trimmingthesails

Wishing you all ...

 ... joy, hope and peace this Christmas. I am full of gratitude for your kindness, your good wishes for my Dad (whose eye procedure went well but who developed an unrelated condition these last ten days and is now home from hospital) and for your loyalty and support in popping in here during the year. I am also ovewhelmed by the creative talent I've seen up close these last few months - just look at these wonderful quilt squares (part of Fiona's Quilt Square swap over at Staring at the Sea), which are now gracing my desk...

 

... and these wonderful Christmas tree decorations, part of Miriam's Christmas Decoration Swap, adorning our tree ...

So thank-you, all of you, so very much ... May there be warmth cloaking your home, delicious food spread on your table, and the happiness of blog friendships wrapped around you :).

Simply A Moment (December 2013)

Mid-December, and - for those of us in the northern hemisphere - only a clutch of days away from the longest night of the year. Up here, though the days are short, they are full of whirling activity and not a little panic at times. So much to share with you, and so little time! So it has been a relief to pause, reflect, and record a moment from this morning. And if you would like to do the same sometime before the end of the year, and share it with us, you will be most welcome. (The link is below). It is always a joy to be allowed a little peep into your world, through your eyes. Today, here is mine ...

Hoping you are all well and thriving, and looking forward to being back with you soon ...

 

Pick Your Precious (December 13)

This is a story that nearly didn't make into the last edition of Sian's wonderful Pick Your Precious and Story Telling Sunday, for it has only just happened - I am hoping just to squeeze in before the deadline. Sian, thank-you so much for all the wonderful support and encouragement you have given to those of us gathering at your warm and generous invitation for the last three years :) ...
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It must have been missed, during that long, delicate tidying-out of Mum's things eighteen months ago, tucked at the back of the drawer where Dad had not quite been able to stoop far enough to reach in. "Can you look after it?" he asked, as I lifted the well-worn black leather handbag up for him to see. His eyes were rheumy, and his hand shook slightly as he held onto the curved handle of his walking stick. "Look after" is code between us for give something away to Mum's favourite charity. "Of course", I smiled and laid my hand on top of his ...

The bag felt light, and I realised Mum had emptied it herself at some point before putting it away. All the same, I thought, I ought to check - she would never forgive me if I left an old tissue or receipt in it.  Sliding open the zip, I gently felt around the soft silky lining. In the last little pocket, my fingers touched some paper and I gently pulled it out to the light.

There were two.  The larger, a clipping of a poem Mum must have found somewhere and which touched her. She was a country girl born and bred, a farm lass; meadows, hills, curlews and gorse were, for her, home, and she taught me to love them too. The smaller, a little scrap of paper folded in two; and when I opened it, there was her handwriting ...

("And if perchance you see the red of the western skies, or feel the cool, soft rain, or smell the flowers I loved, then let your heart beat fast for me, and I will not be dead.") (The Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas).

I have cried a little, and yet am glad. It feels like a little gift from her, a reminder, a message, and precious indeed ...