Dream about an object

Gemma, my twin, would be proud of me. I had a dream about an object. Gemma loves objects - she works at a museum. Better still, the object I dreamt about belongs to her. I hope she still has it.

Around our childhood home, and more recently, in Gemma's untidy room there has been a precious, simple glass ball. It is crafted by hand: a thick blown glass ball. It is an Irish fisherman's float, used, before it became an object of aesthetic appreciation, to mark the place where Lobster Men let down their cages. They were traditionally bound by macrame knots to the woven basket cages into which unseen bounty from the depths would crawl, and later be consumed with great gusto! I do not know where our family found it, I seem to recall my Da talking about my Granddad coming across it years ago, on walk along a beach near Dublin. My Granddad died in 1966, so that would have been a long time before I was born. Today is the anniversary of his death.

Of course,  in the world of dreams nothing is quite like it is in reality. In this dream, which began on Sunday night and has persisted, the glass ball is, or contains, all that I am - my life source, my soul, everything I am meant to be. It shines and sparkles. Someone, unseen, protects me, and covers me over with a warm white blanket. I am treasured. 

Then comes a moment of choice. I can stay where I am, or go into the hands of someone else. The person who appears in the dream is a friend, perhaps in his late sixties, that I have not seen in a while, someone I trust completely and knew well in my teenage years. I go to him.  Acting in character, he takes this shining ball of light and throws it as high as he can into the air, and then waits to catch it. Again and again he repeats this process, and I laugh and am happy. Then, as is inevitable, he throws the ball too high, the sunlight catches his eye, and the fisherman's float falls to the floor and smashes into smithereens.

I disappear from the dream. My friend, the old wise and trusted sage, is devastated. He picks up the shards and places them on a tea tray. He carries them indoors, a familiar, homely building - a place where I grew. Then, with great dedication, and working through the night, he sets about gluing together, with superglue, the shards of the orb. The work is a work of sorrow, but also of hope. Eventually, he holds up the fruit of his labour. It is a clumsy object, surrounded by the fat, gloopy lines of white glue, delicate to touch, but hardening fast. Through the small window panels I can see a crouched diminished figure - me - sitting on the floor, hugging my knees, waiting.  My friend looks at me with compassionate pity, and he places his hands over the delicate, handmade orb. Tremendous heat comes from his hands, and through his love, the glass is heated, and the glue melts. The Fisherman's float transforms into a glistening bubble, and begins to float up, up, up.

My friend catches my attention, and calls me to reach out of the bubble. I do so without breaking the surface. I hold his hand and look back. He draws the orb towards me, and places it in my hands. I marvel at the shape, texture and weight of the ball - it is heavy, it should not float - and then, like my friend before me, I throw it into the air and laugh. I am happy. It floats. The first words of the dream happen now, my thoughts: I cannot hold you long enough, and so this is where I should be now - days and nights falling by me. I know of a dream I should be holding. This is where I should be now. Strange how my heart beats.

I do not know a lot about dreams, but I like this one, and I thought it worth recording. I have had it before, I think - when I was 19 years old. I wonder if it has meaning, and I wonder why it has returned to me now.

I should put a recipe here. If you have read this far, you have earned it. Perhaps you could really treat yourself and go and eat lobster. I think that was the first thing a niece of mine ever ate - it was just what the fishermen brought in on their boats. I am going to ask Gemma if she still has that Fisherman's float. I love that object. It sparks such strange dreams, even though it is years since I have seen it.

The New Regime

I woke up last Sunday morning, and before leaving to meet friends for breakfast wrote the following on the chalk board that hangs in our kitchen:

New Regime!

Thou Shalt: 

Go swimming x1+

Go running x1+

Thou Shalt Not:

Drink wine during the week

Eat more chocolate than is reasonable

I do not know quite why Sunday was the day to make these resolutions. It is not as if I have been wandering around for weeks thinking about it. It just happened. 

Of course, I am happy with these plans and am trying to keep them. I had fallen into some bad habits since starting my new job in September. I often leave the house very early and do not return until fairly late in the evening. This can leave me sleepy, which is fine, but more dangerously, it can leave me lazy. I am disinclined to get up and go and exercise and inclined to pour a large glass of wine and watch the telly. Over a long period of time, even in a job where I walk around all day, this has left me less fit and healthy than I should be.

One of the more diverse aspects of my job is to help pupils train to take the Duke of Edinburgh award. Often this means teaching them to read a map or put up a tent; I stand on hillsides in the rain and check them as they pass by, put the kettle on and arrange the campfire. In a few weeks, however, I have to go and do some training myself. I'll have to hike in the Peak District for three days, and make a timed expedition up Snowdon. It occurs to me that to do this I'll need to be quite fit. 

PANIC

Of course, I am in good health and reasonably strong. I just haven't put it to the test lately. My new regime is going to help me do that, in a leisurely kind of way.

Today, after getting stuck in the most horrendous traffic jam and almost packing the whole idea in, I jumped into a beautiful outdoor pool near my home in Oxford. I was so glad I did. The water was warm, and as the rain began to fall (this is England in May), I luxuriated in swimming gently up and down, using my not so elegant, slightly improvised breast stroke.  It was bliss, the sun was shining and the rain was falling. The sky was blue....and there were ominous black clouds (again, this is England). I met people I haven't seen in a year. The pool only opens in May. We laughed and joked with each other, 'where have you been all winter?' All the stresses and strains of the day floated away. After half an hour I was done, and I felt totally chilled out. As I stood under a warm shower looking up at the blue black sky and shampooed my hair I reflected, 'I have been teaching students about the difference between real and apparent goods all this time and been duped myself!' My "I am too tired to go out' attitude to evenings has left me seeking the apparent good of the sofa and avoiding the real good of looking after body and soul by taking some exercise!

This summer most of my holiday plans involve doing free stuff outside so it would be good to keep up my new promises to self, gain more confidence in my body and feel healthy and happy. Wild swims, hikes, picnics, cycles, bonfires, camps in the woods and trampolines here I come!! :-)

Maybe you think this all has nothing to do with any of the things this blog is about, but well, looking after my body and soul is an important part of my faith. The least I can do to thank God for the life I have is love it a little :-) This week, on Thursday or Sunday the church will celebrate the Feast of the Ascension: the day on which Jesus rose body and soul into heaven, and queue for us as Christians to treat our own bodies, and those of others with gentleness and reverence.

xx

If...

If I had a square foot of ground, I'd do this..... and I don't know how much $50 is, but it's not a lot if you are going to grow your own food. Life skill.


Source: http://FrugalDad.com

Before you are 11 and 3/4's

The National Trust is campaigning to encourage children to get out of doors and running around and they have put together a list of the 50 things children should do before they are 11 and 3/4. Even in the recent bad weather, I can't stand being inside for more than a few hours at a time - I love being on adventures out of doors!

The aim of the National Trust is to get children off the computer or away from the television and encourage them to enjoy the great outdoors and the joys of nature. A survey revealed a quarter of children never play outside, a third have never climbed a tree and 1 in 10 can't ride a bike. Meanwhile they spend an average of 4.5 hours each day in front of the TV or computer. ARG!



My form are 11 years old. I did a quick survey and the response was woeful! They really haven't PLAYED properly!! How disastrous it that?! The only thing to do is lead by example. Therefore, I have checked my score on the National Trust list, and intend to remedy the gaps, preferably with nieces and nephews in tow, before the Autumn Term begins in September. Meanwhile, in school, I am taking my pupils out every chance I get. You can't say you've lived unless you've done a good few of these things.

Check how you measure up! Remedy you inner child's need to play. You know you want to. Summer is, after all, the time to PLAY, especially when the weather is bad. :-)


1. Climb a tree - I lived up trees when I was a child. You had to work wonders to get me down.

2. Roll down a really big hill - Yes, Robin Hill, often. And memorably, as a teenager, after a quantity of Lambrini. Classy.

3. Camp out in the wild - Of course! And, I am going again in the next few weeks. I am learning how to be responsible enough to bring children wild camping. Wouldn't miss it for the world.

4. Build a den - Absolutely. Everyone needs a base camp in summer. Russell Park was our den.

5. Skim a stone - Our family had competitions! I was never the winner, but I loved to try!

6. Run around in the rain - Still do

7. Fly a kite - Often. And, in October 1987 it lifted me off my feet and I screamed!! I watched the same thing happen to Gemma and laughed!

8. Catch a fish with a net - Only once, at a Trout fishing farm in England somewhere. With Anto.

9. Eat an apple straight from a tree - All the time, every year.

10. Play conkers - Of course

11. Throw some snow - Whenever I get the chance

12. Hunt for treasure on the beach - What else do you do when the sea is FREEZING?

13. Make a mud pie - Naturally

14. Dam a stream - Not that I recall. I do remember trying to measure the depth of a very muddy stream with a stick though. I came out looking like a monster from the deep.


15. Go sledging - Yep.

16. Bury someone in the sand - I was normally the one who got buried.

17. Set up a snail race - I so have to do this. I saw a snails' nest this year and fell in love with it.

18. Balance on a fallen tree - Of course. And jumped up and down on it.

19. Swing on a rope swing - Over a river. Why do something only a little bit dangerous?

20. Make a mud slide - Not that I recall. We just used to wax the big old slide we had in the park and make it go VERY fast. We put cushions at the end to ensure a soft landing.

21. Eat blackberries growing in the wild - Every year.

22. Take a look inside a tree - Of course, looking for squirrels.

23. Visit an island - I was born on one. I live on another one. I have been to many. Isle de Re, Inis Oirr, Inis Meain, Mont Saint Michel, Skellig Michael.

24. Feel like you're flying in the wind - In Ireland on a windy day the wind made you fly.

25. Make a grass trumpet - And a pollen bomb, of course

26. Hunt for fossils and bones - Gemma still does this when she goes to Lyme.

27. Watch the sun wake up - Once, memorably, with my brother Stephen, having climbed down the cliffs at Malin Head especially to see it.

28. Climb a huge hill - Any chance I get

29. Get behind a waterfall - And do 'Last of the Mohican' impressions - 'I will find you! no matter how long it takes! No matter how far!'

30. Feed a bird from your hand - The little yellow chicken I held at New Grange Farm pooped on me and I laughed. I held a baby lamb that day too. It was a very happy day in my childhood.

31. Hunt for bugs - and collected them

32. Find some frogspawn - Found it, watched it hatch, loved the baby frogs hopping about when they arrived!

33. Catch a butterfly in a net - Never! But I have chased them!

34. Track wild animals - Foxes, badgers, cats, rabbits.

35. Discover what's in a pond - You mean by falling in?

36. Call an owl - How? I wish I could. I can do good impressions.

37. Check out the crazy creatures in a rock pool - Of course!

38. Bring up a butterfly - How?

39. Catch a crab - Every year, with a rasher on a piece of string. Standard Hutton holiday activity.

40. Go on a nature walk at night - Yup.

41. Plant it, grow it, eat it - Of course. It's a life skill.

42. Go wild swimming - Under a waterfall, yes. And under Croagh Patrick in a thunder storm. More recently in the fjords of Oslo.

43. Go rafting - If this means floating down a river on a log, yes.

44. Light a fire without matches - Not sure. Not that I remember!

45. Find your way with a map and compass - Yes, but I prefer to get lost!

46. Try bouldering - Yes, and I love it.

47. Cook on a campfire - Chocolate bananas are my favourite.

48. Try abseiling - I love it very much, but have only done it a few times. When I was 11 I was never frightened. I wonder what I would be like now?

49. Find a geocache - I'm too old to have tried this, but I love the idea! I have been on plenty on non-technological treasure hunts!

50. Canoe down a river - Many times, and it is great fun!


Get out and complete your childhood adventures! Bring children with you. Enjoy!

I saw Jupiter for the first time today.

It was awesome. This is not a picture I took of course, I was too busy looking through the telescopes of the University of Oxford Physics Department. But, this is a little like the Jupiter I saw, except I saw three moons. So cool. I saw Andromeda too. And all my favourite normal stars like the warrior Orion, his friends big bear and little bear. I even saw Orion's pet dog, which I can only normally see when it is very dark and there are no lights about. Brilliant.

Love in Bethlehem, 11 000 Years Ago

This is my all time favourite object. I have posted this before. I bought my Da the CD of History of the World in 100 Objects for Christmas. I just found the story of this beautiful, beautiful treasure and played it. 

It is the Ain Sakhri lovers, and has formed part of the History of the World in 100 Objects series, narrated beautifully by Neil MacGregor.

The history of this object can be completely, and more thoroughly researched by clinking the link above. Here, I would like to tell you why I love it. But, if you really love this, listen to Neil talk about it. He is so precise with his words, you will never forget the story.

Where to start? It is made from 'chattered' stone. A pebble which has journeyed down stream, 'chattering' against other stones as it passes through the water. This has made the pebble smooth, its contact with others has rubbed off its hard edges, made it soft to the touch. At some point in the journey, someone, perhaps the person whose domestic and homely cave in which this figurine was found, picked this smooth stone from the cold waters and carved it into an image of human love. A couple locked in a sexual embrace. Smooth, calm, intimate.

It was found in the Ain Sakrhi cave, near Bethlehem. How amazing that the oldest representation of human love was found there! These lovers date from 8000bc, picked up by a traveling bedouin, sold to the French Fathers and acquired by Rene Neuville in 1958. The person who carved this beautiful image of lovers was a member of the Natufian people. Natufians are noted as being the first human beings to farm their food. They bred sheep and goats, and so had some understanding about the principles of reproduction. They hunted gazelle with their dogs, and gathered figs, acorns, pistachios, wild lentils, chick peas and wheat. As a lifestyle they had developed a way of staying in one place and producing an abundance of food. Naturally, this led to periods of reflection, thought and time to carve so beautiful and object.

It is amazing to me that in such moments of reflection so long ago, someone would have chosen to carve two people loving each other. Many anthropologists have argued that early human people did not have long term monogamous relationships. That sex was just a way of continuing the species, and that women grouped together to look after their offspring, whilst men headed out to hunt. This statue does not speak of that phenomenon. It is not possible to tell which of these figures is male, and which is female, they are so tightly embraced. They are looking into each others' eyes. One wraps their arms around the shoulder of the other, their legs are entwined. This, to me at least, is an image of love.

So, in conclusion, why to I really love this object? A chattering stone made a journey to Bethlehem, was picked out of the cold and moulded by a human hand into the form of love. And all of this happened because of the moment of reflection good food brought. Now, that is a perfect narration of how the world should be.

A notable figure

A NOTABLE FIGURE

So, I was just doing some family research for my Dad and came across an old newspaper article in a cupboard, sadly not sourced, but dated - 24th June 1938. It is the obituary of my Great Uncle, James Hutton. The title of the article is, “A Notable Figure”. James Hutton was, at one time, a clerk of the Sinn Fein Courts. He is remembered at home because the British Army once came looking for him, and on not finding him, ordered the furniture to be put out and the house torched. Fortunately, the local parish priest had previously served in the first world war and knew the commanding officer. He saved the day.

Anyhow, his obituary….quite amazing for a grocer from Tramore.

James Hutton, whose death in the midst of his life, is chronicled in this issue, was a notable man. I met him when the great adventure of his life was over - he played his part as a member of the IRA, had suffered imprisonment, and, released, had after his marriage, set his mind to building up a livelihood in the New Ireland he had helped, with all his might, to create. But, although the Great Adventure was over, it remained the inspiration of his life always. His mind dwelled much in the past, in the green pastures of the farm whereon he spent his childhood, and among the memories of this forefathers about the great events which helped to shape his life, and that of all Irishmen of today. He spoke often of the land war, recounting tales repeated by the fireside by his own people, tales of landlord tyranny and of the bravery and dauntlessness of the oppressed.

He possessed to an unusual degree a hatred of injustice. Any suspicion of it, wherever he found it - and he was no respecter of persons - brought from him denunciation, sometimes passionate in its intensity. He despised the trappings of tryranny as much as he loathed the thing itself. For this reason he gave no rest to the snob, to the seoinin, to the overbearing: for the bigot he reserved the full tide of his wrath. For this trait he was not popular in some quarters. But he would have despised himself had he earned his popularity at the expense of his convictions.

The fervour of his beliefs, however, in no wise warped his judgment. In discussing with me every crisis which marked the period (eventful politically speaking) since the day he opened his business here he displayed ripe wisdom and perfect national outlook.

In winter months, when Tramore becomes just a spot in the country, and ceases to be a roaring seaside resort of the modern kind, an active mind and restless spirit such as James Hutton possessed attracted people. He was a ready and sincere talker, a debater of no mean power: and he never spoke about anything that failed to interest him or his listener. He read much and was an able and liberal minded critic of what he read. A point of interest is that he firmly held with that school of thought which does not reject imitations of a spirit world all about us. To walk with him in the Celtic twilight, among the Sand Hills near Tramore, where the eerie background is appropriate, was to be tempted to share his other-world ideas.

I can remember many a winter night spent in the entertainment of listening to him. One time, with a vividness absolutely fascinating, he described to me various episidodes in his native county. Some of the things he told me which were incidents in which he played a part: others were true stories of a distinct traditional value. His stories of eccentric landlords and Ascendancy folk supplied a valuable picture of the Ireland of yesterday out of which the Ireland of today was grown. Incidentally these stories would furnish plots for novelists and dramatists possessing the divine afflatus without any theme around which to weave it. He told me he had kept a diary or scrap book and I think that, if it were extant, it is sure to be worthwhile. I failed to get as much as a sight of it: for the keeper of this diary was so modest that he feared his lack of literary skill would render what he had recorded unworthy of reproduction.

Another topic was the national games. The GAA Year Book was as interesting to him as the latest cinema play to the average young man or woman today. He held sound views about farming, and was fond of exposing false views. He told amusing anecdotes - as well as anecdotes of a grim realism - about life on the land. He was one who regretted keenly the decay of countrylife…

I feel, as I write, like one who has talked far into the night with a warm-hearted friend. And, in the silence, as I look up, I become aware that the fire has gone out.

ALAN DOWNEY

24th June 1938

My song

I haven't composed any songs lately, but it was raining when I woke up. And, I marked a few exams in which the holy words of my students 'tear and fail to rhyme'. My head is full of songs I can't believe. This is the tune that has been in my head this birthday. It appears though, all these years, I have been making up a word. I was truly surprised to read: 'To England where my heart lies'. I always understood those words as: 'to inlend where my heart lies'. I must have heard this song as a small child. I thought 'inlend' meant to 'discern'. I always thought that word existed. It took me to today to discover it doesn't.  

This song is is beautiful, and it echoes my present and my childhood - it is a favourite of my parents! Read the lyrics. Listen to the song. They are beautiful.

I hear the drizzle of the rain

Like a memory it falls

Soft and warm continuing

Tapping on my roof and walls.

And from the shelter of my mind

Through the window of my eyes

I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets

To England where my heart lies.

My mind's distracted and diffused

My thoughts are many miles away

They lie with you when you're asleep

And kiss you when you start your day.

And a song I was writing is left undone

I don't know why I spend my time

Writing songs I can't believe

With words that tear and strain to rhyme.

And so you see I have come to doubt

All that I once held as true

I stand alone without beliefs

The only truth I know is you.

And as I watch the drops of rain

Weave their weary paths and die

I know that I am like the rain

There but for the grace of you go I.

On Sleeping

I have the gift of sleep. I have always had it. 

Recently, I have been asked, by several different people, about my sleeping patterns. This has given me cause for thought. 

When working I go to sleep quite early, between 9 and 10pm. I normally do not drink caffeine after lunchtime, and often drink camomile, or hot milk and honey, or hot chocolate before I go to sleep. I am so rock and roll.

'It's going to be SO cosy in bed!' That is what my Ma always told us as kids. I believe it too. Once I am tucked up under my blankets very little in the world can disturb me.

I dedicate time to winding down after a day. I have a shower, get dressed in my PJ's and drink my tea. I have a brilliant book I am looking forward to on the bedside table - this week it is Julian of Norwich. I read a few chapters before I begin to feel myself getting sleepy. 

Compline, I always say that in bed. For me, it is a way of reviewing the day with God: this happened; that happened; I said something stupid; I needed You; You were there for me. Then there is those last words: The Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end. I always translate that in my head, selfishly perhaps: God grant me rest. I have always prayed for sleep.

After that, if it is more that 5 minutes before I hit the world of nod I am surprised.

I sleep deeply. Sometimes too deeply. I have slept through fire drills and through teenagers having a dorm party (probably best). I have slept through a French holiday house being hit by lightening (or I would have done, had not my Ma woken me up to tell me about it), and through two day coach journeys to Poland and the South of Spain.  Noise, it seems, does not worry me that much.

I can sleep anywhere, most especially in cars (almost instantly), trains (despite paranoia about missing my stop), planes (I'll be snoozing before take off, and will see you after landing) and meetings (including Church services); indoors or outdoors, in a bed or on the floor. I am a lover of comfort, but it is not a requirement for relative unconsciousness. Neither is darkness: there have been no blinds on the skylights in this flat since I moved in. It drives other people mad! I barely notice.

Stress, such as we had with OFSTED last week, only makes me want to sleep more.

Apparently, Scientists believe the position in which a person goes to sleep provides an important clue about the kind of person they are. They have spoken about 6 different positions in which people naturally fall to sleep. Thinking about it, I can safely say that I adopt two of these positions with any regularity, the foetus and the starfish.

The Foetus: Those who curl up in the foetus position are described as tough on the outside but sensitive at heart. They may be shy when they first meet somebody, but soon relax. More than twice as many women as men tend to adopt this position.

Log: Lying on your side with both arms down by your side. These sleepers are easy going, social people who like being part of the in-crowd, and who are trusting of strangers. However, they may be gullible.

The yearner: People who sleep on their side with both arms out in front are said to have an open nature, but can be suspicious, cynical. They are slow to make up their minds, but once they have taken a decision, they are unlikely ever to change it.

Soldier: Lying on your back with both arms pinned to your sides. People who sleep in this position are generally quiet and reserved. They don't like a fuss, but set themselves and others high standards.

Freefall: Lying on your front with your hands around the pillow, and your head turned to one side. Often gregarious and brash people, but can be nervy and thin-skinned underneath, and don't like criticism, or extreme situations.

Starfish: Lying on your back with both arms up around the pillow. These sleepers make good friends because they are always ready to listen to others, and offer help when needed. They generally don't like to be the centre of attention.

I can relate to these two ideas. They make sense to me. I think that many things are taught to us through sleep.

I am interested to note though, that a gift of sleep is not complimented by a gift of waking up! My working day alarm sounds at 5am. There are 4 different alarm sounds in my room, including the radio. I regularly change both their tone, and their position in the room. I put them far enough away from me that I have to get out of bed to silence them. I turn lights on, and employ a variety of snooze buttons. But still, still it takes an Act of Will to get started in the morning, a determination fuelled by sugared tea and a sense of unfulfilled duty. If anyone has a solution to this getting out of bed problem, I am all ears. One of the most challenging aspects of my sleep pattern is people waking me up unexpectedly. I feel like I have been hauled from the depths: I do not know where I am, I get confused. It is frightening, I do not like it.  I long one day to waken, full of the joys of spring!

The Angels are Coming

'The Angels are Coming' - That is what it says on sheets of paper all around my school at the moment. This is a new one on me. I am used to celebrating the Feast of St. Michael, St. Gabriel, St. Raphael and All Angels on the 29th September, and Guardian Angels on the 2nd October heartily, but relatively quietly. 

Not so this year. 

My school used to be cared for by religious sisters. The entrance is dedicated to The Guardian Angels. Over years of their care a tradition developed whereby each year students chose the Friday nearest the  feasts of St Michael, St Gabriel, St. Raphael and All Angels and Guardian Angels to recognise the love, care and hard work of their teachers, the sisters, and those who kept the school together body and soul (the cooks, the cleaners, the ICT technicians, the office staff). Secondary students being as they are, this recognition came in a unique form. Thus, this week, for the Feasts of St Michael, St Gabriel and St Raphael and All Angels and Guardian Angels, girls will wear their hair in bunches, and steal a tie from a boy; everyone will wear Angel wings; Mass will be celebrated; students will bring teachers a gift; staff will play students at both netball and football; there will be free time and, in the afternoon, a play, led by Year 13. The play is a skit on school life - often a gentle humorous critique of teachers by those pupils who know them best. I've only been there a few weeks, so I am hoping to get off lightly!

I have not seen this anticipated tradition in action yet, but already I like it. What better way to celebrate All Angels than to acknowledge those angels we see everyday? The people that stand by our side to protect, help and guide us? If you forget to acknowledge the visible help you receive in daily life, how can you ever begin to recognise the work of those who are invisible, and hard to see? Begin at the beginning. The Angels are Coming. The Angels are already here.

I do have a recipe in mind for this feast. Something I have missed of late. I will publish it later. In the meantime, I am off to think of ingenious ways to recognise, over the course of the next week, the angels in my life. If you are hungry, check out the cake I made last year. I do hope the weather prediction I made last year does not hold for this. There have been acorns down for three weeks here in Oxford - it bodes for a long, cold and frozen winter. Dare I say it now, I think I do. There will be a white Christmas, and I will make a snow angel in the garden.

NEWS FLASH: It was announced today the OFSTED would be paying school a visit this coming Thursday and Friday. Yes, that is in time to join our community in celebration of Guardian Angels. Please pray for us all. I am not sure how the inspectors will take to watching the staff play football and netball with the students, or what they will think of Year 13 managing the school for the day. We are going to need every Guardian Angel in the building to be working their very hardest: Archangels, Cherubims, Seraphims, Powers and Dominations - register order, please. Thank you.

She brought all things new

This morning I got a text message to tell me that Juniper, the cat, was missing in Shipton under Wychwood. She had not come in for the night. I was worried, but thought little of it, assuming I would find her later in the day, when I went out to visit. I did find her. I found her within moments of arriving at the house, but, sadly she was dead. She had been hit by a car. 

Juniper was only just over a year old. She was born in August, in Herefordshire. Last year, having lost my accommodation with the university, left my DPhil and broken up with a 'significant other', I moved back with my parents. I was a bit of wreck, to be honest. But, six days after I arrived, I booked an appointment to go and see Juniper. In the October, she arrived, a tiny bundle of fun. She did what many people had tried and failed to do in recent times: she made me laugh. Not a polite, shallow, I am pretending to be happy laugh. A proper laugh. I was really grateful for that. It was with Juniper chewing my pen, that I began to put my life back together again. She purred support through a thousand applications, and created distractions when the inevitable rejections came. After 12 hour shifts sewing buttons on posh coats for the minimum wage, or filing the private correspondence of peculiar millionaires for the same, Juniper helped me wind down and relax. When I did get set up with good teaching jobs, Juniper congratulated me in her own special way. She licked my nose. At the start of the summer holidays this year, I went to cat-sit. Juniper brought in mouse after mouse. She was a good hunter. She loved chasing cotton reels at a very high speed around the front room. She used to catch them, and then hide them behind the curtain - a secret store. Later, usually when the house was quiet, she would find them again, and raise an almighty racket chasing them across the floor again.

Juniper brought all things new. Once she arrived, a house became a home. Everyone loved her.  Today, five of my nieces and nephews were in our house at Shipton. Their parents were trying to think of different ways to explain the news. What do you say?

I am sad that Juniper is dead. I will always remember her as the cat that helped me get my life back. I hope she finds some decent cotton reels in cat heaven.

Vertigo, without the heights

I am sorry I have not blogged too much of late. I have missed the feast of many great saints: St Bernard (the Patron of my new school), St. Rose of Lima, St. Bartholomew, Blessed Dominic Barberi, St. Monica, St. Augustine - the list goes on. The truth be told, I have not been up to much cooking or much feasting in recent times. I am home this weekend, and have made up for my loss of practice a little, working with Gemma, my twin, to produce a feast of fresh gnocci with walnut, parsley and basil pesto for dinner on Saturday, and making rosemary and sundried tomato foccacia as my contribution to a party today. These were good recipes, and I will share them here soon. I did not make them with a particular feast or saint in mind. I made them for my family and friends. Having said that, my family and friends ARE saints for putting up with me!!

I have been nervous for weeks. I start a new job this week. For most of the day I am absolutely fine. Then I remember, and I feel sick, like a wave of vertigo. Mostly this happens when I am most relaxed, cooking in the kitchen, for example. So, I have been keeping busy with other things, taking my mind off the inevitable, avoiding my own anxieties. I am frightened. My new post carries great responsibility. Every now and then I think, 'My God, there has been a terrible mistake. It cannot be me who should do this work'. But, it is. Everything through Him who strengthens me. Onwards. Then, nothing. Then, vertigo again. I have tried seeking inspiration, but so far no good. I am reckoning I am just going to have to trust and go.

All this has quite put me off my food. Things are not quite as bad as Jeremiah would have it in today's readings (Jeremiah 20: 7- 9), but then again the vision put forward by St. Paul seems like a very tall mountain to climb (Romans 12: 1 - 2). I am sure I will recover, and get some good recipes for saints up here soon. In the meantime, my adopted patron, St. James, is rather good when petitioned for courage, so I have been sticking by him. In many ways, it was him who got me into this position in the first place.

Smells, not bells.

Back in May, Andromedababe, who has a brilliant blog full of wonderful ideas and thoughts, made a list of 'happy smells'. These were the smells that made her want to fill her lungs, the smells that made her smile, comforting smells, the smell equivalent of a big fat hug.

Today, I was driving along the Iffley road with my sister and her three children. There were roadworks, and men laying hot tarmac. It stank. But, while the kids and I all held our noses and exclaimed, "eurgh!", my sister was very happy to drive along and breath the thickened air. She said afterwards, 'I quite like the smell of tarmac." I was reminded quite suddenly how personal, sensitive and emotional our sense of smell is.

Then, I got to thinking, what are my favourite smells; or more deeply perhaps, which smells am I aware of that evoke a change of emotion? What are my happy smells? The smells that bring me comfort. I was brought to the following list:

Rain dampened wool - either on a sheep, or when I walk around in my alpaca jumper in the rain.
Cat fur - on a cat. I always sniff a cat when I pick it up. Nice smelling cat, nice cat.
My Norwegian Woollen Blanket - the warmest pure wool blanket known to humanity - no matter where I am living, when that blanket is with me, the place smells like home.
After the rain in the summer - I always have to go outside to breath in!
Gale force wind on the North West Coast of Ireland - the breeze can knock you off your feet, but it is the closest thing to fresh air you will ever breath.
The sea
Bread rising - in the hotpress (airing cupboard)
Smoked Mackerel baking in an oven - as part of dinner
A whiskey filled room - when you first walk in and know that people are drinking
Red wine (ironic, I more often drink white)
Pipe tobacco
Mud, when you dig it in spring
Potatoes, when you dig them up
Woodfires / bonfires in the autumn
Walking late at night on bonfire night
A damp forest floor
Mushrooms cooking
A Church, the day after the incense
Candle wax
Polish on wood
Hair, when you have spent days and days by / in the sea
Someone else's jumper
The herb garden in the morning - Rosemary and Thyme are my favourites
Jasmine in the evening
Lavender crushed between my fingers
Sunflowers
Cut grass
Jean Paul Gaultier Perfume
An open fire
Snow, when you first open the door the morning after a late night fall

Thank you, Andromedababe for reminding me to think these out.

My kind of hairdresser

I needed to get my haircut. I do not like getting my hair cut. It freaks me out. All those scissors and combs look like torture devices to me. Ewww.

But, at last, I have found my kind of hairdresser. Here's how it goes. I went into the salon and said, 'Please can I have a haircut.' The man behind the desk said, 'Yes, would you like that done now?'. 'That would be good,' I said.

I sat down, and he said, 'What would you like?'

'I would like my hair to be shorter.' I responded. He laughed. 'Would you like it washed?' He asked.

'I just washed it,' I answered, 'but, you can if you like.'

'I'll damp it down for you,' he replied.

He cut my hair, and talked. His wife was doing a PhD in Theology. He was here to support her. He said she was 'the brains of the outfit'. I am not so sure, he seemed an intuitive kind of chap to me. He admired teachers - the usual polite banter, 'I don't know how you do it', etc, etc.

When he finished cutting my hair, he asked, 'how do you wear it?'

'All over my head, usually'. I answered. He scruffed it up a bit. 'How's that?'

'Great'. I said.

'That'll be £10', he said.

'Thanks,' I said.

If only all my haircuts were this simple. In fact, if only most exchanges I had in life were this simple. No nonsense. No fuss. Just doing the job that needs to be done. Simply marvellous. I am happy to have found my kind of hairdresser. :-)

The Assumption

I do not have much to say these days. The quiet of summer. The calm before the storm. But, today - this was beautiful - too beautiful for words.

The Stolen Child

I was brought up with this. But, lately, it has been in my dreams.

Horseman pass by

 Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman pass by!

WB Yeats

Walking from the Great Hall in the British Museum into the dark hallows of the 'Treasures of Heaven' exhibition a hush descends as if you have just stepped into a sacred space. In many ways, you have. The British Museum have begged and borrowed a remarkable and beautiful collection of reliquaries and relics, and aims to present them with some explanation as to their use in devotion in Medieval Europe. There is no doubt that the exhibition has been prepared with respect and care. And, it is beautiful. But, for me, standing before the reliquary of the 'Man of Sorrows', which still contained the relics of many holy men and women who had gone before, I could not help but feel that the icon was 'lost'. The chattering classes, in which I played a part, stood before the images and made appreciative comments about the artistry and craftsmanship of the 'object' created in 1300AD. I was uneasy. Before me was something created out of love, from love, for love. It was created to be looked upon with love, and to allow love to into the hearts of those who looked upon it. Yet, the environment in which it stood invited critique more than introspection - a cold eye.

Venerating relics of the saints is not the same as holding onto old photographs of loved ones, making a trip to see the desk Marx wrote on, or heading off to visit Elvis' homeland - as was implied by the video which bid adieu to visitors. Relics illustrate in the most powerful way, that there exists a Goodness worth seeking; a Goodness worth giving your life for. They are a promise that such Goodness is eternal. The communion of saints continually intercedes for people during their pilgrimage on earth. The veneration of relics is a visceral education: the veil between this world and the next is thin, at times transparent; it is made from delicate echoes of love: to look upon it is to look with devotion. Those bits of bone and hair were people that lived lives full of all the dilemmas and frustrations of every human life. And, during their time here, they sought only that Goodness and Love shown in the Gospel images that decorate each reliquary. They live on still, in eternity, praying for those still journeying on the pilgrim way. In many ways analysis is a misplaced response to such emotive and emotional objects.

Maybe it is not an accident these relics are no longer in Churches, but have migrated to the museums. More people certainly get to look and wonder.  As, WB Yeats says, 'The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper'. 

In order to seem as respectful as is possible, the exhibition aimed for an atmosphere of sanctity. So much so, that Jonathan Jones at the Guardian felt a key aspect of pilgrimage - the rough vulgarities of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales - had been missed out. I laughed when I read this. It is true - the exhibition has been designed not to offend practising Christians,  and I thank the British Museum for that. However, I have made many pilgrimages with different people, and can recall no adventure in which there were no scandals, laughs, drinks, jokes and general merriment - that is part of walking with others, and part of pilgrimage. I know no pilgrim who would say pilgrimage is all piety and prayer, or that prayer does not involve laughter! The comments on Jonathan's post rightly point out that the purpose of the exhibition was to show the craftsmanship of the reliquaries and explore the devotional practises associated with relics. As I have observed above, relics, reliquaries and pilgrimages to visit them are about love. Although I might be able to imagine an exhibition about marital love which looked only at how couples are portrayed in art, I would never imagine this illustrated all of married life!

Anyhow, final thought? I did not want to cast a cold eye on the life and death of the saints, their relics and the reliquaries crafted to display them. I wanted to cast a loving eye, an inquisitive and curious eye, and an eye of devotion. To that end, I agree with my sister Gemma, who wished there was more about the saints and and the lives their lived, why they did what they did, and how and why they died.

John Grant

The best lyrics and vocals I have heard in a long time. And, my twin sister is going to see him at The End of Road Festival on THE DAY I go back to school. *mopes*

Learning from my 8 year old self

Someone ran into the back of my brand new car today. I was annoyed. It will need a new bumper, and I will have to claim on the insurance. I needed to cheer myself up.

In the corner of my parents front room there hangs a macrame hanging basket with beautiful green foliage that drapes towards the floor and gives the whole place a bit of a continental feel. It was made by me. Or, if you ask my twin sister, it was made by her. When we were 8. Whoever made that particular hanging basket, Gemma and I spent much of our childhood making stuff. Clare, our big sister, often looked after us and taught us different crafts. Origami being one, macrame being another. 

After my traumatic moment with the car, I decided I needed a project to focus my attention on something completely different. I am house sitting for my parents. So, I pulled into the garden centre and bought some brightly coloured string. I drove home, took down the plant hanger in the corner and looked at it. Anything my 8 year old self can do, I can do too, right? 

It is funny how your learning comes back to you. I did not know what I was doing when I unravelled the string. But, the smell of jute twine brought the memories right back. I cut eight long lengths, about 5 yards each (too long as it turns out, but I was re-learning), and two shorter lengths. I naturally folded them in half, and made a loop at the top. I wanted to get that hook shape at the top of the basket. My attempts were instinctive, and I had to have a few goes - but I got there in the end! The chinese crown knot at the top of the basket was tricky, I could not figure how to make those square knots. Then, after a few moments of just sitting still with the twine in my hands, it came back. I could see how the collection of cord in my hand was supposed to move and come together. 

Each time I got stuck, I had to go back, mentally, to my eight year old self. I had to sit on Clare's bed in the downstairs room at Kingsley Road. The bed was by the wall next to the radiator, and it faced the fireplace. To my left was the door to the corridor near the kitchen; behind it, the piano. To my right, the french windows onto the driveway. Juniper, our present cat, was playing with the cords. In my mind it was Saoirse, our first cat here in the UK - his name means 'Freedom', or Lucky, the rescue kitten I persuaded my Ma to come home with one day from the RATS shelter.

The twisty bits were easier. I instinctively put the two central cords I was working with between my teeth. The taste of the twine, and the feel of it, helped me know how to move the cord. Once I started on that bit, I knew I would finish my project in under an hour or two.

All this has brought me to one conclusion: the things we teach people when they are young really do stick, and stick hard. I can honestly promise I have not so much looked at macrame since I was 8 years old. But, the moment I felt, smelt and saw the twine, I knew how to form it into a hanging basket. I had seen it done, I had been taught to do it. As a teacher, discovering something like that is frightening. As an RE teacher, it is terrifying.

A speech in history

Irish people have always been good with words. This speech by Taoiseach Enda Kenny will go down in history. His words deserve your ears.