My Pocket

bright adventures

Just popping in to let you know I am still here. Thinking of you and hoping you are enjoying this favourite season of mine, the season of lush green and tingling possibility. I love how nature decorates her forest halls with fresh leaves, filling the ceilings with whispers of love for the wind, and scattering sun speckles all over the floor, spreading perfume in the breeze from lilacs, bluebells and cowslip, lavishing warmth and early morning birdsong.

I think I will take that break after all. I think it will do me good to have one less thing to feel guilty about in my life for the moment. This place was never intended for that. Oh, I'm sure I will be back, no doubt about it. But for now I'm allowing myself a rest and learning how to be the most that I can be, without becoming overwhelmed.

I leave you with a Swedish hymn that is a favourite of mine and that my grandmother also loved so it is special to me in many ways. Forgive my translation that does it no justice and the fact that I can't play it here, but know that I am singing it for you, on a path not so far away. Wishing you bright adventures on your journey.

Now, the valley’s bosom is green
Now, fragrant meadows and knolls
Come, come with us a-wandering
In joyous spring time

Each day like a golden bowl
Brimming with wine
So drink my friend, drink sun and scent
For the day it is yours

Far away from the grey of town
Happily we steer our way
Following the white ribbon of road
Towards bright adventures

With open eyes let us see
The riches that is life
That grows and simmers everywhere
Where spring goes to bloom

Of course it hurts

Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing,
which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
and for that which envelops.

Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavy,
clammer on the branch, swell and slide -
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver -
hard to want to stay
and to want to fall.

Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond help,
the tree's buds burst as if in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch's drops tumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey
- feeling for a second their greatest security,
resting in the trust
that creates the world.

Karin Boye, translation by Jenny Nunn

This poem by one of my favourite poets reminds me of Kirsten Michelle's post a while back. For you, yes you, who are quivering on the branch or desperately clinging, freefalling towards the unknown or for that matter just quietly and gracefully going into bloom, this is for you.

These days I walk around, quiet inside, slowing my breath and feeling my way, listening. The further in you go, the more precise you focus, the more centered you align yourself, the tighter you curl up in softness, the stiller you are and the more silence you allow - the hotter and smoother the flame of your fire.

I am interested in where I give my strength away and why. I am interested in that place at the core of me, that is soft and fluid, but strong and swift. I am interested in what I really feel and want and what the most true expression of that would be. I am interested in living deliberately and having the courage to go for it, to trust yourself.

I'm slowly writing about my trip to India so next time should be Part One of that. Thank you so much for dropping in and checking on me, that made me smile. I feel connected to people like I have never felt before.

Wishing you that reassuring strength, the joy and confidence that your body will support you, the miles you have in your legs, the courage you have in your heart, the integrity of your spirit, the lightness of being on your path. Much love to you.

What spring does with the cherry trees

farewell winter coat

While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn,
kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains,
bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.

Pablo Neruda, part of Every Day You Play in Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

Today the air
is delicious
and I take long thirsty sips
from the deepest, deepest
part of me,
throwing the windows
wide open
to the breeze
inside my chest.

Sunlight greets me
like an impatient puppy
at the front door in the morning,
washing over me,
patting my back with soft warm rays
and it can't seem to
get enough
of gazing into my face,
staying up late to light my way.

The animals are having babies -
dark tufts
tottering after the ducks,
tiny downy
rabbits blinking up at me,
perfectly white
lambs pirouetting with spring fever.

Lilac, hawthorn,
birch and hazel,
all are growing leaves the size of mouse ears,
nettles and wood anemones colouring in
the forest floor (green).

The blackbirds are singing
my favourite songs again
from the top of the trees,
tits, sparrows and robins are warbling in the hedge.

(I wrote this
and read it
and thought this writing
contains
nothing
so I cut it up
and spaced it out
and I think
poetry is allowed
to contain nothing?)

Wishing you this much and more.
May spring whisper
sweet nothings in your ear,
the southerly wind
take you dancing.

little tuft

spring adornments

{my desk}

Don't flowers put on their
prettiness each spring and
go to it with
everything they've got? Who

would criticize the bed of
yellow tulips or the blue
hyacinths?
So put a

bracelet on your
ankle with a
bell on it and make a
little music for

the earth beneath your foot, or
wear a hat with hot-colored
ribbons for the
pleasure of the

leaves and the clouds, or at least
a ring with a gleaming
stone on your finger; yesterday
I watched a mother choose

exquisite ear-ornaments for someone
beloved, in the spring
of her life; they were
for her for sure, but also it seemed

a promise, a love-message, a commitment
to all girls, and boys too, so
beautiful and hopeful in this hard world
and young.

The Poet Comments on Yet Another Approaching Spring, Mary Oliver

Mondo Beyondo 2008 Part 2

~ Mondo Beyondo 2008 Part 2 ~

What are the things you are wanting to manifest that are almost too scary to even write down? The ones that elicit a gremlin response of "You can't have that!" or "Who are you to ask for that?" or "Fat chance. That will never happen. You're not a good enough....(fill in the blank)"

Are you nervous? You should be. This list should be a bit dangerous. It should make you feel a little shy and excited. Butterflies abound.

How are your butterflies? I am keeping one or two of mine hidden away to do their delightful little dance - one's got to have some wonderful secrets to oneself right? Just between me and the universe. Have you got your secret wishes and impossible dreams nearby? I'm doing the quick and dirty version like Andrea, but I want to have some detail and juiciness in them, to give them magic. Here are some of mine:

~ Finding kindred spirits in the new place we are moving to sometime this year. People who make me laugh, who are strange and wonderful, inspiring and up to mischief. Folk who like simple pleasures like me (anyone up for some pine cone collecting?), having dinners on the floor, coming up with outrageous games on long walks, finding more colour and poetry and magic in life, daring me to come out of my shell and trusting me with what's on their minds.

~ Getting a new job in the new place that makes me wake up happy and excited. Oh, here's where my gremlins come in... I'm surprised they didn't poke their heads out in the point above, I think you guys have given me some courage in the friends section :). Right, I would like... a part-time job that gives me energy just to think about it, where the hours fly, I have co-workers who make me laugh, I do something that suits me so well I don't think about it as work, in a place that I find safe and inspiring, close to where we live and with hours that make me feel like I have so much time in my day. Well, we're supposed to dream big aren't we? Oh, and I'd like it to be well-paid please. Because I am trying to believe that I deserve it.

~ Finding a place to live that we love when we move. Can you tell moving is on my mind? :) A pretty, old fashioned house or flat with a lush garden, light spacious rooms, a kitchen I feel happy in, a bathroom with a window and everywhere quaint details, white walls, wooden accents and fireplaces. A rent that we'd be happy to pay, situated near to a park, the waterside and the railway station. Oh, and dogs need to be allowed.

I'm getting quite good at this dreaming now, just trying hard not to write...i.don't.deserve.any.of.this...

~ Fulfilling my long wished for dream of adopting a dog. And managing just fine, financially, work-wise and house-wise. A dog that finds me and wants to be with us, that is happy with our situation and gets on fabulously with our lifestyle. That I find a dog-sitter if I work the wrong hours and that she/he is happy to do a swap - acupuncture treatment for dog-sitting.

~ Having more income than I've dreamed of coming in from my creative output. Something that is already happening thanks to you wonderful people! I just need to keep believing that I can do it because I've got so many ideas and dreams to try out and put on offer. It's not work at all, it's joy! I want to expand it to the point that I can work from home in a little studio a day per week. This might not come true this year, but I'm allowed to dream and let the opportunities in right?

OK, now I just need the courage to press publish on this... They're my dreams, please go gently on them. Why is it that we feel so much more safe and comfortable with punishing ourselves and giving ourselves the very minimum, not allowing dreams and fantasies to become reality? Lately so many good things have happened to me that I'm finding it hard to relax - surely something horrible must happen soon to compensate? We're rarely loved for saying what we want, are we. Never encouraged to dream big and want the rainbow. It is so much easier to sink to rock bottom, where nothing disappointing or threatening can ever happen, but nothing wonderful and surprising either.

This poem I put up in the summer last year, but I'd like to post it again, for all you lovely people who inspire me daily. Especially Joan, whose joy never ceases to amaze me. It's a translation (by me) from the Swedish poet Karin Boye's poem Hemlös (Homeless):

To lose the home that is the soul and wander far
and then be unable to reach anything else,
and find that one has forgotten all that truth is
and think that one is made of lies alone
and feel sick with oneself and hate one -
yes that is easy, yes that is quite easy.
Sorrow is easy, but joy is proud and challenging,
for joy is the simplest of all.

But the one, who seeks a home to know,
must not believe, that it is anywhere -
he must wander homeless for some time;
and one who is of lies and wishes to heal
he must hate himself until he knows
from truth, that which others are given for free.
What is it worth to grieve so for that?
Wait, my heart, and have patience!

That is what life and dreaming is about to me. It isn't easy, it takes courage and hard work, but who said it had to be miserable and yield less than absolutely wonderful? Like this quote from Liselotte's blog, she's a lovely Danish illustrator I came across today, and I hope I got the Danish right here:

Life is not easy, just fantastic

This is my photo of inspiration for this year:

Not that I am always behind him, I love being everywhere around him and on my own. On a path, winding somewhere into a wood, across a field, over a stile, into meadow and beyond, somewhere in the British countryside.

Wishing you impossibly wonderful, spine tinglingly exciting and unbearably delightful wishes, hopes and dreams. Love you guys.

ps. Another poem by Karin Boye if you're interested

Search there

Sometimes you get as frightened
as a camel.
Sometimes you get stuck in the mud
like hunted prey.

O young fool,
how long will you keep running away
from yourself?
In the end,
the thing will happen anyway.

Just go in the direction
where there is no direction.
Go, search there.

Rumi, from The Forbidden Rumi

The best dreams I've ever had were ones where I was running for my life, someone or something in hot pursuit on my heels, feeling my life trailing behind me like a long robe, expecting any moment to have it stepped on, getting me caught, trapped and slaughtered. The effort to run with a body that feels like rain-sodden mud slithering down a slope rather than a decisive, adrenaline-fuelled dash and the terror and desperation of the pursuer never letting up would get me closer and closer to panic, every muscle aching and my heart suffering start after start as each hiding place is uncovered and we escape narrowly. The two times these dreams have turned into my best dreams, do you know what happened? I stopped. I turned around, stretched my arms out, bared my chest and received the bullet. The moment it touched my skin with a surge of energy I woke up, in bliss.

Last night while I lay sleeping

Last night while I lay sleeping,
I dreamt - oh blessed illusion
that a beehive I was keeping
inside my heart;
And from my bitter, rotting
failures, golden bees
were making
a pure white comb
with the sweetest honey

a poem from the novel The Seventh Gate by Richard Zimler

Excellent book.

(the wild honey comb in the photo is one we found on a walk, it had fallen out of a felled tree.)

And so I travel...

I found a book on the British poet Edward Thomas in the library and these words spoke to me. He was depressed and found that really the only thing that uplifted him was taking walks in the countryside. He was a restless soul too and moved around a lot, but for some years he lived close to where we live now and went walking close to where I go on my wanderings. I too find myself most at peace when walking and somehow it's touching to know somebody similar to yourself walked where you walk and thought like you think, but a hundred years ago.

I don't know how I will ever be able to move away from here. These wooded lanes are home to me, I never grow tired of the view. It's like walking in a green tunnel, protected at all sides by leaves, branches and trunks. It's silent apart from the occasional acorn falling, a squirrel streaming from branch to branch, the buzzard and her children calling in the sky and mice scurrying off under the leaves. The rhythm of my feet, the play of sunshine on the lane and the breeze above take me into a place where life is just right.

Do you see

Ser du dessa vissna löv,
vissna löv i vinden -
så är jag ett visset löv,
visset löv i vinden -
Döden skall mig fatta
I sin gamla kratta -
...Åh, jag är väl ännu röd,
ännu röd om kinden -
fast jag är ett visset löv,
visset löv i vinden.

Do you see these withered leaves,
withered leaves in the wind -
so am I a withered leaf,
withered leaf in the wind -
Death shall me gather
in his old rake -
...Oh, I am still rosy am I not,
rosy on the cheeks -
although I am a withered leaf,
withered leaf in the wind.

Nils Ferlin, 1933, Songs of a Deathdancer

I don't mean to be morbid, I just like this poem and was reminded of it when I found the first maple autumn leaf today. Autumn brings that kind of melancholy vibe doesn't it, stripping away and going inwards, leaving and letting go. I found this poem as a teenager and the tenderness combined with the frankness appeals to me. Life is frail and short and strong and full of potential at the same time. Also, I like the idea of being gathered into a rake held by a loving hand when my time is up.

Our Hearts Should Do This More

I sit in the streets with the homeless

My clothes stained with the wine
From the vineyards the saints tend.

Light has painted all acts
The same color

So I sit around and laugh all day
With my friends.

At night if I feel a divine loneliness
I tear the doors off Love's mansion

And wrestle God onto the floor.

He becomes so pleased with Hafiz
And says,

"Our hearts should do this more."

Hafiz