Wednesday Women … Seneca
On Wednesday I usually honour women and and their wisdom. After much research I soon discovered that her wise-ness was or is considered foolishness by some. So the word wise was dropped; women and wisdom are synonymous in my opinion.
So while I celebrate the New Year and send greetings to all beings I bring you a quote from Seneca … a gift from my daughter that I give to you with love.
“A woman is not beautiful when her ankle or arm wins compliments, but when her total appearance diverts admiration from the individual parts of her body.”
Weekly photo challenge …. Joy!
As you would expect I post a festive image; at this time of year an emblem of joy. Sadly we know this is not so on all sorts of levels. This is why sadly or joyfully my box of baubles stayed in their box this year. This may not be permanent decision; next year they may come out in in their glory but maybe not on Christmas Day.
For this year I decided that so called day of Jesus’ birth would not be celebrate any differently to any other day of the year.
I have never been overly precious about the ‘festive season’ I enjoy the ideals and reasons and do in my way pay homage to those. I do however bulk at the commercialism, greed, over indulgence and the exclusiveness.
I do also enjoy the break from work but the stresses and strains that we suffer to plan for this actually takes away some of the joy.
This year we had the added pressure caused by the UK Border Agency who were being very unfair about the use of their new and improved ways to keep unwanted foreigners from our shores.
So with this in mind I decided to look at the ways I celebrate life. Whether it is a change of season, the birth of a precious son, particularly those born in uncomfortable environments and circumstances, even guests to my home invited or otherwise, whether it is 25th December or the 11th November it is a time of celebration. Maybe be not worthy of the complete works the baubles perhaps not always at the ready.
I will be (I hope) aware of the the these less common precious days, if that includes spirituality, gratitude, giving or receiving gifts, so be it. If I chose to decorate myself or my home before or after the 12th night may that also be OK. If I have the opportunity to receive visitors throughout the year I will remember that nut roast and joy is not for Christmas.
Workers in the workshop … part 2
Again today as I finish a session of drawing I remember my dad. not a man of many words … a nod of approval was all we needed then.
I straighten my legs and lean back on the door post. He stands back and adjusts his sleeves. He removes the blade from the plane. Then he pours a little oil on to a sharpening stone that he has found under the shavings and begins to sharpen the blade with a gentle movement to and fro. He lifts it to the light and runs his thumb across the sharpened edge. He screws it back in place. Swoops away another swathe of shavings. Then makes a few more finishing touches before he removes the oar from the vice and stands it in the corner with its pigeon pair.
He takes the final swig of the tea and pushes the cup back on the bench among the shavings. Reaching for his baccy tin and he sits on the stool nearby. It is the only piece of furniture in the workshop serving a…
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Silent Sunday …
Silent Sunday …
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Workers in the workshop … part 1
I have taken up drawing again; I began as a child in the 1950s. Living on a houseboat with no TV and limited space; I was encouraged to draw and write; with much regret although fairly gifted this talent was not a long term option. Now, while I sit practicing drawing; house hold items I often think of the hours I spent with my dad making marks and yearned for his approval; and even now his gentle remark would be so welcome.
He knows I am there. He steps aside and draws the tilly lamp along the work bench so we can share its beam. My dad carefully places the plane he is using on the shaft of an oar, on its side so as not to damage the blade. He takes the pencil from my outstretched hand. He selects a chisel from the bag by the door, checks the cutting edge and gently sharpens the pencil with the three required strokes- looks at the point and hands it back. He returns to his work
‘I want to draw, what can I draw?
He clears a space amongst the twirls of shavings and places the cup back on the bench.
‘The cup?’
I position myself on the floor back in the doorway and make careful lines looking back and forth at the cup as an artist might.
Making careful pencil marks, I…
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Friday Snapshot from the Library
I came across this book written in 1936 it has a story of Christmas that reminds me of Christmas in olden times … that is so nice.
The month of December used to be called by the Saxons Winter-Monath. Etymologists suggest the words, wet and water, derived from the same root as winter. In England this is true during the first weeks of the this month it often rains; so frequently that the week before Christmas is the darkest of the twelve months. The lives of city dwellers are not to much affected by the natural darkness of the night as the streets are always well light and the shop fronts are always aglow. In the Twelve months by LLewelyn Powys; with engravings by Robert Gibbings, we are reminded of the smog; produced by the ‘concentration of chimney stacks’ that would keep city folk indoors as the sun went down. They would never experience the sensation of long lonely walks in a blinding storm and the satisfaction of arriving safely home.
A true countryman we hear; know how to make the most of the such an adventure, even enjoy hearing the wind whistle past his ears and the driving rain against his chin. Under such conditions in spite of sodden boots and dampened overcoat he recovers his unsophisticated animal senses. This is added, he tells us, to human intelligence as the walker notices that the young cows while sheltering under the leafless hedge, their backs and hind quarters are exposed to all manner of weather.
It is said, that if the new moon makes an appearance at this time it its not strong enough to have any effect. If, however the weather is frosty then the star shine is sufficient for vision and the sight of Orion and other ‘glittering constellations’ is pleasing.
It would seem that although the weather at Christmas is inclement the thought of the coming of Christmas raises spirits during November and early December. Christmas is a feast that not only celebrates the fairy changeling of Christian mythology, but also the return of the sun. Christmas, is declared to be the season especially dedicated to the unlicensed human revelry. There is not a man, woman or child in England who does not come by a bellyful of food. The stalled ox, the sheep, the pig, turkeys, geese, pheasants, herrings and mud-fat eels; all sacrificed wholesale to human appetites. And the author suggests that for those whose tastes are no longer for carnivorous dietaries, pineapples,, pomegranates, dates from Arabia, raisins from Greece, oranges from Spain and ginger, hot out of China, contribute to a sense of the privileged good fare
However, while the poor enjoy beer those with the more refined palate enjoy the fruit of the grape.
It is we hear also a time for dancing, laughter, and love-making; for today only our wealth and worldly success count for nothing. We do not wish riches for our friends we wish them only to BE MERRY!!
Christmas is not a good time for considering or ‘coffers or our our coffins’
It is enough to know we are still alive and that the immortal sun has turned back upon his course and will soon reawaken the dreaming earth to impregnate her with the children of spring and summer … to be continued.
Alphabe Thursday F is for Fushia
I enjoy reading about the background of the colours in my palette
During the middle to late 19th Century it would seem that ‘Tyrian Purple was all the rage. Everyone was wearing purple. According to the British journal Punch ‘London was affected with mauve measles.
Charles Dickens wrote ‘As I look out of my window, the apotheosis of Perkins’s purple seems at hand-purple hands wave from open carriages -purple hands shake each other at street doors -purple hands threaten each other from opposite sides of the street; purple striped gowns cram, barouches, jam up cabs, throng steamers, fill railway stations; all flying countryward, like so many migrating birds of purple Paradise’.
It would seem that anyone who had the facilities to experiment with the purple aniline (a by product of coal tar) would be eager to find a new alternative. As luck would have it François-Emanuel Verguin; a one time manager of an acid factory began to experiment with reagents he happened…
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Alphabe Thursday F is for Fushia
During the middle to late 19th Century it would seem that ‘Tyrian Purple was all the rage. Everyone was wearing purple. According to the British journal Punch ‘London was affected with mauve measles.
Charles Dickens wrote ‘As I look out of my window, the apotheosis of Perkins’s purple seems at hand-purple hands wave from open carriages -purple hands shake each other at street doors -purple hands threaten each other from opposite sides of the street; purple striped gowns cram, barouches, jam up cabs, throng steamers, fill railway stations; all flying countryward, like so many migrating birds of purple Paradise’.
It would seem that anyone who had the facilities to experiment with the purple aniline (a by product of coal tar) would be eager to find a new alternative. As luck would have it François-Emanuel Verguin; a one time manager of an acid factory began to experiment with reagents he happened to have on his shelves. In 1859 he got lucky; he mixed aniline with chloride and obtained a deep red substance. He called it Fuchsine as it closely resembled the colour of the fuchsia flower. Some called it roseine, but as the colour gained popularity when named Magenta in honour of the Italian town where the French Army fought and defeated the Austrians in June 1859.
Girl overboard!
After spending Christmas Eve with family on the south-coast I was reminded of the day we lost my little sister …
I am not sure that my dad ever planned to ‘replace’ the little Falmouth Quay Punt that he lost, when it sunk of the Kent coast on his way to Hamble. But our sailing boat he then converted from a ship’s life boat did bear a striking resemblance to the pretty thing. My dad salvaged the life boat from a ship called Trooper and we retained that name. She had, in layman’s terms a point at both ends and not particularly attractive; so my ever resourceful father removed one end and replaced it with a transom this nautical term means a ‘wooden beam across’ and in this case the back end. Hey presto!! After many more hours of bending, screwing, riveting and sewing of sails she became a 30ft sailing yacht.
Once sea worthy we spent summer weekends and holidays sailing the creeks and rivers of the Solent like water…
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Coat Hanger Doll's House 