This week is a bit of a change from the norm…as I decided to feature one of my favourite writers. He was a flamboyant character, with a sly humour and…
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Marvellous light
In the midst of dank intestinal twists,
A fetid cavernous abyss lies, where
Forgotten rheumy eyed daemons languish.
In the gloom, glowering grotesque gremlins
Grab ghostly globules from around a tomb.
Glistening silver threads of ectoplasm,
Crisscross overhead caught in pinprick shafts
Of moonlight. Crystalline walls emit a
Faint rose pink light, gently pulsing, adding
Incorporeal warmth to the womb like room.
Rise from the depths of despair, grasp the flame
Within, shine it on the sinuous path,
Marvel in the power of inner light.
(c) Robert Jones 2013, All Rights Reserved
Grains of creation
Everything connected through energy,
Atoms linked include the seen and unseen,
What has past, what is now and what will be,
Particles joined, grains of creation.
(c) Robert Jones 2013, All Rights Reserved
Picture credit: Hubble Heritage Team (AURA/STScI/NASA/ESA)
Chalk bytes
Playing with ArtStudio at the weekend reminded me of primary school; we were equipped with wooden lift topped desks although we didn’t use the inkwells. I remember having and using a personally assigned timber framed rectangular slate and white chalk. Compared to todays high tech world this period of change from nib and ink to ball point and felt tip pen was like upgrading operating systems.
theINFP 