My Pocket

in our heads

"I feel the response to a changing world is not about going back; I like to think that human ingenuity and what we've learned over the last 150 years will take us safely down the oil curve into a more abundant, healthy and happy future. We're now living in the most extraordinary time, where we have the chance, perhaps the last chance, to rebuild our civilisation on a new paradigm of true balance with the earth and with each other.

Whether that happens, or whether humanity's impulse to continue to grow at any cost continues, with escalating wars, inequality and panic, is impossible to tell. But as Vandana Shiva, the Indian activist, said recently, "The uncertainty of our times is no reason to be certain about hopelessness". In the myth, hope was what was left in Pandora's Box. So let's move forward with our eyes open and with hope. Life with less oil could well be the the best thing that could happen to us."

Adrienne Campbell, Surviving and Thriving in the Feb/Mar issue 2008 of The Green Parent.

The day I learnt about peak oil something changed in me. I remember being amazed at how something could stir me so fundamentally, because I am not the passionate type. I am the slow burning, understanding and patient type, which I think the world needs equally. My reaction wasn't outrage or despair though. Perhaps I should be ashamed to admit it, but I felt relief. Relief and sudden exhilaration that this world was real, not a structure set in stone by people represented by anyone who has ever exerted their authority over me.

It dawned on me finally that this was my world as well, and things change. The future looked more uncertain than ever, the gnawing fear and sorrow over where we are and where we are going that had been with me for years was confirmed, but the reality of it made me giddy. Being in the midst of what you fear is never anything like the fear itself, is it? You are suddenly filled with energy, the certainty of your situation giving you space to act, freedom from that paralysing state of hesitation. The future was broken open, finally free to be open for anything - horror perhaps, but also the possibility of something else.

Similarly, when I decided to drop out of med school five years ago the image arose in my head of a railroad going dead straight ahead, the endless career slog filling me with no inspiration, surrounded by desert. I hadn't realised how infertile my future had become and in a way always been. How the lush plants I had dreamt of had quietly died, but more importantly, that there had not been that many in the first place.

I hadn't considered it my world so I had only fitted in as many little plants as I could, in the empty spaces between the rules and obligations, to feel as comfortable as possible, but in the end you can't thrive in a place you don't call home. This was not my home. No possibilities, only shoulds. When that world all of a sudden went up in smoke with my decision I was shocked. My future that had been so real as if I had already lived it was no longer there, it had never existed. Apart from in my head, where it had ruled me.

click and view this large if you like

There are three doors in front of you - what do you see? my psychotherapist at the time asked me. Behind the large wooden door in the middle I saw a parking lot, stretching on endlessly, without a soul in sight. I am a loner and knew that sight all too well from when I retreat too far into myself. Behind the right door I cowered in anxiety - the place was a steamy kitchen packed with hurrying, loudly arguing people. I don't deal well at all with groups or crowds, especially rowdy ones. The door to the left was so small I had to crawl through the opening, under plants and vines into humid greenery and birdcalls. Someone was waiting for me there.

(What is behind your doors? It's easy - just close your eyes, relax and let the first image to come to you expand. Then move from there. You might be surprised.)

I still have to choose between those doors, always tempted to withdraw into the parking lot where I know I will be undisturbed forever, but also wither away. To overdo it in the busy kitchen, spending time with others but not being myself, and then want to run from it. Bending down to open that tiny door isn't always easy, I have to persuade myself when I am tired and bitter.

But all in all I feel like I have grown up, in that I know that it is my world, my home, behind all those doors and I choose to dream colourful dreams rather than accept the current railway destination. What we have in our heads is infinitely powerful, whether we know it or not, and there is always more possibility than we dream of. The world is a dream in our heads and hearts.

ps. Thank you so much for your sweet comments on my loved one's post, your well-wishes have warmed both our hearts. Thank you.

for the love of tools

My battered pin tin, old wooden spools, long vintage scissors, tiny embroidery scissors, black japanese ones and bamboo knitting needles

I love surrounding myself with old functional things. Or, if not old then at least made of natural materials and built to last. There is not only beauty in that, but vitality, a sense of meaning and responsibility. Well-made tools become more beautiful the more they are used, feel alive from the spirit the craftsman put into them, give meaning to work because you enjoy using them and give a sense of responsibility to look after and put love into what you create.

My favourite pairs of scissors. The long ones have just the right balance.

I love the wooden handles on these tools, and the way they have worn.

On an outdoor market in Brighton I once found a stall run by two old gentlemen, filled to the ceiling with boxes of vintage tools. A young woman trawling through their piles seemed to be a bit of a novelty (and I think it might have influenced the prices) so I got all the help I needed. Not that I would have minded spending that hour on my own finding treasures, but I had so much fun talking to them and it made me feel comfortable hanging around. I asked them if the long pair of scissors above would still work, which prompted them to polish them up for me for free (they still work a treat, so sharp).

The little things that show the craftsman cared and loved what he was doing always touch me. The beauty in the general design, but mostly the decorations that aren't functionally necessary but add to the joy.

A cracked Mason bowl, a worn wooden spoon, an old silver fork, an apple corer, my gran's old cup that I broke the handle off and a charity shop find: a serving spoon with decorative holes in it for which I don't know the purpose, but I love it and use it.

The things we use every day and look at often are so important to me. I want to feel the purpose and meaning and joy of the everyday things, feel I deserve to eat on pretty china, use tools that make the small things a celebration and feel surrounded by objects that have been lovingly made and lovingly used. What are your favourite things or finds?

One of my polished fit glass jars, reminds me a bit of a snow globe in this light.

number 54: monthly ritual

Number 54 on the 101 Things in 1001 Days is: Come up with one monthly ritual, for the first or last day, and do it for three months. I've decided to create a photo mosaic from the pictures I've taken during that month and put down five things that were a blessing. This way I'm actually fulfilling number 57 as well, which is: Find out how to and begin making photo collages on my blog. Originally I thought of putting down five things that were a challenge as well, but I just couldn't come up with five. I was hoping to see what I considered a challenge, bring some clarity into it and perhaps with a little thought turn it into something wonderful or at least less challenging. I might do it next month, this time it will just have to be a happy January:

Blessed me with:

Those dainty snowdrops
A shift in my emotional life, bringing light and tears of gratitude
Sunshine, birdsong and mild breezes in a respite of winter
A new, more than wonderful friend
Happy adventures with the camera

things i do

create little worlds. bent on creating the world I've craved since a child, where magic, the impossible and extraordinary can happen anytime (especially anytime).

drink organic hot cocoa with rice milk. no milk, no sugar, but life can be just as wonderful anyway.

snuggle up to the daffodils. we love rubbing our noses together - they'll all bunch around, their skirts rustling and their silky heads all soft against my face, their scent saying - hello you, we're friends.

the one I love

This is a love letter to my best friend. Would you like to meet him?

We met the first time in an ashram in Rishikesh, India in 1999. I had just celebrated my 20th birthday in the Rajasthani desert with a German girl I had met and travelled with. My clothes were sun-bleached, tattered and few after 4 months of light and swift travel from the north to south and back again. My body had just caught another tummy bug and I had lost weight and the appetite for chapatis forever.

After my friend in travel left for home I decided to go on one last adventure, a slow, inward and familiar one - something I had craved. I had stumbled across yoga through a book four years previously and it had been my friend before it was well known in Sweden. The book was well-loved and worn by now and I wanted someone real to teach me. I couldn't care less about the meditation bit though, preferring to watch the stars come out from one of the roof tops while listening to the pooja starting up on the other side of the Ganges. This while everyone else were sitting in a quiet dark room together for an hour. I had never skipped classes in my life, but it was time.

Shy as ever I hung out with a new found Finnish friend, but gradually spent more time with this British guy who smiled so widely and laughed so readily. We must have introduced ourselves over supper, though I don't remember more than staring at my plate and teasing him about his name out of nervousness.

A week or two went by - we would shyly exchange a few words and jokes after meals, during the brief gathering of people at tea time, after yoga class and in between meditation sessions. I snuck up on him from behind one afternoon when he was writing his diary, slipping my hands over his eyes, but apart from that nothing much was happening.

He was handsome, sweet, intelligent in a way I related to straight away, with a brilliant sense of non-sensical humour and a soft, gentle, humble manner about him that made me feel more comfortable and open-hearted than with anyone I had ever met in my life. However, I was cheeky but not brave. I had never had a boyfriend before out of painful shyness and sensitivity and being in a place with so many people was not going to change that. We exchanged addresses and I left before him, not sensing until then how much I meant to him, and how much he meant to me.

A year later, a bright yellow letter arrived. Waiting for those letters from Britain and eagerly writing back, gradually making a best friend, was one of the happiest times of my life. I'm not the blackest of sheep, but I've never properly fitted in anywhere and here was someone who spoke my language. The butterflies were speaking up too, saying go on, what are you waiting for? I visited him the first time that summer, after months of letters and emails but no phone calls. Meeting someone at the airport whom you know so well, but not at all, is a delightfully confusing thing and we've kind of continued in that vein ever since.

I don't know how it is possible to fall in love with someone you just met, though it was nine years ago, and still not know them, though you've spoken volumes, still have endless mischief left, though we should have grown up by now, laugh as if it was always this way, after all that we've been through, and get butterflies over hearing his voice on the phone, however little time we've been apart. But it is.

the things we do when nobody's looking

making the bed can be a hilarious thing

summer night, you and me

we love the woods, we do

Duncan

from the roots

Words are not there for the moment. Nothing I could say is quite right. Usually I dive right in anyway, the beauty of life and being me is that I'm not perfect in the way I want to be, I just am. Tonight however, what I want to tell you is how it feels and words can't seem to give you that. The tree does it far better. Wishing you roots that plunge deeply and fearlessly, bringing you the cool waters of the earth. Startling views from the highest branches and the quivering, tingling of new shoots. The support of a peaceful core. Tomorrow might be stormy again, but today, today is a day in the woods.

the little tree shrine with the fairy blessings

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

blooming monkeys

In town I went looking for flowers to make me happy until more spring flowers come into bloom outdoors. I found a bunch of daffodils and a small orchid...

...with a little dragonfly hanging on

Someone else hanging on... :) Sunday walk with a cheeky monkey

Nature in, Nature out : Numbers 66 & 101

my winter display, photo taken through mirror

Number 66 on my 101 Things in 1001 Days reads: Bring indoors finds of nature for each season of a year and display it. This is my Winter display. Winter in Britain is green, but not in a lack of snow way, I mean really green. Lushly, deeply and richly. Graceful ivy dress the trees, brambles cover the ground and the moss is a glowing carpet.

The curled up beech leaves, on the ground and the few on the bare branches, balance the greenery with their deep browns. This with a few sprigs of wild honeysuckle, some early snowdrops and a twig with dark shiny buds is what I thought represented winter to me. I left the mud out, though that is probably what reminds me the most of which season we are in. :)

Number 101 is: Go for a walk through the woods every day for two months and collect one small thing every time to bring home and keep. I have a very modest collection so far - an ash twig, a beech nutshell, a berry, a beech leaf (not in photo) and a piece of moss. Tomorrow on our Sunday walk I can't wait to see what we'll find when we have time to wander further afield. This treasure hunting idea has worked a treat so far, in just five days I've braved rain, thunder and lightning, grey skies and damp drizzle to go out finding. What do you find on your walks?

see the moon

waiting for the snowdrops to open

An elderly farmer had a beautiful horse. One day it ran away. His neighbours came to commiserate with him on his loss, but all he said was, 'Who knows what's good; who knows what's bad.'

The horse returned, bringing with it several wild horses, and his neighbours came to congratulate him on his good fortune. All he said was, 'Who knows what's good; who knows what's bad.'

His son started to train the wild horses, but one of them threw him and he broke his leg. His neighbours came to sympathise with the farmer, but all he said was, 'Who knows what's good; who knows what's bad.'

The Emperor's army marched through the district, press-ganging every young man into service, but they did not take the farmer's son, as he had a broken leg. The farmers comment was still, 'Who knows what's good; who knows what's bad.'

The good and bad story, as promised. It also reminds me of a haiku, have you heard this one?

Barn has burnt down -
now
I can see the moon

Masahide