Daily Sacred Practices

Yesterday I watched a video on sacred practices that highlights one of the most important things us chronic babes need to embrace and put into action:  self-care.  You can watch the video HERE.  The most difficult thing on my list?  Saying no on the days I'm just too spent.  While actually saying no has gotten a bit easier, the guilt is taking a tad longer to fall away.  Other items on my wellness list.....

• I complete a self-Reiki session upon waking each morning and before I go to sleep at night.  It's wonderfully relaxing, and coupled with meditation, it's part of my daily spiritual practice.  Since getting my level 1 attunement I am also able to share the light with others who might need it for a bad knee, an earache, and any number of other discomforts.   (animals included!)  ...and giving back always feels good!
• Music...I could not live without it, and I listen to all kinds.  It is as much a part of my day as eating.
• Writing and journaling are crucial for giving form to the noise in my mind and trying to bring the monkeys under control.
• Gentle stretching helps deal with the morning stiffness brought on by the arthritis, and the eventual goal is to get into an actual yoga class that is appropriate for my level of ability and mindful of my physical challenges.  
• Swimming.....it's one of the best exercises for those living with arthritis.  I'm in the process of pricing various places so this can be part of my regimen at least 3 times a week.
• Hot shower in the morning; a hot bath at night.  A must for stiff and hurtin' joints.  In combination with the stretching, this is the single most important thing I physically do for myself.
• Emmet and Onslow....playing with my two furry four-legged children is just fun!  And these cats make me smile, laugh, and give so much love it makes my heart grow bigger.
• Never underestimate a home-cooked meal.  Nutrition is key.  I love to cook and I love to frequent local farmstands.  Whipping up a good, "clean" meal with local ingredients makes me sing on a number of levels.
• Reading...always reading....to improve my writing, and just for love of words and literature.  
• Play with images and art-making....whether I'm researching a particular photographer/artist, or creating my own paintings and taking my own photos....keeping quiet isn't an option.  I need to do this.

Below is a photo of my list of daily sacred practices.  I keep one on my nightstand.  On the Fridge.  On my desk.  Taped up in the bathroom.  And on my phone.  (Need to put one in my car....)  Having the constant visual reminder is a way to keep oneself accountable.

One Shot Five Ways: Self-Portrait Series 1

"inhale.  exhale.  repeat."

"Prayer is you speaking to God.

Meditation is allowing the spirit to speak to you."

     ~ Deepak Chopra

"sky above me

earth below me

fire within me"

"Quiet the mind, and the soul will speak."

"The thing about meditation is:   You become more and more you."  ~David Lynch

Work in Progress

I am now elbow-deep in the creation of my Path...the journey of purpose I wrote about HERE.   

It has taken a form quite different from the previous two and it feels so magical to me, this tiny journal filled with heart.  The original black covered sketch journal I had chosen didn't "fit" so I went on a search one day while in Hanover and found a small green one--handmade paper cover and pages; a page marker made of raffia with a round wooden bit hanging from the end.  

Many things will be tucked away in the pages of this journal...hopes and dreams and fears and photos; and three pieces of heavy cardstock that correspond to the areas of my current focus:

A Starfish for wellness and regeneration....the past two years have been difficult.....bad insurance/no insurance, medications, and a body I no longer recognize.  It's time to nourish and tend.

The Phoenix to mark a new beginning in work and livelihood....a chance to make a difference.

A Heart Tree for growth and love....growth happens in relationship, not in isolation.

This is a work in progress and will take perhaps another week or two to finish.  Then it will become a tool for use during meditation, and a guide to draw on during practical application.  

And when she arrives I will give it to her.  My heart to read and hold and touch...

Purpose and Reinvention, Part 3

I'm always thinking about travel.  The value of it.  I'm thinking about it now in relation to my forthcoming graduate work and long-range goals.  I thought for so long that what I wanted was a career within the hallowed halls of academia.  A number of things have since changed my mind about that, not the least of which is the fact that it's getting more and more difficult to find that kind of work.  

I have always been clear that, while my mind and general personality tends towards research efforts, I don't want my work to stay within the Ivory Tower.  Being out in the community, and bringing good is what is most important.  So I had this idea:

While watching the Roo Panes video "Open Road" I thought....how magnificent.  What about traveling the US...the World.....in my own version of a hep little vehicle....collecting stories.  Working in communities.  Creating an environment where stories can be told, tended, collected, and treasured.  For healing.  For empowerment.  I'd go where most needed. 

What/whose stories needed witnesses?  

What stories need retelling/re-tooling?

As I teach and assist, I embody my own story…..

http://tinyhouseblog.com

What about that tiny house on a trailer that I can pull to wherever it's needed?  Sustainability and Roma roots all at once.  A new sort of bard…educator…creator…collector…mirror for the ages…

There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you. —Maya Angelou

If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive. —Barry Lopez

Purpose and Reinvention, Part 2

Back when I created that first Path and was undergoing such tremendous change, I stumbled across a book titled Soulcraft:  Crossing into The Mysteries of Nature and Psyche.  A work devoted to helping one find his/her soul purpose, it has been invaluable during my own dark nights.  A great work of poetry and psychology, literature and spirituality, my copy is dog-eared and filled with even more book marks.  

One of my favorite poems included in the volume is by writer and psychotherapist Morgan Farley.  I read it aloud and meditate with it whenever I stand at another beginning.

I am clearing a space--

here, where the trees stand back.

I am making a circle so open

the moon will fall in love

and stroke these grasses with her silver.

I am setting stones in the four directions,

stones that have called my name

from mountaintops and riverbeds, canyons and mesas.

Here I will stand with my hands empty,

mind gaping under the moon.

I know there is another way to live.

When I find it, the angels

will cry out in rapture,

each cell of my body

will be a rose, a star.

If something seized my life tonight,

if a sudden wind swept through me,

changing everything,

I would not resist.

I am ready for whatever comes.

But I think it will be

something small, an animal

padding out from the shadows,

or a word spoken so softly

I hear it inside.

It is dark out here, and cold.

The moon is stone.

I am alone with my longing.

Nothing is happening

but the next breath, and the next...

Purpose and Reinvention, Part 1

Just about ten years ago when I was coordinating a program for families who had children with chronic health conditions, I created my first life path with the assistance of colleagues.  Although it is a tool for working with folks who are developmentally disabled as a means of helping them achieve their biggest and best life goals, I have since adapted it to suit my own needs and artistic inclinations. 

That initial path was created on banner paper and stretched over five feet.  A colleague served as scribe, and she and others guided me through questions aimed at helping me to get my vision down in words and images....where I wanted to be...who I wanted with me.  I no longer have that piece of art, but it did hang in my apartment for several years.  It provided inspiration during a very difficult period of transition and questioning, and it kept me on track.   Here is a drawing that illustrates the basics of putting one together in the same manner I was helped.  (Click on image to view larger)

Several years ago I created another Path.  One that I could touch and hold;  a mission statement for my life that I carried in my pocket, wherever I went.  I look at it now as I write, and I’m still amazed by just how much this works.  The idea is that thoughts become words....and writing words down and getting them out into the universe, coupled with intention....makes things happen.  As I discovered, however, dreams don't always have to be represented by words or static images.  During my meditation one day I came up with this:

This is my version of prayer beads; a magical cord of intention.  I thought long and hard about what was important to me at the time and though I was unhappy with my employment, it was my living situation that really cried out to be mended.  I wanted my own space.  I wanted water and trees.  I wanted quiet to write and think.  To garden.  The pewter leaf, blue beads, seed pod, and lone green gemstone correspond to these desires.  At the time, being able to bring the dream into fruition was intimately tied to my health (ankh), ability to create, and perhaps find love (heart); to listen to and truly embrace my uniqueness, all that I was becoming--red/orange bead, tribal mask--wild feminine, shell--the power and fierceness of the sea, bell--a reminder in the stillness.  I did write a piece to go along with these prayer beads, but I am hard-pressed to find it.  No matter.  That chapter is closed.  

I lived in my cottage by the lake for two and a half years, and listened to the loons at night.  I grew flowers.  I read books and wrote and drank tea.  I cooked meals for friends.  And when I got sick, I rested there.  And I thought long and hard yet again....what next?

I had to leave that cottage a year ago, but it is just now that I am able to start creating another Path.  I have already traveled down some of it.  But now is the time to really focus, to make and do....to give shape.  

Health and Well-being  is one area of importance this time around.....I think of the starfish and its ability to grow another arm if one is severed.  This metaphor will be my guide.

Work and Purpose  are foremost in my mind.....getting back to it....doing what matters.  I can't do what I did before,  but I can be like the phoenix....I can begin anew.  And this time, I choose to act from a place of highest good.

My heart  is tugging for equal weight these days.  Maybe even more than Work and Purpose.  But heart matters are not easy in this world.  Still, I think about relationship and the human journey….the courage and faith...risks....light within dark; dark within light....all the wild running and quiet moments....the possibility of kind eyes and soft hands as stars beat and pulse.  So I am creating a book.

Maybe more a journal than a book.  Filled with quotes and images and thoughts; dreams and hopes and fears.  Containing Work and Purpose.  Health and Well-being.  Me.  My heart to hold.  To give her when she arrives.

30 THINGS ABOUT MY INVISIBLE ILLNESS YOU MAY NOT KNOW

1. The invisible illness I live with is:  ankylosing spondylitis (AS)

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year:  2012

3. But I had symptoms since:  2005

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is:  Not being able to hike, cycle, run, garden--be active in all the ways I used to be.  And I’ve been unable to work for the past year and a half.  

5. Most people assume:  That I’m really not that sick because “you look good!”

6. The hardest part about mornings are:  EVERYTHING.  I’m so stiff in the mornings it’s generally pretty hard for me to move.  And no matter how much sleep I get, I’m always tired.  After showering, getting dressed, cleaning the cat box and feeding the cats....I’m usually exhausted and often need to lay down for a half hour or hour before the next round begins.  This has gotten better since starting Remicade, and I am steadily improving despite the peskiness of anemia which my doctor is trying to uncover the cause of.

7. My favorite medical TV show is:  I confess to a Grey’s Anatomy guilty obsession, but other than that I don’t watch medical shows.  

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is:  my MacBook....it has music and photos and poems which feed my spirit and soul

9. The hardest part about nights are:  Being exhausted and not able to sleep.  The night sweats...waking up drenched (and shivering) and having to change clothes and grab some other blankets to sleep on top of the other bedding.  Not being able to breathe courtesy of the costochondritis, so having to be propped up.  The fire of swollen achilles that hurt even when they are touched by thin bed sheets.  Not being able to get comfortable enough, period.  Being alone.

10. Each day I take:  too damn many pills & vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments:  I’m currently reading about alternative treatments and experimenting with diet changes.

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose:  Neither.  Being sick isn’t fun whether the illness is visible or invisible.

13. Regarding working and career:  I’m in the process of reinvention, and start grad school in September.  It’s hard starting over at this age, but I’m determined to live a life with Purpose and help others along the way.

14. People would be surprised to know:  How physically ugly I feel every day.  

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been:  That the AS will be with me forever.  Even if I go into remission, the damage is permanent.  And I will have to make constant readjustments throughout my life.  My old life...the active fitness warrior life I had may be lost forever.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was:  thrive.

17. The commercials about my illness:  There are no commercials about AS.  In fact, most people have not heard of it despite how common it is.  "Anka-WHAT!?"  Find out more here....

Spondylitis Association of America

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is:  cycling and vigorous mountain hiking and trail running....and just being able to go go go!

19. It was really hard to have to give up:  the gardening and landscaping

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is:  I just continue to work even more deeply with what I have always loved....writing, art, music, books....

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would:  run and bike and hike everywhere

22. My illness has taught me:  who my true friends are

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is:  are you feeling better today?

24. But I love it when people:  listen.

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is:  "I am the master of my fate;  I am the captain of my soul"

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them:  it’s not the end....be your own best advocate...you can live and thrive 

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is:  the assumptions people make

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was:  just let me be....no chiming in with platitudes

29. I’m involved with making invisible illnesses visible because:  sharing one’s story is one of the best ways to effect change

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel:  hopeful that advocacy efforts around invisible illnesses will succeed

Heart Art

[ This is the first piece of art...painting...that I have attempted in years.  Perhaps the digital is the next step...the step I have been searching for. ]

I was thinking of the following bits from Neruda as this piece took shape:

{As if you were on fire from within
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.

She's a mess of gorgeous chaos, and you can
see it in her eyes.}

"What She Does"

--paint, marker, tape  ----> photographed, cropped 2x, then  3 images superimposed with varying degrees of opacity

*you can click on the image for a larger view

 ANMillios  7/28/2014

Narrative Inquiry and Reconstruction

How does one construct a true story out of fragments?  Arrive at the truth or some version of the truth with scant details that may themselves be fiction(s)?  

With no one to ask...in the face of a person, people unwilling to talk?

In the absence of witnesses?

Is truth even possible?

Do creative--yet informed imaginings--have any value?

{ The journey from Worms to Cologne 

is covered with stumbling stones. 

There's an archive in the ground. 

I have heard of a prison and have held 

the court document with his last known address 

for a house in front of his house. 

"Watching the long faces riding this run down track 

And the lost places from a dream that never brings them 

back"* 

I may never find my grandfather.   

The truth.  

Why my heart beats the way it does. }

*Linda Ronstadt, "The Blue Train"

"What if our memories, our dreams, and our secrets are all part of one story, living just underground, just beneath the surface, waiting to grow, like the aspens, into beautiful forests, gleaming with many golden leaves of story?  What if our secrets push themselves up into the light?  And what if...maybe...just maybe...a secret shouldn't be a secret any more?"  Poulos, Accidental Ethnography:  An Inquiry Into Family Secrecy, p. 42

Hampstead Skin ( Ladies Only )

I walked out of Paul's in Hampstead with one chocolate croissant and one buttery, flaky pillow filled with custard and topped with apricots swimming in a sweet glaze.  Ten minutes down an alley and quiet street brought me to the Heath clutching my steaming latte.  I followed a dog walker and his four charges down a wooded path that opened to the sky and a breakfast bench at the edge of an unmowed field.  I ate and drank to the never-ending clink of dog tags and birdsong, glancing at the map in my guidebook.

My mission was to find the ladies' pond and pay the 2GBP for a swim.  Months previous I had read a blog entry by a woman who chronicled the Heath's history of 'wild swimming' as well as her own wild swim, and I became mad with want for a water adventure of my own.

A venerable British tradition, 'wild swimming' happens year-round, through ice and falling leaves.  There are three paddling ponds in all--women's, men's, and one mixed-sex commingler.  A river flows underneath the former clay pits, refreshing and ensuring a celsius that seeks out all the body's weak points.  There are no spots to dangle one's feet over the edge.  There is no time to gradually descend the dock ladder.  There is always someone waiting her turn.  Best to just stomp down those metal steps, hold your breath, and jump when you reach thigh level, trying your best to stifle the scream of shock.  

It was not the anticipation of slipping beneath the liquid cold that was so worrisome to me, however, but the other women....and me, my womanliness, or lack thereof.  

It started as I lifted up the rope and swung the gate open.  Just what would I see walking down the path?  When I came to the end of it?  What kind(s) of women would I encounter?  What sort of norms would I be swimming in?   Most important:  a tiny sigh of relief as THANK GOD I bought a pair of board shorts to go over my one piece before I got on the plane.

Gloria Steinem writes that "For women…bras, panties, bathing suits, and other stereotypical gear are visual reminders of a commercial, idealised feminine image that our real and diverse bodies can't possibly fit."  I was struggling, nervous, as I slowly walked down the wooded path.  Because I remembered that moment in my girlhood when I first became ashamed to wear just a bathing suit.  Mine was a shimmering pastel rainbow one-piece.  My head danced with tight, shiny, black curls.  And I was running beneath the sprinkler with two younger neighborhood kids.  When I looked down at myself after stubbing my toe I saw legs.  Long legs.  Dark brown lanky legs.  The beginning of breasts and curving hips.  And I choked of embarrassment.  I felt more naked in that pastel rainbow than I did at the doctor's office.  I was only 11, but like every other girl approaching puberty I had not escaped TV and magazines.

As I approached the swimming pond that 11 year-old girl walked with me, joining forces with the adult Amy struggling with the ugliness and frustrations of chronic illness.

Prednisone has been an unfortunate fixture for two years since I was diagnosed with a form of autoimmune arthritis, and I had no idea just what it would do to my body until IT started to happen. Fat has collected around my hips.  My cheeks have puffed out like a chipmunk.  One morning I woke up with two chins.  "Where the hell did my neck go?" my brown eyes demanded of the bathroom mirror.   And while the cheap but potent steroid has been the one medication up until now that has kept me walking and somewhat functional, it's also seen fit to grow additional facial and body hair that no woman should have.  Paradoxically, I have shaved my head more than once to cope with how the methotrexate (a chemotherapy med at high doses) and the Remicade (a biological made from mouse proteins) thin the hair on my head.  The two work together, you see.  The methotrexate suppresses my immune system in order to prevent me from making antibodies to the Remicade, which is used to halt the progression of the arthritis and prevent any further damage.  But it just doesn't seem right that I should be growing an abundance of hair in some places while losing it in others.  It's freakish to have bushy eyebrows with a nearly bald head, overly hairy arms, and two stubborn chin whiskers.  Tack on the skinny thigh flab from lack of exercise, the hot flashes, and circular brown patches around my neck and upper chest that itch and grow darker as the temperature and humidity rises (it's a kind of rash common to folks who are immunosuppressed), and WOW.....I feel like a super special kind of sexy!

What in the hell was I doing walking down a path to an all female swimming hole?  How could I possibly show myself there when I couldn't even do it at the lake back home?  As I stated earlier, I wanted an adventure.  But I also wanted to be washed clean.  I wanted to jump into that frigid water and emerge having left the unsightly rash, body hair, and the whiskers behind.  I wanted to watch that pastel rainbow float away and disappear among the reeds at the far end of the pond.

What eventually happened might have had something to do with the water, but as I stepped up onto the deck and walked to the lifeguard office to pay for my swim, I looked around me and saw a small world where, as Steinem further states "each individual woman's body demands to be accepted on its own terms."  It was a haven, free from magazines and TV and all the things women are told they need to be and ways they need to look.

I took note of a sign that asked visitors to refrain from cell phone usage out of respect to others, and to maintain the tranquility of the hallowed space.  There were at least six women on duty at the time, and it was a tall butch blond who had thrown on a t-shirt and shorts over her wet suit that answered my unasked question.  "We don't touch the money here.  Let me show you where you can pay."  She led me to a black wrought iron box on a post and I dropped the 2 pound coin through the slot.  Then she smiled and left me alone with my nervousness.

For ten minutes I sat on a bench that looked out towards the water, fiddling with my backpack; applying chapstick and disrespectfully checking my cell phone (though volume off of course).  Then I found my courage and mumbled out loud "What the FUCK!", removing my shirt and shoes.  I felt absolutely naked beneath the sun.  My swimsuit had grown too small in three seasons--skin bulged around the shoulder straps and hip fat hung over the open waistline in back.  I was mortified by this reveal, but also grateful for the board shorts that concealed my thighs and backside, and the blue bandana on my head that simply made me look sporty.  

There was a 50ish brunette with a ponytail in a bikini on the ladder.  She asked me if I was in a hurry to get in and I said "Oh no, I'm going to put this off as long as I can" to which we both laughed.  Judging by her accent I believe she was French, and before I could make more conversation she dove in, resurfacing with a gasp and informing me just "how GD cold it is!"  The shock of the cold settled in around my ankles as I stepped onto the ladder, and two chatty women approached to take their dips leaving me with no choice but to jump the rest of the way.  I wanted to scream.  My entire body ached.  My inflamed ribcage struggled to let air in.  It was awful, and yet..... I felt my cheeks and eyes grow into a smile.  It was a moment.  I wasn't in the water for very long, but somehow I felt like I had gained back a tiny piece of my once athletic self that had been all but destroyed.   My arms and legs paddled and kicked.  My body was moving again.  It was the first great moment in my wild swim.

The second great moment occurred as I sat on my towel in the sun, lounging on the grass beach with the other women who were visiting the pond that day.  I wasn't the only one who had endeavoured to cover up body flaws, but this practice was not the norm.  I was surrounded by women of all shapes and sizes.  Bikinis and one-pieces.  Young and old.  Short hair.  Long hair.  Thin. Rubenesque.  Covered and uncovered.  And it was okay.  Whatever and however a woman chose to be...it was accepted.   And it was powerful.  

As we sat or swam or napped or read, there was an implicit acknowledgement that as women we all carried similar scars and wounds.  I'm not a Shakira fan by any means, but there is one line in a song of hers that I think of often, and especially as I sat on my towel drip-drying:  "underneath your clothes there's an endless story."  It's true.....women's bodies ARE storied.  They are objectified.  Beaten.  Hated.  Loved and touched....with abandon, caution, indifference, tenderness.  Our body stories are complicated and the narrative changes as we grow into acceptance or shame.  Perhaps that's just one of the reasons why being physically intimate with another woman is so powerful and affirming….wounds to wounds….like to like…exponential.  The skin sings and glows its history.  For those willing to truly see, it can be a beautiful display and remarkable moment of recognition such as I experienced that day at the Kenmore Ladies' Pond.  

My time at the pond didn't cure me of my inclination to hide, but it did make me want to stop hiding.  It made me want to be vulnerable and seen with all of my perfect imperfections, and give that same gift in return.  

"Your body is the harp of your soul.
And it is yours to bring forth
sweet music from it
or confused sounds."
~Khalil Gibran

Napping in Morrab Gardens

Yesterday was my last in Penzance.  My agenda: eating, napping, and a little shopping.  As I set out for the Morrab Gardens I reflected on how parks are a way of life over here.  Incredible pride is taken on keeping even the smallest and most humble ones clean.  Men.  Women.  Families.  School kids on lunch break.  Dogs and their owners.  Old and young.  Birds, birds, and more birds.  Everyone enjoys the park.  For sitting.  Chatting.  Eating.  Enjoying the green.

After my arrival at Morrab I did write for a short bit--editing a blog entry--jotting down notes of additional items I suddenly remembered.  A black lab with a red collar pawed his way over to my bench to take stock.  His head was wet from the fountain in front of me and his tongue wagged as he sniffed my backpack.  He could probably smell the spill from the horrible vegetable pasty of two nights ago that I had to put in there until I found a waste bin.  No amount of scrubbing or deodorizing has been able to fully erase the scent.  Despite the lack of treats the sweet canine was happy to receive a few minutes of love.

The first bench I chose was in the shade so I could see my laptop screen.  The photo below was my view.  A sweet little boy gave his mother chase as he squealed and ran around the fountain.

After finishing with the laptop I moved to a bench in the sun.  I kept my pen and notebook out in case I wanted to record observations or brain bulbs lit up.  But the Converse came off and my legs stretched the length of the bench--a relief to my left ankle, knee, and hip which seem to have taken the brunt of my activity this week.

 

My bench in the sun.  I always love reading these kinds of inscriptions.  They make me wonder about the who, what, where, why, and how's.....

From this bench bed I gazed upon the fountain and the daffodils.  When the sun hid behind the clouds an awful chill crept up my pant legs and the wind nearly blew my hat off.

A tree to the left reminded me of ramen noodles with its squiggly branches.  A group of 6-8 young men laughed and chatted next to the fountain--mostly about Nicholas Cage and his various movie roles, a topic I thought odd for such a group.

Eventually I put my head down, resting it on my pack.  I dozed for about an hour and then decided it was time for some very hot tea even though I really just wanted to laze and lounge.  The chill of the wind and intermittent shade, however, made this impossible.  So I gathered my belongings and walked the short way to Penlee House Gallery & Museum for a cream tea at the onsite cafe, The Orangery.  After tea I went to the gift shop and purchased the sweetest book by a local author for a friend's little girl.

After tea I headed back to the gardens for a real nap in the sun.  The grass was so soft; the air was filled with flowers.  Before I dozed off I took note of the various gardening and tidying up activities that were happening:  Weeding.  Rails, gates, and benches being sanded and painted.  Flower beds and shrubs were being mulched with fresh wood chips and pine needles--a heavenly scent.  

I'm not sure how long I slept for, but the CRASH! of the daily/weekly trash and recycling being thrown in dump trucks and hauled away is what woke me.  A sea gull was staring at me, eye level.  Maybe he/she smelled my vegetable pasty stained backpack, too.  It soon left seeing that I had nothing to give.  

Fully rested, I began the trek back to my room to begin the packing ritual.  I saw a sweet little cat with a bell on its collar outside a cafe.

I purchased an egg and cress sandwich, a bag of sea salt and malt vinegar chips, some grapes, and a can of PIMM's with lemonade from TESCO.  Note:  not all that crazy about the PIMM's.  But I had to try it since it is so quintessentially British. 

  My last purchase was from a lovely corner store:  three hearts.  I thought "How appropriate."  I will hang them from the decorative screen above my writing desk at home.

To cap off the day, I snapped a shot of the bay with St. Michael's Mount in the distance.  The water was such a brilliant blue, and that is one view I never want to forget.

I Spy.....

Yes, I see things.  I'm always watching and observing.  Part artist, part psychologist....it's just what I do.  Have always done.  So it wasn't surprising that I ran into a skirmish of sorts the other day (photos below) as I was wandering around Covent Garden.  The cyclist spat several times on the ground, nearly missing the shoes of the "damn prick".

What do you supposed happened?  I didn't see the incident; only heard the angry yells.  Until I looked at the photos, I also thought there were only two parties involved--the cyclist and the bearded gentleman with glasses.  Perhaps the bloke in the blue button-down shirt stepped in to try and be a reasonable third.  Whatever the incident, the amount of rage and cursing on the part of the cyclist could be felt in the bones.  At one point he picked up his cycle and slammed the tires back down on the pavement as he spat two more times.  Spitting really is one of the most disgusting things, and in general, this sidewalk show illustrated some of the worst human behavior I have ever seen.  I asked a woman standing next to me on the sidewalk what happened and she said she didn't know, but implored me to take more pictures.  "You 'ave to, don't you?"  I'm not sure what she thought I could do with them, but I am relatively certain this kind of thing happens across London all the time, and I am likely to see one or two more similar shows before I fly home.   

 Nevertheless, I was grateful to get on the train at London's Paddington to head to Cornwall on the 29th.  I still wasn't fully recovered from the flight over the pond, and hadn't slept all that well so my nerves were terribly frayed and misfiring and not all that up to London zip and chaos.  It was a long train ride--nearly 6 hours--and I played a game of sorts to keep my wits about me so I could stay awake and make the needed train change at Plymouth. 

I looked for things.  Things that could be stories.  Beautiful things. Out of the ordinary things.  And simply paid interest to, and took delight in, the land zipping by outside the First Great Western cars as they rumbled over the tracks and through the occasional tunnel.

Here is what I saw:

So many spires in the distance.  Rising above trees.  Above green hills.  They reached up to billowy white puffs or clouds dark with rain.

A riot of cows, horses, and sheep.  Baby sheep.  Some sheep were all white and their coats recently shaven.  Others had white bodies with black heads.  Some had curious blue and red marks painted on their sides--a sign of the butcher, perhaps.

One half hour into the ride, I saw my first thatched cottage.  It was large and beautiful.  Until then, I had only seen them in photographs or movies.  Silly perhaps, but I have always wanted to learn how to thatch.  It's not just a home-building technique.  It's an art.  And if I remember correctly, it's an endangered art. 

Curious white bags....BIG white bags filled with rocks at various places along the train tracks.  Bags of rocks in piles; bags stacked one upon the other.  All along the route.  I have no idea what they are used for.

Backyard gardens everywhere with wooden composting bins and small glass garden sheds and greenhouses; rakes and shovels standing against fences.

A pile of hedge cuttings and pulled up roots...good for shelter building and giving shape to thin places along the canals and running trails.

A runner in a yellow cap and yellow jacket running on the trail beside a canal.

A farmer in a flat cap and wool sweater with a white bucket opening the gate to his sheep.

Large dirt fields ready to be planted with seed, dark brown against vivid green.

One tree in the middle of a field, no leaves...just twisting branches with patches of missing bark.

An impressive array of solar panels larger than a football field.

A cluster of trees with 6-7 bird nests spread between them. 

Circles and clusters of white plastic tubes containing and supporting newly planted tree-lings.  They looked more like large white toothpicks stuck in the ground.

(Between observations I sipped a blueberry-banana smoothie and ate a few bourbon creams.)

And then I listened to a Polycom guy in pinstripes with a flat cap.  (Polycom makes conference phones and videoconferencing equipment...I know this from my previous life as an IT support person.)  He was American.  And frustrated about a contract.  He got off after 5 stops, replaced by an older woman in braids.  She peered out from tinted glasses and wore light blue/irridescent Nike’s, and a large oval turquoise ring. 

Countless fields of yellow flowers.

A gray compact car, dented in good shape on the driver’s side parked on the street in a residential neighborhood.  Owner-inflicted or another Marcy?

Nearer the coast there was the red cliffside with patches of yellow and pink flowers that grew out of and clung to the rock.  The red reminded me of the sea caves and flower pot rocks I explored in St. Martin’s, New Brunswick. 

At the last station before Penzance, a series of cargo cars flew by on the parallel track....cut logs...at least some of them pine I gathered, on account of the baby pine cones still clinging to a spindly branch or two.

A patch of brillant red poppies growing in front of a fence.

A backyard treehouse built in the center of a tree.

Guitar in Piccadilly Circus

I've already posted about Simeon Baker on my Facebook page, but wanted him to have a place on my blog as well.  Music is a great love of mine and my ears listen for it wherever I go.  As I was snapping photos and generally enjoying the sights around Piccadilly the guitar seemed to strum out of nowhere and my feet and ears made a beeline for it.  Normally I don't photograph people because I just don't get the chance, but Simeon gave me the perfect opportunity.  Below is a series of shots I took of him playing.  Here is a short video about him.......