I jump, catch eggs and break stuff

I jump

I jump a jigged line

to the ring

of a baffled bird

meeting solid air.

An illness, an artwork and several poems ago, our family and some friends went to Belstone Village Fair. It was a typical Dartmoor example of stunning scenery, slightly odd activities and a Heath Robinson approach to organisation.

Plenty of green space to run about in left the adults free to explore the wonders of the stalls:

and, most importantly, the tea tent:

(Free kudos to anyone who can spot an Ent.)

Announcements were made by microphone, amplified by speakers which only worked if you started the car:

All generations joined in for the chaos and hilarious mess of the egg-catching (or not) game, presided over by two very strict but sadly inaudible ladies:

A pair of older gentlemen who took the 'sport' aspect rather seriously ended up sharing the prize with a pair of young girls who said, every time the lines stepped back, 'But I can't throw that far.' We all had a little chuckle. And then pretended not to laugh as a group of boys started smashing eggs over each other's heads.

In an unusual display of inhibition, no adult allowed themselves the wanton fun of smashing crockery:

There's no point; no game - just paying for the pleasure of being allowed to break stuff. The noise alone was a tonic.

And in the universal spirit of a day out, one would normally bury one's father in the sand. However, this being Dartmoor, we used the stocks. Then legged it:

And if ever proof was needed that, even on such a jolly day as this, we have reason to fear our inlaws, this is it:

A more lucid and folklore-based account of the day is here, along with a bunch of other strange but true stuff you have no need of knowing, but will be unable to keep to yourself once you do know.

The 21st Century and A Band of Sun

My mornings include
breastfeeding and strength training.
My husband's evenings include
cooking and knitting.
The 21st century
is a good place to be.


A band of sun
trails gold satin across the land.
I lean in
to its Midas kiss.


When he's not cooking or knitting, Ent can be found in our woods, making wonders such as these pixie doors.

Stern Green Man Pixie Door

4.75 " x 2"

And I'm so pleased to have got my blog all dressed up fancy. It may never have happened without much technical help from Rima of The Hermitage fame.  If you haven't yet discovered her blog, do follow the link - you're in for an inspirational treat.

Spiral and Sky Blue Pink

Two more additions to my fecund family of pennings. I managed to halt long enough to capture Spiral before I added colour, but was too excited by Sky Blue Pink to pause and take photos part way. You can imagine, I'm sure. Have taken a couple so you can see the (rather tricky) extension of the designs over all sides.

Spiral in progress

Spiral

Artist brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

Sky Blue Pink

Artist brush pen on canvas

5" x 7"

 Meanwhile, have not been back at the ranch. Spangled about on bog woppets, dragged Ickle Pickle away from fires and sang ridiculous songs at a hostel in a Welsh hanging valley for a few days for Ent's joint 90th with two school friends; then a couple of days deep in middle England admiring my parents' new home and apologising for Ickle Pickle after she pulled that face (pressed lips, red cheeks - ask a parent if you're unsure) whilst sitting, nappy-free, on the scoot-along car they had for her.

So, much laughter, cake and many, many raisins to prevent (not entirely successfully) travel meltdown later, I am home and, as usual, behind my desk and my schedule. The months sneak past, but the exhibition collection grows, so I suppose it will all be alright in the end. At least we got out of that bog with all our footwear and Ickle Pickle wasn't sitting on the cream carpet... yes, things have turned out rather splendidly.

A whisper is all I have

Today's post is whispered. To speak at all is a little too much, but I can just whisper.

Spring. It takes me like this sometimes. I go running into the sun, arms out, clothes off, singing and laughing... too much. Too sudden. My heart has been sheltered in her winter cloak of darkness and huddled safety for so long. This sharp exposure is a shock. My feet burn with each retreating footstep.

I tried to speak to you days ago. I sat for a long time. I typed a little. Every word boomed. Too loud. I wept. I stopped. I yearned for bed, to hide alone with a book for some hours. But it was teatime for my girl so we cuddled and swayed to Jeff Buckley until our Ent had made our food, then we read books and hung out until it was time for robot pajamas and milk and bed.

And the next day Ent worked in the morning. I could hibernate in the afternoon. But no. He had been up much of the night and needed, more than me, to be in his bed. Okay, I said. It's tough being a mum sometimes. Ickle Pickle and I were as gentle with each other as we know how, but she is so small. She needs laughter and bouncing and games and that electronic toy guitar I bought her in a truly selfless moment. She needs me to be out; open; full. I was emptying fast...

And then...Family Day. You may know this as Sunday. And I was posted back to bed, to forget 'together time', housework, planned outings; to rest, write, recoup my soul.

I scribbled in my journal for a while, until even that felt like work, then I read all of my bookclub book. More of that soon, but not now. I read for hour upon hour. I haven't read for that long for over a year and I had forgotten how it is to inhabit a written world without one ear open for a m'aidez. It was after 1:00 when I got up again, full of gratitude for my Ent and my life.

That would have been enough. I could have gone on strong from there. But the day after that was my birthday, so another day of revitalising non-work was spent with my little family. I was given splendid things, the best of which being an impressive holder for my harmonica (with room for a future second harmonica) commissioned by my Ent and made from Devon leather by our inspiring friend Tom Hirons. 

We spent the day by the soul-quenching sea on a forever beach just for us. Tourists crammed far away where they could see their cars and our half mile tramp/slide over immense sand dunes was richly rewarded. I danced in the sea, watched Ickle Pickle play with shells in a mob cap and lounged about in a thoroughly enjoyable manner. The sun, that tempter, blazed down, but I held true and moved slow.

So today I am a little sunburned, but I have an ocean memory to carry me when the impulse to run ahead of myself seizes me. Steps, is the way. Maybe skipping steps. And when it is really, really summer; then I can run across the green as far as the moor will take me, keeping step with myself all the while.

I have done this before; this rush and retreat. I guess I will do it again. But I am learning how to be still when I need to. I am learning that some days it is best to whisper.

Do you know this? Do you have whispering days too?