Sometimes beauty can be found in very unlikely places… Like a contaminated junk yard in South East London…
~Trying to capture,
These fleeting moments:
Grains of sand, running through my fingers…
Autumn is slowly drawing to a close, with the winter solstice around the corner.
Our walks are getting more wet and muddy. The sky displays gorgeous and ever changing artwork reflecting the light of the sun, hiding somewhere behind the clouds…
“I would ask you to remember only this one thing,” said Badger. “The stories people tell have a way of taking care of them. 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. That is why we put these stories in each other’s memory. This is how people care for themselves.”
– Excerpts from Crow and Weasel by Barry Lopez.
Birds are always in sync. They always arrive and leave at the right time.
Seven years ago, my parents were driving in the French countryside, where they live.
My dad noticed a black shape on the side of the road. As he got nearer, he found himself looking into the eyes of a fledgling crow who was laying there, near a roundabout. She was only a few weeks old and completely on her own, with no parents in sight or earshot. Continue reading
I always like to end my yoga classes with a story or a poem. Often the poem or story comes to me in one way or another and it wants to be shared. It finds its way in front of my eyes, perhaps because I need to read it myself, or perhaps someone else will gain from hearing it, after the relaxation at the end of the class. I have folders and books full of poems and stories that I have been collecting over the years. Stories that are just waiting for the right time to be shared at the end of a class…
Sally is a gardener
She runs an organic farm
and sells her vegetables
on various farmer’s markets.
yes she does look like a slug.
Once upon a time there was a little girl. She had pink hair, green eyes and loved stripes.
She wanted to become a writer so she could write stories about clouds turning into dragons, teapots filled with green smoke and horses living in a magic forest ruled by a panther, ridden with trolls and elves.
I discovered my local farmer’s market today. It’s the oldest one in England.
It is on every Thursday, in the historical part of the town.
There are three stalls in it. It was probably busier back in the 1600’s.