Playtime

 Coconut flower stalks, coconut flex, banana straw and raffia.

Between projects and a little out of sorts, I spied the bag of
booty I had brought down from Corn Buck a few weeks ago
and looked inside. Play, the doing of something for the sheer
pleasure of it, is a pastime that I have forgotten to indulge in.
Work is worthy, as is cleaning, cooking etc. but play, as with
sticks in mud or a stone skimmed, has somehow become
something that I find myself either never having the time for
or feeling guilty about.
The very word 'indulge' suggests a secret vice.
I was surprised to realise this about myself, surprised by how
serious and earnest I had become about 'the work' and even
more surprised by the fact that I was surprised that the flow
of creativity had dried up.

Direction

"It may be that when we no longer know what to do,
we have come to our real work

and when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings."

― Wendell Berry

Full Moon in Virgo last night.

The Forestry

the forestry
the place
to be

the forestry
shares gifts
with me

the forestry
is where
I see

the forestry
brings quiet
to mind

the forestry
time to
unwind

the forestry
sings a
keening call

the forestry
home to all

the forestry
returns us
to

the forestry
of me
and you.

The crock of gold

Once upon a time, a long time ago, or it could have been the day
before yesterday, a woman looked out from her front step and
wondered,"Shall I dig for it now?" She checked with the moon
and watched the weather and decided it was time.

The flowers
were almost
done and the
leaves had
turned yellow
and wilted

and with the
turn of the
fork, which
was easier
said than done,
the buried
treasure was
revealed.

She carefully teased the soil from the roots and left them in the
sun to cure. The next day she sat by the pipe in the yard with a
scrubbing brush and a bucket of water and washed and scrubbed
and washed and scrubbed and washed and scrubbed some more.

By lunchtime all her golden nuggets were clean and shining.

With an aching back and a painful posterior, ('is how you sit on
the bucket' her lovely husband told her later) she settled
down on the floor upstairs in the little house, with a sharp knife and
a silver bowl, and began to chip, (just like Miss UG had taught her)

and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip.

Finally, her work
was done. She
put everything to
dry in the sun
next to the
cocoa beans
on the
veranda.












Naturally, despite scrubbing and soaping

she was left with the Midas touch and went to bed to dream of
Rumpelstiltskin.
To be continued...................

Imbolc

Imbolc is the time of
cleaning, sweeping, sowing, dreaming,
new beginnings, self forgiveness,
nourishment, light, renewal,
candles, cake and milk.

In the dark days of February in Northern climes
when the days are short and the nights are long,
between Winter Solstice and Spring
Brighid brings life and hope and sustenance.
She also offers me the perfect opportunity
to finish the cleaning I was supposed to have done
for Christmas .