Picked from the garden.
Once upon a time there was a cupboard full of toys. One shelf belonged to the cuddly toys, mostly old, worn and threadbare. There was a monkey with scratchy hands and a moth-eaten waist coat, a velvet elephant with a missing ear, a piglet with a missing arm, an assortment of bears and a cat whose whiskers had been pulled out.
A very small boy lived in the house. He had a favourite bear called Teddy. Teddy did not belong in the cupboard with the other bears; he, along with Woolly, the boy’s comfort blanket went everywhere with the boy.
At bedtime, the boy, Teddy and Woolly would go to the cupboard, collect the other cuddlies and, the boy’s arms overflowing, they would all make their way up the stairs to bed.
One evening as the boy struggled to place his short legs one in front of the other on the stairs, he wobbled a bit and the cat fell from the pile bouncing down the steps to land at the feet of his sister. She picked it up and tried to give it back to him. But he didn’t want it.
The girl was left holding this dropped, rejected thing. She didn’t want it; had never found a use for stuffed toys. But its rejection tugged at her heart and empathy welled within her. So she took it to her own bed. And there it stayed for years and years; recipient of her confidences, partaker of her hurts and disappointments, sharer in her hopeless dreams; emotional anchor holding her soul in place as she went about her daily life.
Until another claimed her soul and acceptance, not rejection, became the order of the day.
There is a lone daffodil bulb outside my kitchen window which doesn’t flower every year but it holds a special significance for me when it does.
‘The day of the daffodil’ is a phrase that reminds me not to worry unduly about job changes, career problems and the like: in due season things will work out, plans fall into place. Spring brings fresh hope and that daffodil in particular acts as a symbol of hope.
Last week it was there smiling at me, telling me not to be downhearted about a particular hiccup in life. Then a hard frost laid it low. I went out and propped it up with some nearby twigs. I wanted my daffodil smiling its hope. If the flower can stand up and carry on then I too can pick myself up and carry on.
All was well for a couple of days then the wind blew it out from the supporting twigs; I looked out the window and there was my beautiful, brave, bold flower back on the ground. This morning I went to the rescue again complete with a piece of string and tied it to the twigs. Brave and bold, my flower, and, viewed from the window, still beautiful, but close up the battering it has endured shows; the petals are damaged.
That particular flower will not recover but the plant will flower again; if not next year, then
maybe the year after. And in the meantime it is bold and bright.
My battered flower remains a symbol of hope.
One of those happy accidents! a bit of turning out of cupboards revealed a forgotten box of orange flavoured chocolate sticks from a previous Christmas. Somewhat past their sell by date for just eating but stirred into black coffee…
A welcome change from the cinnamon I’ve been using lately.
Clacton beach on New Year’s day
– looks a bit bleak!
But then, it wasn’t the first picture of the year – as I got out the car I spotted spring flowers.
Maybe the New Year has more of a welcome in store than might first appear
Some years contain personal anniversaries that act as inspiration. 2015 was like that – ten years since…
It was the year I met someone who said something that triggered a train of events that has profoundly affected my life.
The immediate thing that comes to mind with 2016 is less positive. The time limit for completing my writing course runs out next month and I only ever completed a quarter of the assignments. In practice, I’ve long since given up the ambition of becoming a professional writer but somehow it rather feels like next month that becomes official.
Still, there’s a positive side to everything; musing on this reminds me that it was comments on the students’ forum that introduced me to blogging and although I’ve not been doing much of this lately, at least it’s s till here whenever I feel like returning.
According to my friend’s regime
I know what I SHOULD do
But I doubt if I’m going to to
There is satisfaction
In ticking tasks off
I used to send myself
Lest I should forget
Or find unstructured time.
I no longer write
So I am free of guilt
That undefined dissatisfaction
From uncompleted items on
Schedule time for the
Yes, I’ve read that too
And maybe we can all live
If we work hard enough
But once the dream
Becomes a SHOULD
We’ve sold our soul
And what’s the point?
It’s hard to relinquish
A lifetime’s ambition
But the journey’s become just a
And wouldn’t I rather live
Relish each moment of life
Than chase the dust
That no longer gleams in
At the end of the rainbow?
Recently I was looking through a bank of pebbles to see if I could find anything worth taking home for him. So many pebbles, all of them slightly different, each beautiful in its own way but none of them quite what I was looking for.