Mixed Feelings at Advent

This year Advent brings as much sadness as joy for me, and I suspect for many others.

World events and National events, political, financial and Acts of Nature have all played their part in turning the world on its head.

Added to this two of our small church family have suffered the loss of a spouse, and in one case the death of a lodger in really tragic circumstances.

This morning I read a blog from a regular visitor to my site who had not blogged for a few weeks, to discover that her husband had died suddenly two months ago.

She is a quiet reticent  blogger who writes (unlike me) when she has something worth saying, and is clearly in very deep distress.  It is at these times when I would like to be able to simply turn up on a real instead of a cyber doorstep and offer at the very least a hug and a shoulder.

On this occasion I can't even light a candle and offer prayers at St. M's for her since I am out of action due to a beast of a cold.

Obviously I have and will continue to pray for her (and those others I mentioned) at home but feel the need to go somewhere where the very stones are  steeped in the prayers of centuries.

Yet, under all the weight of sadness I can't help feeling the stirring of  (possibly quite unjustified) hope.

May the peace of Advent enter into the darkest of places this and every year.

Enough of the serious stuff - let's have some trivia

On the left are two roses which once graced my garden, top is "Twice in a blue moon", below is
"Just Joey".

Both were very beautiful and had gorgeous perfume, most of the reason I chose them.

All my ;life I have loved roses and started growing them as soon as we moved here and had a (tiny) garden of our own.

Driven by my passion for the wonderful perfume I added more and more roses to my collection, At one time having 28 roses altogether.

Sadly, since John's death and my subsequent neglect of the garden there has been a gradual loss of one after another of my most precious plants.

Some obviously needed pruning feeding and in dry spells watering which they didn't get.

Only the toughest have survived, despite my neglect to remind me of my duty of care to helpless and beautiful living things.

Inevitably I feel both guilt and real sadness at the loss of some of my lovely old friends.

This year, as those who are regular reader's of this blog will know, I have found a gardener, and very good he is too.  So there is hope that when the last of the weed jungle has been cleared, and some pruning and space-making has happened there may be the chance to plant some replacements for my lost treasures.

Each time he spends a couple of hours clearing some space I am mentally filling it with some new roses but it will actually be some time before this actually happens.  In the meantime I have my remaining survivors to add colour and fragrance to my days.

These are just two of the few I have left and lovely as they are cannot begin to fill the gap left by my lost ones.

Sorry about the strange format, my computer skills are not getting any better.

Half my photos seem to be hiding from me currently so have to make do with those prepared to show themselves.

That's quite enough drivel for now.  Back soon/

What does it take to make a Christian?

The events in America in the past 24 hours have presented me with a dilemma of mammoth proportions.

Shock and disbelief have been quickly replaced with fear and revulsion.

Never an admirer of Hilary Clinton yet the worst I feel for her is a wary, cynical unconvinced acceptance that she would be better than this alternative.

So much bile, vitriol and verbal abuse has been the main feature of both campaigns that it has been increasingly difficult to see the wood for the trees (assuming there is any).

Nevertheless what I have read and heard of Donald Trump has contained no single shred of hope for America's huge mixed race population, no way forward for it's aspiring female young and a very real danger that sensitive delicate negotiations between Europe and America will be trampled underfoot in the power struggle.

Our Rector who is an American has remarked that we must, as Christians keep hope alive and pray that the hectoring rhetoric of the past weeks will be replaced with a more balanced and reasoned approach when the new President takes office.

I find this very hard to do.

When I was baptised (in the 1180's font pictured above) I was made to understand that the past was just that, and that this was the beginning of a new and better life.

Part of that better life was to be the way I behaved to others, not just those I met face-to-face, but all those who impacted on my life in any way.

This I strive to do - though it is very much a work in progress- but the  thing I find most difficult is to restrain my angry reactions and violent verbal criticism of those I perceive to be wrongdoers.

Never known for my tact and diplomacy and far too outspoken for my own good, biting my tongue has become a way of life, but, every now and then I feel the need to rant.

So utterly dismayed am I at the result of this election that I have to remain silent.

Once started I would never be able to finish.

How long is enough?

This morning we were treated to a very long sermon.

How long is long enough, and how long is too long is a much discussed question in our church 'family'.

The sermon in question was good initially,  it started off very well indeed. but as most of us regard 15 minutes as ideal, 20 minutes acceptable if it is very good.  This one then went on to 25 and then to 30 minutes.

The main point had been made well (and early), it was then repeated at least three times during the following minutes, culminating in a series of meanderings off the original theme and by the  time it drew to a merciful close had half the congregation dozing and the other half tapping their feet.
 
I am already bracing myself for the barrage  of complaints, moans and groans which will inevitably (and justifiably) come my way tomorrow morning.

Since I am 'in situ' so to speak, it is assumed that I have a private line to the ears of the clergy.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Why is it that some, not all, clergy have no 'off' switch?

Pollyanna is alive and well

For those who read my blog regularly it will come as no surprise to hear that "Pollyanna" moments are rare as hens' teeth, in my world.

Today is an exception.

Early this morning a visitor to St. Mary's remarked that I was very lucky to work in such a wonderful old building.

This made me think for a second that it is all too easy to take for granted what a privilege it is to spend half my waking life in a Grade One listed building with many centuries of history as my daily 'wallpaper'.

Getting home to my nice warm clean house (courtesy of Sue who cleans for me once a week), and looking out of the rear window to see Nick the gardener back bent double, digging out yards of ground elder, I realised just how very fortunate I am.

Only a few months ago I was really despondent at the state of my poor neglected garden, aware that under the weeds brambles and ground-elder a lot of my treasured plants and shrubs were either already dead or dying from lack of attention and sunshine.

For some reason when densely planting my small plot I never once considered the possibility that I would one day grow too old to give it the care and hard work it would need.

Never one to cross my bridges before i come to them, it had been quite easy to put such thoughts into storage, only for them to suddenly emerge and threaten to engulf me.

Now at last there is light and air around my shrubs, bare soil where there was thick green weed cover, and best of  all, space to plant replacements for some of my lost treasures.

Nick has also climbed a ladder and replaced a bulb in my security light which has been absent for about 3 months.

I truly never thought I would be so grateful to other people for restoring my surroundings to their former order and beauty.

Sometimes there are compensations for being old.

Weary Night-time Blues

Once again staring with red-rimmed eyes at my computer when i ought to be examining the inside of my eyelids, sleep my elusive friend is staying out of reach.

The photograph of a full moon on a cloudy night was taken from my bedroom window about a year ago.

Why one corner has been 'eaten' is a mystery.

When my library book fails to hold my attention and sleep is impossible I often look out at the night sky to see whether it is doing anything interesting.

Tonight the cloud cover is thick and the darkness intense, nothing to photograph.

If I could clear my head of this morning's anthem (I mean yesterday morning's anthem) it might be possible to sleep, but Purcell's "Thou knowest Lord" is careering round on a loop.

It's a strange thing, but often a piece of music I only half know will present itself  note-for-note when I am trying to sleep, yet when I do sleep and wake again it is once more full of errors and missing 'bits'.

Insomnia is a common theme in my blogs, a part of my life which I should really take for granted since it has been going on for most of that life, yet I still feel cheated when someone talks about their usual 8 hours sleep a night.

It is of course perfectly possible to function normally on too little sleep (despite the black bags under the eyes) and many people manage on half the recommended amount, but it surely must have some long-term detrimental affect?

I remember as a child being told to "go to sleep", as though it were something one just 'did', like tying shoelaces or combing one's hair.

For some children the words seem to act like an on/off switch, but not for me.  Not then and not now.

All the tried and trusted remedies have over the years been found ineffective and I've run out of ideas of my own, so, if anyone knows a magic formula will they please attach it to the tail feathers of an owl and point it my way.

Sleep well lucky people.

Hibernation time draws near.

Nick the gardener has just left and just in time to avoid what looks like a storm.

He has made a huge difference to my jungle and not only have I got patches of bare soil for the first time in years, but I can see daylight where there has been impenetrable gloom for ages.

Sadly it is now plain that my years of neglect have cost me the loss of several old friends, roses in particular, but some shrubs too.

This has been a very  strange year weather-wise, with very heavy rain in June, followed by drought for most of the time since.

Some of that time has been very hot, some of it merely warm, and now fairly chilly, but with one common theme.  It has been very dry.

Every time the clouds billow up and the sky darkens, we wait with baited breath for the much needed and regularly forecast rain, in vain.  It never arrives.

Even now, the East wind strong and cold is blowing the rain clouds elsewhere and it looks as though we are going to lose out once more.

I haven't  yet planted the bulbs I bought a couple of weeks ago as the ground is too hard.

Situated as we are in the South East Midlands or North West Home Counties, or even South East England ( it depends on which TV weather programme you watch), we get hard to predict weather.

Since we appear to have no regular geographical location it is obvious that the weather has no idea how to find us.

Unfortunately this does not apply to the winds, particularly the cold ones.  They seem able to locate us with the greatest of ease.

I am not really complaining since, so far at least, we never seem to experience flooding, which is a great blessing, but, please Lord may we have some rain? (at night preferably).