Bewitched

I actually went to the ballet recently.
That's about the third time in twenty odd years. How sad is that?
I love ballet, but we don't get a huge amount of it here in the North West, and when we do, I miss it, or am too broke, or hear about it after the event.
But this time I actually made it to the one and only performance.

Ballet Ireland Swan Lake photo by Ros Kavanagh, taken from Internet

I have my friend, the Goddess of Plenty to thank, because if she hadn't invited me to go with her, I'd never have known it was on.
Ballet Ireland in Sligo, dancing Swan Lake. Goodness gracious.

DodoWoman joined our happy band, and when the three of us arrived at the theatre in Sligo, we wondered for a moment if we'd got the wrong night and were in for a Panto instead. The foyer was heaving with  hordes of excited children.
I have to confess, my heart sank slightly as we took our seats in the balcony - three solid rows of young kids behind us, more on either side. I wondered whether it would be Swan Lake to Tchaikovsky or to a stream of burbling chatter.
At least that took my mind off what sort of performance Ballet Ireland had in store. The last ballet I'd seen on our relatively modest stage had been performed by a very reduced company. Lovely, but not the full monty, and I although I was just happy to be there, deep down I didn't really want a compromised Swan Lake - I wanted the traditional, full, unexpurgated version in all its moonlit, feathery glory.

Ballet Ireland photo from the Internet

I have heard the music many times in the intervening years, and it never fails to move me, but there is nothing like hearing it in the hush of a darkened theatre, waiting for the curtains to rise. What I hadn't expected was to be transported, with the first bars of the score, back to my own childhood, sitting in the stalls at Covent Garden at the tender age of eleven, staring at the rich velvet curtains, waiting, waiting, hardly able to breathe with excitement. As the ballet unfolded, I recalled every nuance of that first magical experience, the haunting music flooding through me like adrenaline, the dancers an enchanted dream just beyond reach - the exquisite romance of it all, the pathos, the heartbreak.


It was a fabulous performance, that night in Sligo. The Swan Lake I had fallen in love with all those years ago, not changed, or reduced, or modernised, just the tried and tested classic that bewitched me as a child.

Wonderfully, it betwitched the countless children in the audience too.
There wasn't a peek out of anyone during the whole evening.
Thank you, Ballet Ireland.
And thank you, Talentui Goddess  

Photo: www.balletandoperaireland.com  taken from the Internet

Turning

I lay in bed last night and listened to the wind howling through the trees and around the chimney pots, the hail spattering against the window panes and the distant rhythm of surf pounding on the shore.
Bleak midwinter indeed.
But, safe in my warm nest I didn't feel bleak. This is a time of year when there is something vibrant pulsing at the core, and when night enfolds you it is like black velvet wrapped around a bright kernel, so in the heart of the darkness, the wildness outside lulled me to sleep very quickly.
It is a time of year when the night is often better than the day. This morning was possibly the most horrible day ever spawned. Rain, rain and more rain, borne on winds gusting to 105km/hr.

A couple of weeks ago, someone told me we were going to have blizzards, and snow lasting into mid-January. To my mind, an infinitely preferable alternative.

But heigh-ho. It's only weather, after all, and I have spent the day in my kitchen, all the animals curled up in their various beds, snoozing the hours away. I've been decorating my Christmas tree, wrapping a few presents, and writing last minute Christmas cards.

My Christmas tree

My friend Mairead posted a lovely piece on her blog recently called In Praise of Christmas Cards which was very apposite and beautifully written. She mourns the slow decline of Christmas Cards, she feels they are an important part of our tradition and - perhaps more to the point - our personal history. She is, of course, quite right. How can an email possibly compare? However warm the wishes, it doesn't sit on your mantelpiece looking pretty and seasonal, or last. And as for texts - well, there is nothing to be said.

She and my mother are as one in this, although even Mairead probably doesn't expend as much zeal in the matter as my Mama. In truth, I have never known anyone who takes Christmas cards more seriously - she does a proper job, with news and personal letters enclosed - she probably thinks a 'round robin' is that plumptious little creature on her bird table. And she has them mailed in good time, not like my last minute scrabble to catch the final posting day.

It was today, the final posting day for Christmas. No surprise that I was writing cards, then.
I looked out of the window regularly, waiting for a momentary pause in the rain so I could scoot down to the post box, but the passing hours only brought more rain, blowing ever more sideways. Being washed down to the post office did not seem an appealing prospect , but then suddenly an angel appeared. It is traditional of course, at Christmas. This angel took the form of my friend the Talentui Goddess. I didn't see her wings at first, only when she announced that she was on her way into town did I spot the soft feathers fluttering behind her chic hat.
'You're not going to the post office?' I asked, hardly daring to hope for such a reprieve.
'No,' she said. 'But I can. I'm going past it.'
What a honey.


If pushed, I'd have to admit that it's not cards, but Christmas carols that are the essential part of the season for me. I don't mean bashing out O Come All Ye Faithful with some person coughing on your left side and someone else blowing their nose to your right, but rather the lucid perfection of King's College choristers singing John Rutter or The Coventry Carol or something angelic along those lines. It's not possible for me to make mince pies, or write cards, or decorate trees without those clear voices in the background. 

Essential Christmas

But I do love Christmas cards.
I don't send many these days - postage being so exorbitant - but I am very choosy about what I buy. They have to pass some indefinable yardstick. They have to really appeal to me, even if they are not conventionally beautiful. And - pleased as I am to receive any cards at all these days, I have a definite marking system for the ones I do get. Every year I keep one or two that I specially like, which are hung vertically on ribbons, and each Christmas all the 'specials' from previous years come out of their box and decorate the walls all over again.

One of my 'specials'

Perhaps loving Christmas cards is also about anticipation. To me, this last week or so before Christmas is almost the best bit of all.

I love midwinter, the days getting shorter and shorter, the trees bare against the darkening sky, the stars fierce and brilliant, houses filled with light and, despite the horrors of the world, everyone looking forward to something, whatever that may be.

Here we are, in the deepest dark of the year, the long, cold reaches of winter still to come, the slow return of the light tantalisingly ahead as the earth pauses - pivoting, slowly turning towards her next brave horizon; yet hidden within the folds of her dark skirts is Christmas, like a warm heart glowing in the depths of the night, a bright kernel shrouded in velvet.

The Day That's In It

I took the dogs for a walk this morning, up along the river and into the cathedral of the woods, where the columns of trees arch high over the path, and the bare, black branches carve their tracery against the sky.
The river was still and full today - quiet, apart from the odd salmon rising, sending rings eddying to the banks. All the way we swapped beats with the herons, who didn't seem at all pleased to see us. We were interrupting their second breakfast, I expect.

Model Dog walks so close beside me that I often find her ear lying softly in my hand, like an end of velvet.
She paces like a great cat - her shoulders loose and sinuous, the fluidity of her gait swaying her slightly from side to side. The TeenQueen on the other hand, is like a deer - light on her feet, easily startled, fleet and silent - she is away in a rush of air if something catches her eye.

When we got home I put up the Christmas tree I bought at the weekend.
It may not smell of sharp, pine resin, but I will enjoy looking at it every day - I think it is beautiful.
It was made by a Sligo glass-maker I know, and I loved it the moment I saw it on his stand at the Christmas Fair. It will be even nicer on a sunny day.

My Christmas tree

The rest of my day has been calm and quiet. I looked up as I was filling the kettle to find a flock of goldfinches on the bird nuts and 'cupcakes' outside the window. I have only recently opened this new restaurant, and it has gone straight to No 1 in the charts, but the regulars are tits of all kinds, chaffinches and sparrows, with the occasional visit from one of my garden robins. I haven't seen the goldfinches since last winter and it was a good day to welcome them back. 

Some fuzzy goldfinches through the window

Armed with my hot drink, the dogs and I headed for the flower garden. I've been gradually putting it to bed, but some things don't want to go. Today I picked the last delphiniums, pink achillea and tall purple campanula (a flower that always reminds me of pixie hoods), and cleared another good stretch of the long herbaceous border, cutting back and weeding, but also taking time to split and replant various perennials before tucking it all under a thick blanket of compost.

It's a laborious job, but a satisfying one. A chance to say à bientôt and thank you after a long, long summer. And a chance to bury some treasure, as my friend, the Talentui Goddess, calls planting bulbs.
I am late with the bulbs this year, but as it still feels like October outside, I'm not too worried.
And when I see them again, in all their glory, the winter will be past and a new season of growing will have begun.

It was a good day to think of replenishment, I needed it.
Just as it was a good day to walk in the woods.
I used to walk there almost every day, but I've hardly been this year.
They are too full of ghosts, the woods, they make my heart ache.
But today it was a kind of solace to visit them again, the wind like wild water in the treetops.
It's a year ago today that Top Dog died and our world staggered on its axis. Dramatic to say that, perhaps, but true, and - daft as it may seem - I still catch myself thinking that he'll be back soon.

I saw a heartbreaking tombstone in a church once. It was for a young child, and all it said was: 'My beloved is in the garden, gathering flowers.'
Typically Victorian, I know, but it brought tears to my eyes. And I understand the feeling.
Top Dog is off somewhere, doing something. Chewing his bone in the orchard perhaps, or lying in the sun in the courtyard.
I just haven't seen him for awhile because dear Model Dog and I have been busy doing stuff too.

Zen and the Art of Gardening

According to my friend DodoWoman, my new model garden would make a perfect home for Madame Butterfly.

It was odd she should say that, as when I was constructing it, I spent some time wondering how to create butterflies that would sort of - well, flutter-by, but I didn't quite manage it. However, I don't think DodoWoman and I are talking about the same kind of butterfly, but then I don't share her personal acquaintance with Puccini's opera, or its tragic heroine.
(I shall have to take her word for it on the garden's suitability.)

The Temple glimpsed through the cherry blossom

Perhaps I'd have done a better job with a full orchestra on the other side of the kitchen table. They say children learn better if Mozart is playing softly in the background. Perhaps Puccini was just what I needed to bring the abandoned butterflies to fruition.

I was a little disappointed with the state of the sand after my attempts at raking it into gentle curves.
I don't think there is a career ahead of me in a Japanese garden.
When I mentioned this to my friend of Talentui fame, she said: 'You probably weren't using the right implement.'
'A kitchen fork,' I replied.
'Quite,' she said. 'I don't think they use forks in Japanese gardens.'

However the fossil pavement and the Sun and Moon Stone are truly remarkable, as is the Yin Yang stone - not, or course, that I take any credit for these items - all were found on our local shore.
The Yin Yang stone brings tears to my eyes whenever I see it. The In-Charge stooped down and picked it up just as we were leaving the beach one day at the end of November last year. He's good at spotting things, the In-Charge.
He handed it to me with rather a sad smile.
We had taken Under Dog to our favourite beach for one last walk there. Of course Top Dog and Model Dog came too. We didn't know it then, but as it turned out, it was the last time either of those inseparable twins ever walked that beach.
Sweet boys. How I miss them still.

The Yin Yang stone

But I digress.

It seems hard to believe, but it's a year ago that we were at this lark the first time round - making tray gardens with the kids at Beltra Country Market

Such fun, everyone loved having a go, and this year we had more kids than ever, not to mention a few parents 'helping' their offspring along. It's amazing what you can do with a supermarket tray full of sand and a load of found objects, or inexpensively bought things like lollipop sticks, pipe cleaners, pompoms and feathers.

Amazing fossils and the Sun and Moon Stone in the background

I decided to go for the Zen-Yogic-Buddhist-Transcendental-Japanese-Meditation-Temple-Garden this year, while DodoWoman built a Mayan jungle with an Aztec teocalli in the middle - the only thing missing (as she was the first to point out) being the whatsit containing a sacrificial human heart. However, don't be thinking that the kids were cheated here - she had featured a beach-combed-treasure that looked a bit like a dinosaur, rearing up on one side behind the trees. Six out of ten kids would probably prefer a dinosaur, anyway.
Probably.

Now I come to think of it, it looks more like a Dodo than a Dinosaur on the left

Jil, one of my lovely German wwoofers, did a rough blueprint design for the temple. She and Marco then built the walls, but it was the In-Charge who created the roof. It is constructed from card and - well, lollipop sticks; plus one or two other stabilizing bits and bobs, like glue, gold paint and such. We were very pleased with the glittery pipe cleaners creating the necessary lilting curves, and I thought my Chinese lanterns came out a treat - especially the tassels made from embroidery silk.

The string of prayer flags was a hot favourite.

And we were pretty chuffed with the stream as well, and the ponds and the waterfalls - not to mention the dinky bridges. And the water really did cascade down over the little rocks and shells, and swooshed over the koi carp (designed and created by Jil and Marco) before collecting in the bottom pool outside the temple.
Totally thrilling.

Dinky bridges

Sadly, the water then started to dissolve the play-dough from which the stream itself was constructed, but one has to rise above such small inconveniences, stiffen one's shoulders and raise one's chin. No self-destructing pond is going to take the edge off my garden, and koi carp probably like sinking slowly into the sludge at the bottom of the stream.

Anyway, if it does slowly dissolve, by the laws of Zen, surely that's meant to be - so then the pond, the water and all will be as one with the rest of the garden..

 

Shame about the butterflies, though.

(You can see last year's miniature garden here.)

Daring to Bare

I hardly needed my alarm clock to wake me at cock-crow this morning.
A savage wind had already woken me several times as dawn crept in.
Here we are at the solstice, the longest day of the year, and Irish bonfire night - all crammed into one summer weekend - and you would think it was mid autumn.
I think it's my fault. A few days ago I wrote that it was hot and dry and wonderful. Needless to say, it started to rain the next day.

As I hauled myself reluctantly out of bed, I wondered whether the lads from the marquee company would even try to put the tent up on the beach. How would they ever fasten it down?
I had visions of a kind of marquee-shaped hot air balloon gusting across Donegal Bay with various people dangling from ropes. I tried to quell such negative (but graphic) thoughts, grabbed the flapjacks, my winter coat, hat and wellies, and headed out the door.
Marie Christine - one of our wwoofers -  was waiting by the car, despite the appalling hour and weather.

We were off to help at the 4th annual skinny dip to raise money for cancer research.

After last year's Dip in the Nip, I no longer had romantic visions of driving into the dawn, which was just as well, as nothing was visible on the horizon except low grey cloud hanging like soggy fleece, obliterating everything.
But to my amazement, when we got to the beach, a half-erected marquee met our eyes, with - yikes - men clinging to ropes...


I was instantly and efficiently directed to a parking slot and from that moment, everything fell into place with oiled ease. Before the tent was even fully up, it was filled with tables, portable gas rings, boilers, catering flasks full of piping hot coffee and tea, not to mention endless tins of flapjacks and buttered scones.

Talentui Organics  face and body oils

In a separate corner we laid out Talentui organic soaps and oils, cards and crafts - including lovely little pottery dishes with Dip in the Nip 2013 hand printed on the bottom. Our resident potter had made them with clay from the next bay along the coast, each one different.

The sea, the sea - caught in a bowl. Marie-Christine chose this one

Beltra Country Market was in full swing.

Dip in the Nip's inventor and organiser then informed us that everyone had recommended cancellation. The Irish Coast Guards, The Irish Surf Association and Life Guards, even I think the County Council, not to mention all those sane enough to be still in their beds, snug and warm.
Glancing out at the wild, messy ocean, and listening to the wind battering the tent, it wasn't hard to apply the logic.
But the suggestion that people ought not to fulfil the morning's purpose was met with loud boo-ing, and within minutes the men and couples had headed off to their stations at the far end of the beach, and a stream of pink wigs and dressing gowns was flowing down after them, if not eagerly, at least with determination. Marie and I took a few minutes off our tea-lady duties to watch as they gathered for a photo, away down the strand, before flinging their dressing-gowns off and racing towards the sea.

 

Looks like the men and the women could be going head-to-head this year

High up where we stood beside the tents, we watched items of clothing dancing along the sand like Disney characters. A pink wig somersaulted towards us like tumbleweed, followed a moment later by a t-shirt, flapping through the air like a strange, pink bird.

We never saw them again, but it wasn't long before the Dippers started to reappear, eager to wrap their numb fingers around a hot drink.
'It's warmer in the sea than on the beach,' they said.
I could believe them.

But it was warm in the tent too. Not because the temperature was higher, but because everyone was there for the same reason, and everyone was in it together, dippers and helpers alike - trying to raise money that might save a life, or to commemorate a loved one, to support someone suffering from a horrible disease, to forge new hope.
The air was filled with friendship and laughter. Despite the innate sadness of the cause, it buzzed with life and love.


There were no wishing trees this year, the wind was too strong.
But as Marie and I left, I saw that the car park was full of pink feathers, torn from boas and now settling into the sand and gravel like confetti.
Each one a silent prayer.



I am sad to see that sections of this post have been randomly used in an article about Dip in the Nip in the online publication, Sligo Today - without prior permission or acknowledgement as to the source.


The post I wrote after this same event last year, Nippy Dipping in the Briney, has been the second most popular post on my blog, ever.
You can read it here if you would like to.

The Goddess of Plenty

Friday 30 November:
There is still time to take part in the Great Giveaway! Just leave a comment to be in with a chance of winning the wonderful prize.

It's here - the day has arrived - the Great Giveaway is upon us!
And about time too, I hear you say.

Fair comment.
But first - let me explain what I'm giving away and why...

A few years ago, a beautiful young friend of mine, a musician, found she had cancer.
It came out of the blue, as these things generally do.
Sadly, since then many people I know have been hit by different forms of this same disease. The majority of them are women, and, like my friend, have been diagnosed with breast cancer.

The prayer tree

At the Dip in the Nip, back in June (a sponsored skinny-dip to raise money to fight cancer) I helped to put up a prayer tree on the beach. Prayer tree, wishing tree, call it what you will, the tags that fluttered in the breeze that day all bore - ultimately - the same message. They were filled with sadness, many with loss, some with hope, all with love. I left a message on the tree myself  for an old friend, fighting his own battle, and came away realising that everyone, everywhere is touched by cancer.

My beautiful friend went through all the treatment. Operations, chemo, radiotherapy - she lost all her hair, and suffered all the ups and downs that are inevitable when your life is suddenly no longer under your control, is tipping in a balance that seems more fragile than a water droplet.


She was one of the lucky ones, the girl-friend who sings like an angel. She was - happily - not bidden to some celestial choir, but came through it all, looking impossibly gorgeous with her new short, feathery urchin hair.
And I'm sure she would say that the whole, gruesome experience has changed many things for her - least of which is that she has become vegetarian. I don't know what lies beneath the surface for her, we don't talk about it. Why would we? I'm sure it's something you want to forget, and part of getting better must be moving on, but she did say one thing that made a huge impression on me.
It wasn't some profundity about the meaning of life, it was something that could seem almost trivial.

'Since becoming ill,' she said, 'I refuse to put anything on my skin that I couldn't put in my mouth.'

Fennel against the sky

I've thought about that a lot since then.
After all, we are so totally absorbent - not just our minds and our hearts, but our skins - our skins.

I've seen pictures of animals that are used as the 'guinea pigs' for our beauty products. Not good.
May we be forgiven for abusing them so.
And I saw one of those facebook posters awhile ago. It itemised the chemicals to be found in various up-market, but high street face creams. The list was long.

I also saw this just a few days ago - facebook again.

Credit to whoever it belongs to. Thank you facebook

What an upside down world we live in, but we don't have to passively accept it.

Cancer - skincare - lemons?
The thing is, all these different strands seem to have lodged in the same pigeon-hole in my brain and started their own little train of thought, which I will try to unravel here.


Once upon a time face creams were made from real plants, and plant oils. Some old woman in the village, who had learned everything she knew from her mother, or grandmother, made lotions and potions, infusions, balms and salves. Looking at the fields around her cottage she saw not land ripe for development, or capable of producing more grain per acre, but land rich with the blessings of mother earth, full of plants that healed and soothed, wildflowers that induced sleep, or cure, some that brought love - even death.

Sleep - and oblivion

Needless to say, we burned her as a witch or, if she was lucky, drowned her on the ducking stool in the village pond, before moving relentlessly onwards and upwards in our quest to conquer the planet with technology and science. And let's face it, the land is far too valuable to waste on plants and animals. Anyway, we can simulate the beneficial effects of most plants now, so why bother to remember that herbalists would use foxgloves to treat heart disease, marigolds to heal wounds, willow for pain relief, rue for high blood pressure and epilepsy, rosemary as an antiseptic, heliotrope for reducing fevers, heather and valerian as sedatives, larkspur as an insecticide, evening primrose for coughs, mullein for chilblains, nasturtium for urinary infections, wild passion flowers for IBS, horsetail to strengthen hair and nails...
The list is as endless as the plants themselves.
But with our forgetfulness, somehow mother earth, the original goddess of plenty, has slipped into the crack of our bilateral vision.
   
So here we are today with furniture polish made of lemons and face creams made of equations.
Isn't it wonderful?

And for all our technology and science, disease and mental instability are only ever a whisper away.

Now and again, when some programme comes on with gems like: 'Recent studies have shown that cayenne pepper/turmeric/the-plant-of-the-moment might significantly reduce tumours/free radicals/the latest disease', I find myself wondering if maybe we were a bit hasty in burning the witches of yesteryear. It strikes me that they might have been able to point us towards some of these wondrous truths a good while ago.
Still, better late than never, and anything that rekindles our relationship with the earth, anything that makes us actually see what grows around us can only be good.

The Fabulous Parrot Tulip

My friend HW in Bermuda flung a friendly contest at me a month or two ago. He liked a tulip I had photographed, and zapped a gloriosa lily back through cyberspace to stand against my brave, striped parrot.
And his challenge became one more strand tangling in that pigeon hole in my brain. I looked around my own small patch of earth, my generous share of the goddess of plenty's gifts, with all its plants - flowers - beauty - healing and power.
It is all given to us, I thought, in infinite variety - to see, to hold, to use, to pleasure our senses, to heal our bodies, to quiet our minds, and - as is the way with the earth - everything links into everything else, but it is up to us how we use it, how we see those connections.
So - I pondered - let's do it - let's look at the bounty around us, admire it, celebrate it, share it and spread it around.

The Glorious Gloriosa

And then I thought of another friend of mine, and the last piece of the jigsaw slipped into place.
Having spent years working in restaurant and event management - and becoming quite ill in the process - she has now moved to the west coast and started her own company making organic skincare products.
Where possible, all her ingredients are organic, Irish and as locally sourced as she can achieve. She uses beeswax and oils alongside herbs and flowers from her own organic garden, and the products she makes are not just cosmetic, they are specially designed to help the body's natural healing process and promote a feeling of well-being. She doesn't use any artificial preservatives, synthetic fragrances or parabens and nothing is tested on animals. (That in itself would be good enough for me.) In addition, all her packaging, including the gift boxes, are made from recycled and recyclable materials. As she herself says, these are products that make you feel good, and that you can feel good about.

My friend's new company is called Talentui Organics.
So, like my friend who has recovered from breast cancer, I can now put everything that goes on my skin in my mouth.
It's a good feeling.

And it's one you can share.

I'm giving away a Gift Box of Talentui skincare products worth €35, which includes Rose Face Oil, Soo-Sleepy Body Oil, Feel Soo Good Morning Shower Oil, and Salvation Balm.


And what do you have to do to win this fabulous treat?
Well - it's easy peasy, lemon squeezy (made with real lemons).

Just leave a comment below or go onto Writing from the Edge's facebook page, click 'Like' and then post your comment there - or even just send me an email.

Include a photo of your favourite flower OR

An interesting fact about a plant you like OR

Post a prayer tree message for someone you know and love OR

Just say hello

Or you can do all of those!
And you can leave as many comments as you like.
(Don't forget to leave a link so I can find you if you're the winner!)

As far as I can make out, life is never under our control, and is constantly tipping in a balance that is more fragile than a water droplet, but it is what we do with it that matters - and what we do with it is often tied in with how we see the world around us, so let's start by celebrating the bountiful earth. And the winner will be chosen when I get the feeling that everyone out there is celebrating - so join in, and tell your friends!

Oh - and by the way, Talentui is the name of the ancient goddess of Plenty.

The Talentui Organic garden, overlooking the sea

Happy first birthday, blog!

Additional comments:-

Margaret Roddy - see comment below - also posted this flower picture on Writing from the Edge's facebook page

Thanks, Margaret! Lovely photo.

 

Nicola McCutcheon - see comment below - posted this  picture of orange blossom on Writing from the Edge's facebook page.
Thanks, Nicola - it's lovely to see these pictures coming in. Another cracker! I can smell it from here!

Denise sent this photo in to the facebook page. Isn't it wonderful? Her comment is also below.

Thanks Carol for posting your favourite flower on facebook. Here it is:

And here are some sweetpeas for Lazonya. They first appeared on my blog in Oh, September...
but as they are her favourite, I think they ought to appear again...

Beautiful margeurites from Isobel. Thanks Isobel.

Rowan Berries from Edinburgh, received with thanks!