This morning's sermon was based on the Sermon on the Mount and was about worry.
We were enjoined to trust in The Lord and not to waste our precious time on earth worrying needlessly about all and everything.
I can see the sense in this, and even in time, might learn to trust that I am not necessarily the best person to try to analyse my problems, real or imaginary. Somehow, however, the thought of simply offering up my perceived difficulties to God asking for help and guidance and relinquishing control is a very bizarre concept for me.
This is not arrogance, more a fear of losing my grip on my daily problems. We are told that we are each responsible for our own actions, how, therefore can we just abandon all effort to sort our own difficulties out.?
An inveterate worrier I have lived my entire life in the fear of what might happen (often ignoring what was actually happening at the time) to such an extent that I have half crippled myself by allowing inhibitions nervous imaginings, perhapses and maybes to rule my behaviour.
Somewhere it is written (I think possibly in The Qran) "Oh Lord, help me to overcome adversity, but not before it arrives"
Introspection is a part of daily living to a fairly depressive person and can be a useful tool as well as a barrier to social interaction. It is when it in turn becomes the obsessive dwelling on perceived problems, injustices past and present, and the looking inward for non-existent answers that it becomes unhealthy.
This morning the sermon was a good one, an uplifting one, and for me a pointer to a different way of facing adversity. Why then, apart from the fact that it is once again raining, has it left me particularly low spirited?
Writing something in my diary on my return home, the answer came to me like a bolt from the blue. Today is/was my wedding anniversary. It would have been our 40th.
Strange isn't it how once you have discovered what is 'bugging' you it tends to lose its importance.
Not to worry!
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Friday, 25 February 2011
Mind That Gap
It is now only about 3 weeks before Spring. Already I have snowdrops, crocus, hellebores pink hyacinths and four or five Winter/Spring-flowering shrubs in bloom.
Though it has now turned wet again, the day and a half of sunshine has wrought small miracles in my poor benighted garden, not least of which is the fact that I've actually done a little work.
One thing however, struck me with great force and that was the unshadedness (is there such a word?) of the back garden, the result of some fairly drastic tree removal by a neighbour last Autumn. (see Woodman Spare that Tree).
There are benefits of course, not least that the sun - when it deigns to show its face - has access to areas previously deeply shaded, but the minus points are the loss of some - one in particular - really lovely specimens of Acer.
The awkward balancing acts of squirrels and the larger birds on my smaller shrubs and lilac tree, while quite entertaining to watch, make me wonder where some of them will nest this year.
I know they weren't 'my' trees, but they were my landscape and framed my garden and therefor my life to a degree and I've lost a point of reference. Odd isn't it, how the actions of others affect us?
Though it has now turned wet again, the day and a half of sunshine has wrought small miracles in my poor benighted garden, not least of which is the fact that I've actually done a little work.
One thing however, struck me with great force and that was the unshadedness (is there such a word?) of the back garden, the result of some fairly drastic tree removal by a neighbour last Autumn. (see Woodman Spare that Tree).
There are benefits of course, not least that the sun - when it deigns to show its face - has access to areas previously deeply shaded, but the minus points are the loss of some - one in particular - really lovely specimens of Acer.
The awkward balancing acts of squirrels and the larger birds on my smaller shrubs and lilac tree, while quite entertaining to watch, make me wonder where some of them will nest this year.
I know they weren't 'my' trees, but they were my landscape and framed my garden and therefor my life to a degree and I've lost a point of reference. Odd isn't it, how the actions of others affect us?
One of Those Days
Have just returned from an early excursion into town. Needing some new underwear thought hmmm half-term and Friday, not a good combination. So early bus - too early for library to be open means going back on my tracks, Oh well, nice day, good exercise.
Bought all I wanted with no difficulty, popped into W H Smith for TV Times, long long queue. Why? Tills not operating. Eventually fixed, queue moves battle somewhere behind me, loud voices, lost tempers "I was in front of you" sort of stuff and it's only 9.30am.
What else did I want? Can't remember, can't be that important head for bus stop. My bus just pulling away,
dropped jaw must have registered with the driver who stopped bus and let me on with a smile. Wow! is this really England or have I popped into a parallel universe?
Easy run home, lots of nice easy chat with fellow travellers.
Step into my hallway, green light flashing on phone "you have one new message". The photographers in town who are printing some old transparancies for me to tell me they are ready to pick up.
Now I remember what the other thing was!!!!!!
Oh well, next week will do.
Bought all I wanted with no difficulty, popped into W H Smith for TV Times, long long queue. Why? Tills not operating. Eventually fixed, queue moves battle somewhere behind me, loud voices, lost tempers "I was in front of you" sort of stuff and it's only 9.30am.
What else did I want? Can't remember, can't be that important head for bus stop. My bus just pulling away,
dropped jaw must have registered with the driver who stopped bus and let me on with a smile. Wow! is this really England or have I popped into a parallel universe?
Easy run home, lots of nice easy chat with fellow travellers.
Step into my hallway, green light flashing on phone "you have one new message". The photographers in town who are printing some old transparancies for me to tell me they are ready to pick up.
Now I remember what the other thing was!!!!!!
Oh well, next week will do.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
All the perfumes of Araby
I remarked to a friend this morning that a mutual friend smelled delicious. This was not to imply that I fancied him lightly grilled , but just that the way he cologned, after-shaved or whatever appealed to my nose.
Later in the day another friend called at the house with a newsletter for me and commented on the wonderful fragrance of a shrub in the garden. It turned out not to be in my garden at all, but next door, though the perfume was so strong it seemed closer.
This led me to think about the way scents stick in our memories so that over an - often quite long period of time - we associate an event with a particular perfume.
As a small child I spent 6 months with my paternal grandparents in Penarth in South Wales, and for me one of the most memorable things about that period was the smell of the air. A mixture of sea, local stone and the smoke from the little local railway, known as the halt. So strong was this heady brew that if I had been led blindfold to the area I would have instantly known where I was.
Then our house in Birmingham covered in honeysuckle had the most overpowering perfume imaginable.
My parents were both keen gardeners and the roses were an ever-present presence along with lilac sweetpeas and wallflowers.
As a child I had a very keen sense of smell and even 30 or 40 years later could identify particular roses by their unique perfumes.
Of course, not all smells are associated with happy memories and just as a vase of lilac can evoke instant memories of 'home', so certain other flowers have sad or even traumatic connotations. I love freesias above all other flowers, both for their delicate fragile beauty, lovely colours and exquisite scent, but they have a very sad connection for me and admiration is always tinged with melancholy.
The smell of freshly cut grass, freshly baked bread, and above all, for me, freshly brewed coffee add enormously to life's pleasures.
It may not be my best feature but, I am very glad to have my nose and my sense of smell.
I sound like Pollyanna don't I?
Later in the day another friend called at the house with a newsletter for me and commented on the wonderful fragrance of a shrub in the garden. It turned out not to be in my garden at all, but next door, though the perfume was so strong it seemed closer.
This led me to think about the way scents stick in our memories so that over an - often quite long period of time - we associate an event with a particular perfume.
As a small child I spent 6 months with my paternal grandparents in Penarth in South Wales, and for me one of the most memorable things about that period was the smell of the air. A mixture of sea, local stone and the smoke from the little local railway, known as the halt. So strong was this heady brew that if I had been led blindfold to the area I would have instantly known where I was.
Then our house in Birmingham covered in honeysuckle had the most overpowering perfume imaginable.
My parents were both keen gardeners and the roses were an ever-present presence along with lilac sweetpeas and wallflowers.
As a child I had a very keen sense of smell and even 30 or 40 years later could identify particular roses by their unique perfumes.
Of course, not all smells are associated with happy memories and just as a vase of lilac can evoke instant memories of 'home', so certain other flowers have sad or even traumatic connotations. I love freesias above all other flowers, both for their delicate fragile beauty, lovely colours and exquisite scent, but they have a very sad connection for me and admiration is always tinged with melancholy.
The smell of freshly cut grass, freshly baked bread, and above all, for me, freshly brewed coffee add enormously to life's pleasures.
It may not be my best feature but, I am very glad to have my nose and my sense of smell.
I sound like Pollyanna don't I?
The art of saying nothing in hundreds of words.
Since it appears that the current 'wide awake night, zhombie day' state of play is to be my way of life for a while, I shall endeavour to attract a wider audience (laughs hollowly) for my illiterate outpourings.
How to do that?
Well, it seems to me that my offerings to date have been rather too tame, a little too circumspect, a tad genteel. So maybe an alternative, slightly more racy approach would work.
Is that really me though?
No. Sadly not. Nevertheless I have come up with a novel idea. Just suppose someone out there might like to suggest a subject instead of racking my poor little grey cell (singular) for something new to write about.
Seriously is anyone up to the challenge, if so, I'll have a shot. I f not, and I've once again shot myself in the foot, I'll persist in my usual meandering "snapper-up of unconsidered trifles" way, sometimes hitting but most often missing the mark.
It is really quite amazing how having absolutely nothing of any use to say can result in such a huge spate of words.
Waffling some people call it. Others have ruder descriptions!
How to do that?
Well, it seems to me that my offerings to date have been rather too tame, a little too circumspect, a tad genteel. So maybe an alternative, slightly more racy approach would work.
Is that really me though?
No. Sadly not. Nevertheless I have come up with a novel idea. Just suppose someone out there might like to suggest a subject instead of racking my poor little grey cell (singular) for something new to write about.
Seriously is anyone up to the challenge, if so, I'll have a shot. I f not, and I've once again shot myself in the foot, I'll persist in my usual meandering "snapper-up of unconsidered trifles" way, sometimes hitting but most often missing the mark.
It is really quite amazing how having absolutely nothing of any use to say can result in such a huge spate of words.
Waffling some people call it. Others have ruder descriptions!
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Making Assumptions
This morning on my way to church by taxi (no buses available that early), I was taken by surprise when my taxi-driver started a theological discussion on our way to St. M's.
He was, as are virtually all the taxi-drivers in this town, of Indian or Pakistani origin, so my natural/automatic mental picture was of yet another follower of Mohammed who was about to present me with the standard (it has happened many times before) illustration of the differences in our two religions.
There is a driver I often enjoy long debates with on my way home on Sundays, but to my consternation, this young man started by asking me if St. M's was Roman Catholic. He thought by virtue of the name, it must be so. Having explained that most of the churches in the Church of England have saints' names, I then went on to explain that ours was what used to be called 'high church' and was more commonly called Anglo Catholic these days.
He expressed surprise that I had shattered one of his illusions, (he had always believed St. M's to be
Roman Catholic and had been thinking of changing from St. Joseph's our local Roman Catholic church which was his church and where he had been Christened and confirmed.
We had just begun to discuss the differences and similarities of the two arms of Christianity when we arrived and I had to agree to continue the discussion 'next time'.
One day, if I live to be old enough, I may learn not to judge a book by its cover.
He was, as are virtually all the taxi-drivers in this town, of Indian or Pakistani origin, so my natural/automatic mental picture was of yet another follower of Mohammed who was about to present me with the standard (it has happened many times before) illustration of the differences in our two religions.
There is a driver I often enjoy long debates with on my way home on Sundays, but to my consternation, this young man started by asking me if St. M's was Roman Catholic. He thought by virtue of the name, it must be so. Having explained that most of the churches in the Church of England have saints' names, I then went on to explain that ours was what used to be called 'high church' and was more commonly called Anglo Catholic these days.
He expressed surprise that I had shattered one of his illusions, (he had always believed St. M's to be
Roman Catholic and had been thinking of changing from St. Joseph's our local Roman Catholic church which was his church and where he had been Christened and confirmed.
We had just begun to discuss the differences and similarities of the two arms of Christianity when we arrived and I had to agree to continue the discussion 'next time'.
One day, if I live to be old enough, I may learn not to judge a book by its cover.
Sleepless in S.....
Well does it really matter where one is sleepless?
The fact of being awake (again) when most of the world is asleep is a constant factor in the lives of we insomniacs, not a cause for hand-wringing, nor yet a reason for celebration. Just a tiresome, boring way of life.
This time I blame it on my innocent neighbours. They are off on holiday, leaving for the airport in the wee small hours - not soundlessly. But, in fact, I was already awake anticipating their departure.
This is another thing we do, we night owls. It is not enough to be unable to sleep, or to be woken by odd noises. There is also the 'soon be time for this or that' factor to be woven into our crazy time-scale.
When my late husband and I worked (in London) we had to leave at 6.00am which necessitated getting up at about 4.30am to allow time to feed cats, make sandwiches for lunch, have breakfast, put a load of washing on etc. This in turn led to waking before the alarm clock went off in case it failed!!!!
The permanent state of anxiety engendered by the fear of being late in turn led to earlier and earlier waking until, by the time we retired we were both so paranoid that more than 4 hours sleep a night seemed like a criminal waste of time.
Even three or four years into retirement we, I in particular, were consumed with guilt if we 'overslept' and woke at some 'half way through the day' time, like, 7.30am or so.
Now, 18 months after John,s death, it is slowly dawning on me that it doesn't matter a jot what time I wake or get up. Routines are self-imposed, not written into the constitution and if I fail to turn up somewhere I 'ought' to be, no-one is going to care even if they notice.
None of this however, makes it any easier to actually go to sleep in the first place, the big difference is that it has no impact on anyone but me these days.
We are told we need a certain amount of sleep to enable the body to repair damage and for the brain to function efficiently. Since my body seems able to cope well without much and sometimes, any, sleep and my brain was never much to write home about in the first place, I guess I'll manage.
Lots of words, not much content, but then it is 3.15am!
The fact of being awake (again) when most of the world is asleep is a constant factor in the lives of we insomniacs, not a cause for hand-wringing, nor yet a reason for celebration. Just a tiresome, boring way of life.
This time I blame it on my innocent neighbours. They are off on holiday, leaving for the airport in the wee small hours - not soundlessly. But, in fact, I was already awake anticipating their departure.
This is another thing we do, we night owls. It is not enough to be unable to sleep, or to be woken by odd noises. There is also the 'soon be time for this or that' factor to be woven into our crazy time-scale.
When my late husband and I worked (in London) we had to leave at 6.00am which necessitated getting up at about 4.30am to allow time to feed cats, make sandwiches for lunch, have breakfast, put a load of washing on etc. This in turn led to waking before the alarm clock went off in case it failed!!!!
The permanent state of anxiety engendered by the fear of being late in turn led to earlier and earlier waking until, by the time we retired we were both so paranoid that more than 4 hours sleep a night seemed like a criminal waste of time.
Even three or four years into retirement we, I in particular, were consumed with guilt if we 'overslept' and woke at some 'half way through the day' time, like, 7.30am or so.
Now, 18 months after John,s death, it is slowly dawning on me that it doesn't matter a jot what time I wake or get up. Routines are self-imposed, not written into the constitution and if I fail to turn up somewhere I 'ought' to be, no-one is going to care even if they notice.
None of this however, makes it any easier to actually go to sleep in the first place, the big difference is that it has no impact on anyone but me these days.
We are told we need a certain amount of sleep to enable the body to repair damage and for the brain to function efficiently. Since my body seems able to cope well without much and sometimes, any, sleep and my brain was never much to write home about in the first place, I guess I'll manage.
Lots of words, not much content, but then it is 3.15am!
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