Brian Walsh fixing the sky

 Brian Walsh comes from Lancashire, but we won't hold that against him.

To be honest I'm not a hundred per cent sure of his name. He was recommended to my husband Tony by someone on Nextdoor, the neighbourhood app you can get. So when we moved in to our house, after a financially disastrous beginning with Irish John who did some good work on our garden for sure, but charged us an arm and a leg and a second mortgage for the privilege, we paused a little while and then my husband found Brian Walsh.

Now, facial recognition is not my hubby's strong point — he doesn't always recognise me, and we've been married twenty years this September — but to go with that, he doesn't always recall names either. So on Sunday he came home after church and told me what an interesting conversation he'd had with Dave, told me all about Dave's doctorate and the book Dave wants to write and how many languages he speaks. I was beginning to wonder if Dave was seeking employment. And he mentioned Dave's wife Emily and her sphere of work.

Now, Dave is moving on to a different town, so yesterday morning we prayed for Dave and Mrs Dave. "Emily?" I said, but my hubby said no, he thought she was called Fiona. Fair enough. Maybe Dave has two wives?

And so, after Irish John had departed with half my hubby's savings and left us with a nice new fence and a mended terrace and a sturdy plinth for our shed and various other jobs done, there was a pause while we recovered from our fiscal wounds and then my hubby found Brian Walsh. But later he said he thought Brian's name is in fact Welch. Or I suppose that could be Welsh. This is the whole problem with oral traditions. Hard to rely on. accurate record-keeping is everything.

But that was how Brian Walsh came into our lives, and what a Godsend he has proved to be. He took away the spaghetti of cabling festooned round our house like a cobweb enveloping a fly. And then he filled all the holes where the cables had gone into the house so that every room could have a telly and Christmas lights could be erected and old telephones had been connected. He filled the cracks in the render and repainted it all and slapped bitumen stuff onto the side gate and replaced the flashing round the base of the chimney where water was getting in, and sorted the barge boards and put back the slipped tile and boxed in the kitchen pipes and replaced the pantry window with one that both opened and had a trickle vent so the pantry didn't go mouldy any more.

Not only that but he told us about the time he'd seen God and about all the hundreds of paintings he'd collected, and he re-ordered the political structures of England to get a better result than the present unfolding fiasco, and he had a nice time drinking tea and eating chocolate biscuits on our terrace with his assistant (and son-in-law) Lee.

Lee is almost as silent as St Joseph, observant, courteous when he does speak, and very brave. This latter I know, because Lee doesn't like heights, but when they put the scaffold up to fix the chimney and the roof, Lee didn't say anything — he just went up the ladder and did the work.

It rained a lot this spring. Day after day of heavy cloud, cold and grey. I got fed up with it and Clarence hated it. Not that Clarence — our cat — likes the hot weather either. In last week's heat wave he had to lie spread out like a dead frog with as much of his belly in contact with the floor as he could manage. Because Clarence has luxuriant fur, and a lot of it; that fur goes very badly with heat waves.

Even so, he finds ways to get cool and at least it's dry. Because if there's one thing Clarence hates above all else, it's when it rains.

He came in one evening back in the early spring, telling me at length that the sky was broken and leaking all over our garden. He was soggy from nose to tail and he didn't think it was funny at all.

But then came Brian Walsh, bringing with him the sunshine and a tower scaffold, fixing our chimney (and our neighbour's while he was at it) and our slipped tiles (and our neighbour's the other side while he was at it). And after Brian had been there followed several solid weeks of glorious sunshine. Until yesterday. 

Now you and I know sunny days cannot continue for ever. What about the flowers? What about the snails? For that matter, what about the frogs and the streams and the summer fruit? Yes, I think we do need the rain; but Clarence does not share this opinion.

He put off going out into the garden for as long as his bladder would hold on, this morning. Eventually he had to give in. 

When he came back inside to find me, Clarence had Things To Say. His fur was wet, his paws were wet, it was even wet under the hedge. The sky was leaking again. The repairs had not held.

Clarence thought maybe it was time to place a phone call to Brian Walsh, and ask him to come back as soon as possible to fix the sky.

I told him I'd think about it.

Little yellow car at the roundabout

In the time the 1970s tipped over into the 80s, my mother had a buttercup yellow Renault 5. It looked like this.

She lived very frugally, focusing with sustained intention on buying and selling houses, which was how she made her living — this included the houses we actually lived in. So she was very sparing indeed when it came to any purchases other than houses. She grew our food. But a car was a (joyous) necessity, because we lived in the Hertfordshire countryside, and she also had a house in Yorkshire, where my father had a mill. The A21 road that runs between Hertfordshire and Yorkshire was a well-worn track for her. She loved driving, and often in the evenings — after the garden and greenhouse were watered, and the hens fed and we'd checked on the sheep, and had supper — she and I would go for long meandering drives round Hertfordshire and Essex and sometimes into Cambridgeshire or Suffolk or Norfolk. We lived near the boundaries of those counties, and she loved driving and chatting. 

Her car before the Renault was a Sunbeam Stiletto, a racy little machine with twin carburettors, in iridescent blue — like this.

It lasted well but finally bit the dust late one night when she was driving our friend Ant (short for Anthony) home after he'd spent the evening at our house. My father was away working abroad most of the time when we were teenagers, and our household was very laid-back and welcoming, usually full of kids who lived nearby. My mother fed them all and gave them lifts home when it got late.

Driving Ant home — so she said when she got back in — there was a loud bang, and looking back they saw glowing coals in the road, so they knew something must have gone wrong (!)

She managed to actually get him home, and drove back as far as the village church, at which point it just stopped, and she had to walk the rest of the way.

She thought it was quite funny, and interesting. My mother was a quiet woman, but she laughed a lot. She was intrepid. 

Nothing daunted her. "I expect it'll be all right," she used to say.

But the blue car was dead, so she moved on to the buttercup yellow one (all her cars were second hand). Yellow was her favourite colour, and I think that was her favourite car of all time.

She still had the little yellow Renault 5 when I went to university at York and then got married and moved to Hastings.

Once our kids were born, we'd drive up to Hertfordshire to visit her in the summer and at Christmas, and in between she'd come down to visit us. She had a house called Apple Tree Cottage at Coniston Cold in Yorkshire when our kids were between about 3 and 9 years old, and during that time we went camping in Yorkshire one summer, to visit my husband's auntie and uncle, who lived near Hebden Bridge.

My mother visited us at the camp site, and took our twins away with her to stay a couple of nights at Apple Tree Cottage, bringing them back when it was the day for us to drive back down to Hastings and her to drive back down to Hertfordshire. She lived in this house in Much Hadham at the time. What you're looking at is three cottages. She owned them all back then, and lived in the white one on the left.

 

There was a fourth, on the far right, which she didn't own. Those are just internet pics. I haven't kept any family photos. But those houses are all still there in the photo album inside my mind. At one point my father lived in the one on the right of the red-brick one, and my sister lived in the red one for a while.

So that was where my mother was driving home to, from Yorkshire.

Back in those days (the late 1980s) the roads weren't so busy, and we were able to drive in convoy, tailing her for 200 miles, all the way down the A21 from Hebden Bridge. 

When we got to the roundabout where the A10 branches off to Hertford and Bishops Stortford, that was her turning. Our road carried on south, another 90 miles down to the coast.

I still remember the feeling of that moment when we reached the intersection together, us following behind her, and she lifted her hand in a cheery wave goodbye, and then the buttercup yellow car peeled off to the left, and our ways parted. That lurch, you feel it in your heart, the realisation that this is for now but one day it will be for ever.

This year — 2026 — and this month (May of this year) has been a time of divergences and partings and ending, of various different kinds, some expected and some surprising.

It has been a time of the ways parting, and I am fairly sure this will be true for you as well as for me. There will be have been deaths or simply the realisation that something has had its season and is finished now.

If that is true for you, for whatever reason, give yourself the time you need to honour what has gone — space to acknowledge it, and a moment to grieve.

Budgeting time and energy.

I think of money, time and energy as the three interchangeable resources we all rely on — but watching the video below made me realise there's a fourth resource: possessions. Items we own, stuff we have in store, is of course a resource and I hadn't factored that in.

So in this video, Madisun Gray (I love her channel) takes us through how she used that fourth resource of possessions — traded it in — to maximise money and time, so her family could create a reservoir of shared memory and transformative experience to enrich their lives.

There have been two times in particular when I've had to focus hard on budgeting time or energy.

My first child was born in the March of 1980, and my second child in the late October of 1981. That was a nice gap, and felt very manageable to me. I had plenty of energy back then. I thought we'd have three children in all, then call it quits. At the time we lived in a small Victorian workers cottage with two bedrooms — it would have been three, but the middle one was at some point made into a bathroom.

So after a similar gap came my third pregnancy, but that turned out to be twins, which was a very different conversation. They were born at the beginning of August in 1983, so for a while we had four children under four years old. Looking after twin babies is a lot more than looking after one. All four of them were in nappies at night. We also had a dog and a cat and a garden, church responsibilities, and my husband was a school teacher. My energy budget was quickly exhausted.

During those days, I remember there being a particular issue around four in the afternoon. My husband had after-school duties because he was a music teacher (choirs, bands etc), so he wouldn't be home until perhaps five o'clock. When he came in we'd have tea (supper; our evening meal), then it would be bath time, then bedtime. But at 3pm the children were awake after their afternoon nap, I'd been doing the usual household chores that I could get on with while they were sleeping, and he wouldn't be home for what felt like ages.

I noticed that I'd get very snappy around 4pm, and I stopped to ask myself why. I realised that I was just tired, and the only source of energy I had left was adrenalin, which is very irritable energy — anger, really. I thought about Jesus, on the road on foot every day, followed and surrounded by people desperately needing his healing touch, gathering in crowds to hear him preach, and I wondered what was the fuel he ran on. I suppose one might say faith or prayer, but the answer that came to me at the time was that Jesus ran on joy; that was his energy. I identified that in times of energy deficit the two options available to us are anger or joy, and that's to do with the orientation of our souls. Writing it down now, I have to admit it doesn't sound very plausible or convincing, but it's what I've always believed since those days.

Owning less helps, of course — fewer chores and more naps are two of the luxuries of minimalism, and living simply makes the money go further, which meant at least I was only trying to be a mother and a house angel, I didn't have an outside job as well.

Budgeting time came into focus for me in the season when my first marriage ended. The odd circumstances of what happened meant that (through no fault of my own) we lost our home and my job, as well as my husband's job. But there were still our five children not yet fledged, so I had to come up with options and solutions and apply them fast.

While I rebuilt my life, I worked in a number of different roles — as a palliative care assistant in a nursing home, as an assistant in a gift shop, writing, and crafting non-standard ceremonies for marriages, funerals and welcome-to-the-world ceremonies for babies. Eventually I was reinstated as a Methodist minister and had pastoral charge of churches again, but I kept on the ceremonies work as well, and it was time-consuming. Meanwhile I was living in a two-roomed apartment with one of my daughters, sleeping on the floor in the kitchen/living-room, and also running a fresh expression of church we called the Universal Glue Factory (because the glue that holds the universe together is love). That room where we lived and I slept and worked and wrote, and we cooked and ate, was also where we held church parties and taught theology classes and had the Glue factory meetings. It was insane.

I had to budget time very carefully, because the ceremonies were paid by fees, so had to be good quality, and often required accompanying leaflets with liturgies or orders of service. There was a lot to do.

At that time, in order to fulfil everything and forget nothing, I timetabled every day from 5am through to midnight. I made weekly timetables on paper, with every hour of every day mapped out and coloured in so I knew what I'd be doing and when. There were some blocks that doubled up. I discovered it is possible to prepare something that needs thinking about while you are asleep. You can instruct your mind to come up with a ceremony or a sermon or a chapter when you lie down to sleep, and it will be there in the morning. 5am is a good time to start, because no one else is up and the phone hasn't started ringing. That's the time to write down what you asked your subconscious to come up with on waking, when you went to bed last night. The other doubling up was meal times. I could check correspondence and pay bills and deal with electronic paperwork while I ate my lunch. I could allocate time to my family over the evening meal. For a while, it was the only way to get through.

Then I married Bernard and everything changed. At that point I was driving around East Sussex running 4 churches and looking after him as he became ill. Then I discovered, when I ran into deficit of both energy and time, that music keeps you going, especially music with a pronouncedly rhythmic beat. I had rock and roll CDs for my car, that kept me awake and functioning when, at ten o'clock at night, I was driving home through the Sussex countryside to check on Bernard.

So — joy, music, and meticulous planning. Those helped me. It's good to have a sense of humour too, because laughter fuels joy. And since you have to have money and you can't stop loving people, there is also that necessity which is the mother of invention. Somehow you get through.

And then, if it feels helpful, I like this as a prayer for letting all the accumulated baggage drop away.

Space, simplicity and budgets

 Most of the time these days I don't think very hard or very often about my space and my belongings — but that's because I now live in a 3-bedroomed house with only one other person, so I don't have to.

Every now and then I look through what I own or cast an eye over the arrangement of our belongings, to see if there's anything I can move on or if I can dispose our furniture to better facilitate how we live and what we do. For instance, now the summer has come and we like to have the doors to the garden open through the day, I've moved our table and chairs nearer the door so that when we sit down to eat or chat or have our morning prayers, we are right there by the fresh air and looking out at the trees and the flowers.

Before we lived here, my allocation of personal space was very small. This wasn't a problem most of the time because I loved my little room, though I do feel able to breathe easier in my larger room here; but there were some challenges to having only enough storage for what I actually used. The biggest difficulty was that in the last five years while I've been ill, trying various different modes of eating to fix my health, and being less active because of pain and tiredness, my weight fluctuated quite a bit. I went through several different sets of clothes because garments no longer fitted or that type of garment no longer looked good — and then guess what everything changed again and I had to start over. Even though I shop on eBay and buy secondhand clothing very cheaply, I spent a lot of money that way. I would say I wasted that money, but I don't think that's true. If I hadn't been content with such a small space, meaning I couldn't store clothing in case I came back to it again, we might have needed a bigger house with bigger rooms, or not been able to accommodate so many people in the house we did have. Instead of renting space I rented clothes, in effect. That's okay.

But during that time, and the many years before when I had only a small allowance of space, there were some principles I found helpful in living frugally and simply and owning few possessions.

I had what I thought of as the Moon in the Sky principle, which is that you can love the moon, admire it and gaze at it, but you don't have to own it or try and bring it onto the earth. It's better to just leave it where it is in the sky. If you are in the homeware department of a store — or the stationery department — you might see many objects you fall in love with and want to bring home. But unless you are actually looking for a colourful mediterranean salad bowl or a hard-backed journal, it's probably a good idea to categorise it along with the moon in the sky, and leave it right there where it is.

My daughter Fi helpfully identified another principle — I consider this a very shrewd observation. She said that if she goes into a shop with lovely clothes or jewellery or other beautiful things, often what she wants to do is show her sisters or friends — to call them over and say, "Look at this!" They would admire it together — and then move on. She realised that there were times when she bought something not because she needed it or wanted to keep it, but to take it home and show everyone. After that it was more or less redundant. I suspect that happens to us quite a lot, and probably has roots in our hunter-gatherer past, when calling the tribe over to look at these juicy berries was part of living effectively and successfully.

And the third principle I want to mention (and then that'll do, I don't want to overwhelm you) is having a financial reservoir. In effect it's being your own overdraft or credit system. A separate bank account where you keep a pool of money to dip into if you run out. So in your main account you have whatever is there to last however long it has to, but if — as so often happens — it doesn't stretch or something unexpected comes up, instead of a credit card or an overdraft you have your pool of money in the separate account, to dip into and then return later, just the same as if you'd used a credit card or an overdraft but with no danger of incurring interest payments. I find it important to keep this reservoir in an actually separate account, because I tend to spend up to whatever limit I can see is in my current account. There are more things I want to spend money on than I have money to pay for, but it puts the brakes on psychologically if I can see it running out in the current account. I also have a third account for savings. All three are empty right now, but no worries — it's nearly the end of the month and we have everything we need. I do also have a back-up fourth option, the joint account I share with my husband that we both pay into each month, saving up for annual costs (like house/car insurance, road tax, etc) and from which we pay the monthly bills like council tax, internet, electricity and so forth. We pay in a little more than is budgeted, so an amount accumulates there as well, for repairs and unforeseen expenses. Right now I owe it £100, but tomorrow is the last working day of the month so I can repay it and get some groceries too.

Please do say in the comments your own strategies for budgeting space and money. Maybe in a separate post we could also think about budgeting time and energy, because those too have limits and require strategies.

Meanwhile, I thought you might enjoy this YouTube video from Madeline Hegedus — I always enjoy listening to what she has to say.

In the video she mentions two things I want to follow up — Becky Truda's excellent channel Minimal Ease, and Adam Grant's book Think Again, which looks really interesting.

The Light of One Lamp

This is the last of the Hawk & Dove books. We are growing old, Tony has Parkinsons, the future looks uncertain. I wanted to be sure the tale was told and these stories were complete, in case we get de-railed by life either ending or continuing with extra difficulties!

I put something of a sprint on to get this one finished, because looking at the world today it seems to me that people are losing the plot a bit when it comes to understanding how to resolve difficulties, how to make peace and live in peace, remembering that the enemy is never flesh and blood, we are all on the same side, one world, one humanity. I wanted to add to this mix a story delineating a path to peace and reminding us to hold our light steady through turbulent times because that's what we're here to do.

As ever, it comes to you with my love, and gratitude for being my kindred along this quiet way.

And please, a reminder friends — an Amazon review is so very helpful if/when you have read the story. Amazon reviews built a wall of protection around the book to keep it safely there.

Amazon UK and on Kindle ebook here.

Amazon US and on Kindle ebook here.

Amazon AU paperback and Kindle ebook.

 

"Problems arise when things accumulate." (Toinette Lippe)

 That quotation, "Problems arise when things accumulate", is from Toinette Lippe's book Nothing Left Over. It's about twenty years since I read it (and where did that time go?) and I'm going to look it out and read it again because it's an excellent book.

So, here on Kindred of the Quiet Way, Sarah and I have been talking about the curation of possessions and the ongoing struggle of managing a home inhabited by a family with all the usual possessions and treasures that go with living in a consumer society resourced by mass production.

This conversation sent my mind down the pathways of how I personally manage stuff, because I was advocating a practice of divesting oneself of belongings to reclaim space and peace and freedom — and I thought maybe I should take a look at my own stuff and see what needed sorting out. 

I wondered if you'd like to come with me on the journey and see where that took me today.

To have in the back of your mind is that in our church there's a young man who has become a friend. I've been worried about him because he's been homeless and sleeping on the street and hasn't had enough to eat. Then in the last week or two I heard that he'd been able to get an apartment so then I wondered if he has furniture and kitchen things.

Everything commenced right there.

In my room I have built-in wardrobes and shelves, but the moveable furniture is a bed, a chair, a normal-sized chest of drawers, and a narrow chest of drawers.

I don't need the chair —

 — Clarence (our cat) sleeps on it sometimes just for a change, but usually he sleeps on the bed. 

So we can offer the chair to our friend for his new apartment — and we also have a surplus one-person slow cooker, and a toaster; he can have those too if he'd like them.

But I think maybe he could do with a chest of drawers. Our car is too small for the big one, and it's too heavy for Tony and me to move now we're old and decrepit, but the narrow one is light, so he could have that. The only problem is it's full of stuff. And the bigger one also has stuff in it, though I did do a clothing cull the other day, so it's got a bit less stuff than before. But I still need to make space to put the stuff from the smaller one.

So look — this is how it went.

The top of my big chest of drawers was covered with things.

I asked myself, do I need all that stuff? Do I use all those things? And my first reaction was — absolutely; yes. Let me give you a closer look.

Here's what there is. My glass of water and my comb, the big glass I use for an earring stand, my water bottle, a badge, a notebook and pens, a CD someone kindly gave me (but I don't have a CD player so it's just sitting there because I can't listen to it), a letter from the Benedictines at Wass waiting for me to read it, some inspirational Thich Nhat Hanh calligraphy, my Kindle e-reader (never use it, doesn't keep its charge, I read e-books on my laptop), and the three TENS machines I use in sequence to alleviate my health condition, plus the attachment pads that go with the machines. I want those (TENS kit) available for immediate access because I use them every day and every night at the present time.

Above the chest of drawers there's this little shelf unit (Tony made it for me ❤️)

Looking at the shelf unit I saw that there are several lipsticks/blushsticks. We've lived in this house a year and I've only used one of them, and not very often. But in the past I've binned lipsticks and then wished I hadn't and bought new ones, so I think I'll quarantine the surplus ones rather than throw them out just yet. So I put them in this little bag, in the top drawer of my chest of drawers.

When I opened that drawer to find a space to put the lipsticks (the bag was already in that drawer), I realised I'd have to make a space, not find one.

So I looked to see what else I had in there. There was a fan in a case (bought several years ago, never used), some clips to turn coat hangers into skirt hangers — not very effective, but they'll work as laundry pegs and we're short of those, so I took them down to the kitchen to go with the laundry things. And there was another lip balm in a colour I don't like, so I binned it.

There was also a duster. I took it down and put it with the cleaning things in the kitchen.

I went through the drawers of the bigger c.o.d, to see what I could move on.

Three tops. I never wear them because they're fairly heavy-weight viscose and close fitting, neither of which I like. I put them out to the charity shop bag.

Several really good bras. I bought them in an attempt to improve my appearance but the problem with bras is that in order to achieve the required uplift they have to be slightly smaller than one's body. So, no. I am too old to be uncomfortable. They are nearly new, so I put them out in the charity bag — they don't normally take underwear these days, but I bet their staff go through stuff that comes in and might like them.

Okay, so that made some space. I looked in the small chest of drawers to see what needed accommodating. Top drawer.

Summer hats and cough sweets (I kept getting a tickle throat in the night). But those cough sweets are sugary, so I binned them because I don't want rotten teeth. And the next drawer down had winter hats and scarves and gloves. I put the summer hats in one of the IKEA boxes that subdivides the space in the big chest of drawers. To make room for the hats, I took out a clutch of winter tights — I don't wear tights any more, I wear socks and cropped PJ bottoms under a skirt in the winter. Tights to go, then.

There was one unworn pair for the charity shop, and well-worn ones for the bin. Good riddance!

There were also these two hats that I don't want to keep (went into charity bag) —

— and these gloves (into charity bag; I wear fingerless mittens that our Alice makes me) —

— and this scarf/shawl thing I crocheted in the winter (charity bag, might be useful for someone).

Top drawer (and the one below it) now emptied.

Next?

I looked at what else needed to go into the drawer of the big chest of drawers, rather than just sitting about on the surface.

I put the TENS gadgetry into the drawer. It's almost as easy as having it out on the top, all I have to do is open the drawer and it's right there.

I read and binned the letter (I've cleaned my address off the front for the pic) and took the CD downstairs to the bookshelf — it's of our family singing, so I want to keep it and figure out how to listen to it.

I realised there was room to put two scarves needing a home (from the now empty hat drawer) if I tucked them under one of the TENS machines.

In sorting out all this stuff I came upon the fixing tool, spare fixtures, and assembly instructions for the small chest of drawers, so I put them in the now empty top drawer.

The next drawer down of the small chest of drawers had socks, and there was room for those in the middle drawer of the big chest of drawers, which was already half-empty anyway. In that drawer I also put the winter hats in a packing cube I had.

The next drawer down in the small chest of drawers had the crocheted scarf and the gloves I mentioned above, plus the winter hats and a bum bag (US 'fanny pack') and a swimming costume that I never wear. I only ever swim in the sea and wear leggings and a t-shirt when I do.

There was also this 'useful' (ha ha — when? For what?) little bag I'd kept, so I put the gloves for the charity shop in that.

Now there was only the bottom drawer to go for the small c.o.d., and that had my hairdryer and a bag of other gadgets — electric razor etc.

There was room for those in the bottom drawer of the big c.o.d., because the other day I thinned out the clothing stored in there and put some ready for the charity shop.

I put the Kindle e-reader on charge, and Tony thinks someone in his French conversation group might like it.

I put the badge off the top of the big c.o.d. away in my jewellery box.

Now the small c.o.d. is empty and good to go and reunited with its assembly instructions and tools — 

And the top of the big c.o.d. is neat and tidy and (relatively) clear. Clear enough for me.

Ta da! (ignore the mug, that's temporary)

And all that took me only about half an hour, has freed up a chest of drawers for someone just coming out of homelessness, pruned out my accumulated clutter, and made my space more peaceful. Plus, once the chair and small c.o.d. have gone, my room will be more spacious and easier to keep clean. 

I'm well happy with that, and very grateful to Sarah for making me think about it.

There will be more things to go in due course, now I've set off along this (familiar) track, but that'll do for today.

*        *        *

And then I moved the furniture round a bit. Because that's how I celebrate space and simplicity.  

My room looks enormous now. "Deceptively spacious".

#should_have_been_an_estate_agent  😁

Resting now after all that busy work.  

Looking for something nice online. Waving to you on the other side of the world, Lynda by the river, and to you, Vicki Kauffman, writing things down big — San Haynes, Julie Balmer — it's time you wrote another blog post! You must have eaten that cake from the last one by now, San.

Clothes and going home early

 I've been writing this blog for seventeen years. One of the earliest posts, about Quietness, was written in the April of 2009. 

We had a cat called Mackerel back then. This was her sleeping, on the day I wrote that post.

As the years went by and I wrote down my thoughts, friends drifted through and went their way and came back — people I never physically met, but who journeyed with me in the stories I was writing and chatting in the comments section on my blog posts.

Not all of them are still alive. Some of them went home early. When my daughter Hebe was a little girl at school, if a child in her class was feeling unwell, sometimes they would be allowed to go home early, and she always thought it was worth being ill if that was the outcome. Accordingly, she began to think of dying as going home, and those people who didn't live their full span of years as going home early.

Someone from her life who went home early was her beloved cat Ted, who died just as we went into the pandemic lockdown. I wrote about how he went home early here. This is Ted. He was dearly loved.

The cat Mackerel also died during the years I've been writing this blog, but she didn't go home early — she was ancient. 

And now the cat Clarence has come into our lives, turning up on our windowsill the same week we moved into the house where we live now, and staying ever since. 

The first of the Kindred of the Quiet Way to go home early was Deb, who lived in Durham. Then there was Suzan who was in Australia. And most recently Emma, from America. We never sat in the same room, but we knew one another; we were kindred, we were friends. They brought me such encouragement.

I was thinking of them today when a comment came in from Becky, who has also been a fellow-traveller on Kindred of the Quiet Way, and wandered back in again to say hi just this morning. She'd been reading my thoughts about organising belongings and wondered if I had any related thoughts about clothes — in the context of considering simplicity.

And that made me think about Deb and Suzan, because those two each owned only three skirts and three tops; one to wear, one to wash and one in the wardrobe (if I'm remembering correctly). I always admired that level of simplicity, sticking with just those few items of clothing and finding it enough. 

The last week or two I've been turning over thoughts about living simply in my mind again, thinking it's time to prune out what I have, let go of some less successful sandals (fake Birkenstocks with disappointing foot support) and excess skirts that I made but always chose a different one to wear, and duplicate trousers.

And then along came Becky, thinking about downsizing and asking about clothes, and that brought Emma and Deb and Suzan back to my mind, and Ted — all the ones who went home early.

We'll find them again one day, and it will be joyous.

Jerusalema

 Jerusalema. Did you love it as much as I did?

The Covid lockdown had so much going on in it, so many vivid moments. I think we all came out the other side different from when we went in.

One of the things I loved about that time was the explosion of videos of people dancing to Jerusalema all around the world.

I think I could listen to that song every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.

The Franciscans in Italy...

The Irish police... 

The Czech fire department...

The Elephant Nursery in Zimbabwe...

The Brothers of St John in London...

Kids in Uganda....

After Mass in the Tyrol...

I loved them all.

What a strange time that was, full of sorrow and wonder.