Dusk

I love the turning of the light – in the seasons and in the round of a day. I love how our home gradually and silently fills with light . . . the quiet, cool dim light of the dawn as the darkness fades . . . the sunrise with its gladness and glory of colours. I love sunlight and rainwashed silver cloud light. I love dusk and starlight too, and the beauty of the moon.

And the homely pools of lamplight are also beautiful. Just now, as dusk deepens into night, the pools of light gathered at our roof windows in the attic gradually falter and disappear. But working at his desk, the Badger sits in the warm glow of his lamp. I can look along from my corner and see him there.

And now the night has come. Time to go out under the rising moon and put down the fox’s supper.

Herring gulls

Herring gulls. Incomparable.

They keep an unremitting ceaseless watch on everything that goes on in the garden. Of particular interest is the time in the morning I come out with tiny cubes of hard cheese for the crows.

I call on the crow call, and back come corvid answers from various directions across the valley. The crows always send someone to see what’s up, but they aren’t always bothered about food – unlike the seagulls. The crows take as much as they want and leave the rest. The seagulls eat everything going.

The other morning, I went out onto the deck with a couple of bowls of rejected catfood, scoping the trees for crows, but they weren’t about just then – unlike the seagulls, who were ready and hopeful on their feeding station up on the Badger’s carpentry shed roof. I wanted the crows to have a chance at the catfood, so I just took it back in until they should appear.

“Oi!” A herring gull appeared on the rail of the deck, then hopped down to knock on the back door. “Where our catfud?”

So I took some out to them. They are everlastingly hungry. Peckish, even. “Give us your tired! Give us your poor! Give us your huddled masses!” they scream, with not the faintest idea what it means – “Give us anything! We’ll take it! Serve it up and make it quick. We all like figgy pudding so bring some out here!”

Things thrown out and things kept

Our grand Lenten clear-out is going well. Boxes of books have been heaved out of the door, articles of furniture, clothes and kitchen implements – all sorts of things we once thought we couldn’t possibly live without.

Today, I have been tackling a category I never find easy. Back in the days before i-tunes really got going and we all began to keep our music in our phones, when CDs were all the thing, my daughters and I often made each other music compilation CDs for birthday and Christmas gifts. Nowadays we neither make CDs nor give birthday or Christmas gifts, but there is a certain legacy. These things made for me by people I love are among my few treasures.

The CDs were important. My family made them at a time when we were breathtakingly poor, when our family home had gone and we were muddling along in an assortment of made-do dwellings, keeping cheerful by whatever means we could, loving and helping each other along. For a long time I had no car. But when I got one, and work began to pick up, my days were spent tearing around the lanes of Sussex from house to house and church to church, working on funerals and ceremonies of blessing and generally shepherding outlying flocks of the faithful. Sometimes I got so tired I was just reeling. During the time I was married to Bernard and living out at Beckley in his little cottage in Bixley Lane on the verge of Flatropers Wood, I drove miles and miles every day keeping home and family and marriage and work stitched together. Late at night, driving home through the trees under the wild moon, playing music in the car formed the rhythms my tired mind needed just to make it back.

Later, when Bernard had died and I’d married the Badger and moved off to Aylesbury, drifting and lonely away from my family, hemmed in by new hostilities and proliferating difficulties, they sent me CDs of the happiest songs. As I painted the walls and cleaned and cooked, far away from them, their music lifted my spirits and kept me alive. It should have been such a wonderful time, in a new marriage and all – but there were so many difficulties. Even with the Badger, dear and true, those were not easy days.

And today, I got out my little packet of CDs and began the job of sorting them out, uploading and categorizing and labeling them in my i-tunes library. After that, I discarded the actual CDs – put them aside for anyone else in the family to upload who wants to.

But I wanted to show you this one. A Christmas CD Hebe made me in 2008. That was such a low year – the year I finally caved in under all the awful stuff going down and left the Methodist ministry, because I couldn’t work, could hardly hold together.

And Hebe made me this lovely thing – a compilation CD inside a little booklet, called “Before I Sleep”.

I thought you’d like to see the little booklet: 

Before I Sleep

Because it all came together as one thing, even though I’ve uploaded the music into my i-tunes library, I’ll still keep the CD with the leaflet.

It is my ambition to own almost nothing – and one of the beauties of that is the way these few treasures I do own emerge and shine; this is what I value; this is what I have loved. To look at them and handle them and let them take centre stage is one of many surprising gifts of minimalism.

An error of judgement

Oh, for heaven’s sake – why did I do that? Why? How could I have been so myopically, surpassingly stupid? Why haven’t I got an Inner Mother like other people do, to murmur in my internal ear – before I press Send – “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Let me explain. The computer creates firebreaks for me between the various compartments of bewilderment composing my strange personal world.  I wake up in the morning, generally before dawn, and lie stunned for a while, processing my unlikely dreams and redesigning the house, mentally reviewing my possessions and wondering what I can get rid of. After that, before emerging to tangle with whatever life washed up on the shore of this day, I generally vanish into my computer for a while. Before losing a few games of Spider Solitaire, I check my emails.

That particular day last winter, a publicity questionnaire had appeared in my inbox.  They wanted the usual bio, for the Bible Reading Foundation and Woman Alive conference coming up in June – what I’d written, what I planned to speak on, if I wanted a flipchart and whatnot – and, of course, they wanted a photograph.

“Oh, right, no problems,” thought I, struggling to a relative sitting position, pushing my glasses up my nose and composing my features into my best early morning approximation of a smile. Handily, you see, a Mac does a nifty job at taking photos – you just press the little button in the photo booth, fix your determined leer while it counts to three, and there you are. So that’s what I did. Filled in the form, attached the pic, sent it all off and thought no more about it.

Until today. When Woman Alive thudded onto the mat, and I idly flicked through. There, somewhere in the middle, was the page advertising their conference on Women of Peace and introducing the speakers.  Who all had the sense to get out of bed, comb their hair, put some make-up on and swap their dressing gowns for regular day clothes before they took their photographs. Except me. I bet they even washed and cleaned their teeth first as well.

Transfixed with horror I gazed at the photo I’d sent in – which of course I’d completely forgotten about in the meantime. On the bright side, it does look like the kind of woman who would fit right in as a character in the novels I write; an indigent wayfaring down-and-out who lost her way sometime in the 1980s and never made it back to mainstream society, offering rough-hewn sarcastic wisdom about the nature of life and faith.

This is the whole trouble with a writer’s mind. What seems reasonable, what comes naturally – what indeed constitutes real life and daily normality – bears no resemblance to the suave and professional face a shrewd publicist would present to the outer world. Because that’s the thing; I don’t really have an ‘outer world’; just an inner one, all dressing gowns and no makeup. So, if you’re coming to that conference, I’m sorry about that.  I promise to comb my hair and clean my teeth on the day.

I thought, for your amusement, I’d share with you the photo I sent in – in case you don’t read Woman Alive. Although . . . you do, don’t you? It’s an excellent magazine! So I went across to the conference web page to have a look at the speakers, and lo! Some dear, sensitive, shrewd and compassionate soul has swapped out the raddled-hag snap I sent in for an altogether more dignified and refined portrait I sent them in 2008 when I first started writing for Woman Alive. Phew. What a relief. Mind you, if you come to the conference (you are coming, aren’t you? It's on the 17th of June) you won’t recognise me from either mugshot, because I had my hair cut this spring. I look like this now. Well, at least – on a good day.

New Daylight

I’m so sorry – it does really embarrass me to spam you, but I faithfully promised the good folk at BRF that I’d put out some publicity for the next Bible study notes to which I’d contributed.

Which is this one just coming up – out in May (I've linkified the pic for you).  The studies I’ve written are for a fortnight in August; you get a nice range of contributors in each edition.

Here’s a page about all the different contributors for this particular one.

If you decide to follow these studies (or if you already subscribe to them), come back and let me know how you get on.