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The beauty of bodies twisted...

Upsy downy bog road and I have taken the wrong turn and end up where the pot-holes and bends cause a slight unease and an urgent honking of the horn at the rise of a small hill, an obscure point of vision, a situation that causes me to chance the next quarter of a mile with all the strength that  I can muster. But I am strong. I have just come from my therapist, a massage, a renewal of my body, an erosion of all that weighs me down. So I feel light and clear like the sky and the wild flowers that fill my vision and the green tuft of grass that guides my eye along the undefined way.  Clarity is called for and fortunately there is no lack of it with the wild blue, grey Atlantic to my right and the soft bogland to my left and nothing in-between only me in this small red VW bug.

I am rich with gifts. I have celeriac and celery and chard and leeks and pumpkin all grown in the garden from where I come from where  the garden grows rich with love and caring. Nothing is wasted. Polytunnels host broad beans already in flower, lettuces vy with eachother for attention, potatoes sown in March reach my knee. I am in awe of all that I see  and yet my host garnishes me with  more than I can imagine.

When I get home I stand in the kitchen to survey all that I have tried to grow. Some with success while others struggle for a sense of place, never quite the right soil, never quite the right stake, never quite the right amount of sunshine. Nothing seems to work. And yet, I keep going. I try so hard to make it grow. The plant or the person can't seem to find the right planting point. I move it around, I reduce the heat, I turn up the cold, I provide the shade, I open up the blinds, I add more nutrients, I talk to it, I listen, I bend, I stand tall, I am me. And then  I somehow  come to realise that it is not for me to provide as we are all plants of sorts, making our own way, taking whatever soil or shade or sunshine that happens to fall upon us and if we are lucky we can actually make it work. Nobody said it was easy. God, if only the plant that I talk about would realise this. If only the sunlight could always make things grow and if only watching something die in fertile soil was not so harsh. It is like watching a sandcastle tumble at six o'clock on an evening beach after two children built it all afternoon. I always thought that was sad. There is all that excitement, the building and the shaping and the energy, the beauty of the bodies twisted around in the sand, building, building and building some more and the tangle of hair and the approval of the parents when the deed is done with shells stamped all around it and bits of seaweed and blue  bits of rope and then the tide comes in and slowly dismantles the afternoon dream. That's what this is like. It's like someone falling into the sea because they never thought  that they had an option, that they could possibly hang on to the pier, the shore, the shells on the rocks, the long strands of weed and kelp  and wait, wait for the tide to recede. 

14 Comment count
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An emotional ebb and flow

We do what we know what to do...and in the end...the end is in and of itself.

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Tides of life

Thank you Sharon - yes the end is in and of itself - how perfectly true this is. mx

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Just stopping by to say

Just stopping by to say hello to dear Mares! :-)

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Luciana!!! Great to see you

Luciana!!! Great to see you on my page...I hope life, the children, the lovely house you built are all in a good place and I often think about you in lovely Brazil. Thanks for the visit. Come again soon. mxxxx

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M: When the sand castles are


When the sand castles are destroyed, the vastness of the sands remains. Perhaps, the children learn to build and build again, new castles, new imagination.

You've beautifully expressed the loss, of course. I am just in my annual optimistic mood!


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~ f - still trying to get

~ f - still trying to get that lovely squiggle right near your initial! Thank you for throwing some of that annual optimism in my direction, it lit up the room and caused me to reach for those damned Hollywood shades on the windowsill as the sun passed through the clouds and the wind blew like a demon. Always good to see you and to read you-unique soul that you are. mx

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Mares, Yes, you're strong.


Yes, you're strong. Reading your post was a music to me.

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Dear friend!

How lovely to see your smiling face. Thank you for your words. I cherish them. It is like old times seeing all my DEAR FRIENDS in the one place!!! mx

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"The plant or the person can't seem to find the right planting point. I move it around, I reduce the heat, I turn up the cold, I provide the shade, I open up the blinds, I add more nutrients, I talk to it, I listen, I bend, I stand tall, I am me. And then I somehow come to realise that it is not for me to provide as we are all plants of sorts, making our own way, taking whatever soil or shade."

But we are happy,doing these to our level.Just today,for the first time I set behind my daughter's new Suzuki scooter to help her over a riding lesson.I sensed the roads more bumpy and trafficked,however that was an early morning's empty roads.The fear of security for loved one.

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Dear Jitu - thank you for

Dear Jitu - thank you for taking the time to read and understand my writing. I love the thought of you on that Suzuki with your daughter and feeling the bumpy roads and the fear/protection you experienced but nevertheless still allowed it to occur. My son had his first driving lesson yesterday-I felt trepidation, excitement as another step to adulthood came to fruition. Stay well my friend. mars

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Patrick graham

Dear Mary, Hope you don't mind switching topics on you. Jack

Artist Patrick Graham from Mullingar:  “Walking in certain areas in Ireland, there is an ache that is not part of consciousness.  I cannot walk in certain graveyards in this country, or in some parts of the country without feeling this liquid sense of being absolutely lost.  And then of anger.  And this aching for a people I don’t personally know, but whom I feel in my bones somehow.  And that’s what I paint. What I’m talking about is being born with a sense of abuse.  But a sense of being abused historically.”

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Yes, this is true Jack. But

Yes, this is true Jack. But in a way there is a sense of acceptance of the abuse these days that only helps to make this a unique place. It is the ''sense of being absolutely lost'' that is, in a way, appealing. Do you get my drift? Sometimes, in America, there is an overwhelming idea that the glossier it is the better, but as we all know life is not worth living without a sense of loss. Dealing with the loss is what makes this country interesting and why we are steeped in literature and art and possibly what makes Patrick Graham a very good artist. Nice to see you again. Did you get my connection request? I want to send you my address Mr. O'Keefe with very good Hospital connections! m

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How do I get your connection request? I'm still a rookie
at this.
Jack O'Keefe
10118 S. Seeley
Chi IL 60643

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Go to your main red room

Go to your main red room page and look up at the top where it says mail and click on it and my request should be there and accept it - voila. m