You Are My Sunshine

Those are the words that I whisper to my Mischief Maker nearly every day. And he is. He really is.  His smile is contagious, his dimple reflected by my own. I can see that his innocence is fast wearing away at the edges. So I make the most of every precious minute. I indulge his exuberant fantasies. I make up stories about friendly mice and pretend there are dinosaurs hiding in the wardrobe.

You are my sunshine … he’ll never know how many grey days he’s made blue again. Another school year will be over by the end of June. Then the long summer days stretch before us, enticing us with new promises. Soon, it will be time for buckets and spades; sandy toes and sun-kissed skin.

You are my sunshine … probably, when he’s older, he’ll cringe when he reads this. And then, when he’s older yet, he will probably smile. With that cheeky dimple of his.

Ceramics from Caltagirone and Taormina, Sicily

Maybe

Have you ever been caressed by the winds of the Sahara? I have. There are days, like today, when the wind blows strongly from the deep south, carrying on its wings the fine, red dust of Africa. Some say that people do strange things when this wind blows. I can well believe it. For it is a fey wind; howling and moaning like an enraged jinn. We are completely at its mercy and bear the full brunt of its fury. For there is nothing but a hundred miles of frenzied waves between here and there.

But I don’t want to be talking about one of our winds again – they come and go as they please. Nor do I feel compelled to talk about what  transpired in London this past week. But I cannot ignore it – it weighs me down. I feel as if the world around me is slowly going mad. Fey, like the south-west wind.

In the face of one tragic event after another, I have lost the ability to feel anything except an intense anger coupled with a mind-numbing realisation that some ugly clouds have started to gather on our collective horizon. It makes me wonder whether we have the power to change the course the world has taken. Or are we just cogs in a wheel, playing our part until it’s time for our final curtain?

I have reached a point where I am turning off or tuning out of anything that I do not want to see or hear. Maybe I am just like an ostrich, with its head in the sand. Maybe I am just ignoring the inevitable or maybe it’s just my method of self-preservation; of retaining my sanity. Maybe … Maybe the answer is out there somewhere, blowing on the wings of a fey, fey wind.

Written in memory of Lee Rigby, 2nd Battalion, Royal Regiment of the Fusiliers,   murdered on the streets of London

May 22nd, 2013

I could have posted photos of angry, dust filled clouds but I thought that these beautiful Cornish poppies would be more appropriate.

English Poppies, Mawgan Porth, Cornwall

If I Could Choose …

… any place in the world in which to live, I would choose this tiny harbour town on the Atlantic coast of Cornwall. Port Isaac is its name, or Porthysek in the Cornish tongue.

This quaint school house would be my home.

My windows would look out on this magnificent view.

I’d spend my days dreaming up tales of  Merlin and mermaids  … and … well, you know me enough by now to know that any story I choose to tell will have a strong dose of fantasy weaving its way through it.

The melancholic cry of the gulls would be my music.

And the haunting call of the sea would lull me to sleep.

On stormy days I’d sit with the fishermen and listen to them talk about the mighty ocean; of furious tempests and killer waves.

I would eat a mountain’s worth of Cornish ice-creams.

And take my walk through narrow, hilly streets.

Yes, if I could choose any place in the world to live, today I would choose this.

And tomorrow? Ah, I cannot tell you. Because tomorrow is a story for another day.

Location: Port Isaac, Cornwall, July 2012

I’m Still Here

I know I’ve been MIA around here lately. I just wanted to let you all know that I’ve been very busy and rather distracted. As the days get warmer, the urge to spend time outdoors, before the heat gets too suffocating, becomes harder to ignore. I’ve been doing some gardening – flowers are always a delight and a distraction. In the meantime, we’ve had two days of ferocious winds that have wreaked havoc on some of my seedlings.

I have, of course, read all the lovely comments that you left on my last post. Many of them made me smile. We may never meet, but I do know that I have quite a few kindred spirits out there.

The howling wind has reminded of this song from the 80s by local band Ray and The Characters.

As the last few hours of Mother’s Day slowly tick away, I trust that all of you who are mothers and grandmothers have had a good one. I was woken up by the soft patter of bare toes on stone tiles as my Mischief Maker planted a kiss on my nose and got in bed beside me, whispering ‘Happy Mother’s day’ in my sleepy ears. It doesn’t get much better than that.

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And I wouldn’t change it for the world.