Two months and two days after my mother’s funeral, we buried my dear canine companion, Jack. We wrapped him up in my muslin skirt and his old towel, and placed him carefully in the hole we dug for him in a raised garden bed. We covered him with sweet, soft soil, and wept, before giving him a makeshift headstone, a remnant of the many earthquakes we had been through together. That was 6 months ago, on March 6th. Today Jack is coming up daffodils ( soon to be followed by tulips, plus unavoidable weeds! ), thanks to a friend’s gift of miniature bulbs. We planted them in Jack’s grave a few weeks after his death.
Coming up daffodils
I miss my small friend. We loved each other for 13 years. I love him still.
My parents loved Jack, too. I like to imagine he is keeping them company wherever they are. And that they are giving Jack treats, as they once did, subversively, at the table; behaviour utterly discouraged by me; completely encouraged by my mother and father. Jack’s particular favourite was toasted crumpet crusts from my father’s hand, but vegemite toast crusts were almost as good. It was the hand that mattered more than the food, sometimes.
Vegemite crusts, treats
Jack anticipates the drop
Gran, Pop, dog collude
A treat or pat always welcome
When the bulbs start to die away, I will scatter wildflower seeds on Jack’s grave. They will bring joy in their flowering.
Remembering Jack in Summer.
ps Jack died at home, on his bean bag, after being particularly unwell for about a week. His heart failed, and he was gone. I was with him.
pps The ornamental duck was a Christmas gift from my children many years ago. It has led a hard life in the garden!
Dirty dishes sit
Unrepentant in the sink
Always messy, sigh!
This is not a haiku. It’s just a verse. It could be worse! As could the post-midnight mess in the sink. But as the dishes and I glare at each other, I find myself moving from complaint to contemplation. Dirty dishes, I decide, are inevitable, a necessary part of life. Much like the inevitable death of my beloved mother who, unlike me, would never have left dishes to sit in the sink for half the night.
My mother, Kathleen Alice, passed away on 14th December, 2019, in Cairns, Australia. She was in her comfortable recliner chair, holding my sister’s hand, listening to one of her favourite songs, Isa Lei. She was 97. Until the last few weeks of her life, my mother seemed to derive purpose and joy from drying (not washing!) dishes. I need to up my game, take a tea towel out of my mother’s book of life.
One of the most satisfying aspects of blogging is accompanying (and hopefully supporting) fellow bloggers as they discover, pursue, and, eventually, achieve their dreams.
As writer, architect, traveller, and dreamer, Virginia Duran, explains in this video clip, achieving dreams requires persistence, strength, skill, creativity, and a great team of supporters. To her list I would add courage.
Virginia has courage as well as all it takes to be an achiever of dreams. I was thrilled to see her latest post announcing the publication of her London Architectour Guide , which has been described as an “exquisite travel book for anyone passionate about architecture”.
Other blogging friends with oodles of courage and talent, namely Cynthia Reyes and Marisa Alvarsson, have delighted me and many others recently with their latest achievements.
Much admired and loved blogger, Cynthia, and her lovely daughter, Lauren Reyes-Grange, have just written and published the second book in the Myrtle the Purple Turtle series. As Cynthia recalls in this guest post bringing Myrtle’s Game to us, the readers, was no easy task, and getting it off the harvest table into our hands became a full-on family affair. They had to adopt Myrtle-like persistence and determination to achieve their dreams. In ‘Myrtle’s Game’, ” Myrtle and her friends are turned away when they try to join in a game with others. The friends walk away, feeling hurt, but that’s just the start of the story.” With persistence, patience, and practice, Myrtle and her friends prove that even a slow turtle can play the game as well as anyone else. And, more than that, Myrtle shows us that the best team is the one which is inclusive and allows you to believe in yourself.
Marisa, who has been a dear blogging friend almost from the beginning of my blogging days in 2012, began her social media life unwilling, like so many of us, to even mention her real name. We knew her only as Miss Marzipan, mother to a toddler, and confined to bed rest with a difficult pregnancy. Today, thanks to Marisa’s creativity and courage, and the support of her loving family, she has given herself permission to embrace the dream of being the author of a fabulous cook book ‘Naturally Sweet Vegan Treats“. She is also a wonderful, kind (almost magical 🙂 ) presence on Instagram, with 146K followers.
Another achiever and blogger, whom I have come to know in recent months is A Voice from Iran, Laleh Chini. Like Cynthia she lives in Canada, and, like Cynthia, Laleh and her daughter Abnoos Mosleh-Shirazi worked together as co-authors to produce ‘ Climbing over Grit’. “The story follows the journey of Najma as she is forced into a marriage at the age of eleven and faces the challenges of motherhood with an abusive husband, all while the eight-year war with Iraq is taking place.” The story is a tribute to Laleh’s mother. And a tribute to Laleh’s determination to write stories important to her and her family, and which, she believes, are important for the rest of the world to know.
Now, if, like me, you have places to go and things to do, and if, unlike me, you have your own dreams to pursue, you may not have time to buy or read the books I mention here, but I would urge you to take a closer look at, at least, one of these strong, creative women and their achievements.
I celebrate them all. And I thank them for letting me be a small part of their dream journeys.
Special note: the photos in this post are not mine. They belong to the authors and illustrators of the books featured.
ps I may not be on WordPress very much for a few months, but I will do my best to check your posts whenever I can.
I retreated into silence last night to consider whether it was time to end my quest. My original intention was to post every day of Advent. But that has not happened to this point and, during my little retreat, I decided there would be no more posts after this one.
After 15 posts (16 including today’s) on silence, my quest seems to have come to a natural conclusion. For now, I am replete with silence. I feel no need to continue.
My quest has been an enriching experience. I am immensely grateful for your participation in my search for silence. Through silence and contemplation, and with your wonderful companionship, I have for the first time, in a long time, been able to create an accepting, peaceful, space in my heart and home for Christmas.
As Linda (Shoreacres) writes in her post Homes Made for the Holidays” Christmas is coming, after all, and its spirit will find a dwelling in even the smallest or poorest of spaces.”
And so it has, already. In the silence, it came to me. From my humble home to yours, I send love and best wishes for peace and goodwill now and always. Happy Christmas.
Mary’s journey to Christmas
Santa’s journey
My journey
with my own hands
The interfaith tree in my dwelling space, 2018; this tree, fully decorated, was given to me in 2016 by a Buddhist friend. The skirt of the tree and the embroidered white cloth come from Christmas celebrations in Cairo. The green prayer beads were a Hajj gift from a friend in Egypt. The beads help to remind me of another Christmas tree; a fully decorated Christmas tree given to us by a Muslim friend for our first Christmas in Egypt.
Deep silence, deep sorrow, some peace: Commonwealth War Cemetery, El Alamein, mid 1990s
Silent Night! Holy Night! All is calm, all is bright Round yon godly tender pair Holy infant with curly hair Sleep in heavenly peace Sleep in heavenly peace.
No Advent Quest would be complete without acknowledgement of Silent Night.
This Christmas Eve will mark the 200th anniversary of the first public performance of Silent Night in 1818. It was written by Joseph Mohr in 1816, partly as a way to celebrate peace and freedom, and to encourage joy, following the end of the Napoleonic Wars.*
A hundred and four years ago on Christmas Eve in 1914, German officer, Walter Kirchhoff, a tenor with the Berlin Opera “came forward and sang Silent Night in German, and then in English. In the clear, cold night of Christmas Eve, his voice carried very far.The shooting had stopped and in that silence he sang and the British knew the song and sang back.”
Silent Night has been translated into hundreds of languages and dialects. The carol was declared an intangible, cultural heritage by UNESCO in 2011.
When I listen to Silent Night, I remember the Holy Family’s search for peace and sanctuary. And I hear the yearning of most every one of us for the deep silence of peace.
ps
*For an accurate account of why Mohr wrote Silent Night, please read the comment by Shoreacres.
For more information on the recording in the final link please click here
In silence, understanding, the tapestry of my life
In my quest, I begin to understand how the woof of many silences is woven through the warp of my life. The unfolding pattern surprises me, delights me, comforts me, saddens me, enriches me.
In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea, In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree, Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears, I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.
ps The image features a selection of gifts received over many years. The wooden sculptures come from Malawi. They were given to me over 30 years ago and have travelled to many countries with me. Faithful friends, I call them Thomas and Sarah.
the unseen guest, the silent listener, be present at my table
Who is the unseen guest at your table, the silent listener to every conversation? The traditional response is Christ; “Christ is the head of the home, the unseen guest of every meal, the silent listener to every conversation.”
My silent guest list changes for almost every meal. Sometimes the guest is an absent family member, or a far off friend. At other times, I eat in the company of loved ones who are no longer living. Often, it seems to me, my little table is a host to a multitude of absentees. They outnumber those who are physically present. It would be crowded and noisy, if it weren’t for the guests’ gentle, profound, and caring, silence.
This post is dedicated to Eileen at Laughter: Carbonated Grace , and to all those who will be missing a loved one at their table this Christmas.
PS This is my attempt at a flat lay photo. The two flower photos in the centre of the image are not mine. They were a gift from my photographer friend, David Dobbs.
In silence there is darkness, anxiety, fear. In darkness, lights fulfil their promise.
In silence, I remember the darkness of the first Christmas; the anxiety, the fear. I remember the Star of Wonder, the guiding light.
‘By my bed, on a little round table The Grandmother placed a candle. She gave me three kisses telling me they were three dreams And tucked me in just where I loved being tucked. Then she went out of the room and the door was shut. I lay still, waiting for my three dreams to talk; But they were silent……..’
Angels, as I know them, come in many guises. This little one, who has endured significant travails, was a gift from one of the many angels who supported and loved us at the White Plains Presbyterian Church, Westchester, New York. In silence, I delight in angels.
