Monthly Archives: September 2010

Melancholy and closed books

Here’s a photo Kaspa took of me looking artistic in the Noirlac Abbey in France over the summer.

It feels like a million years ago.

I’m feeling melancholy and contemplative this morning. Beginning new chapters means closing old ones. Loss is always implicit in new growth.

If I’m not careful, I get caught in thoughts and fears about how much is unknown at the moment – whether I’ll get new clients in Malvern, which job Kaspa will get, whether we’ll have enough money, how our new lives will look.

Then I remember that the future is always a closed book. Tomorrow, or this afternoon, or in five minutes time, something could happen that would change everything.

I’m giving myself permission to feel melancholy. I’m also reading this poem (from whiskey river), and letting it burn something away in me. I’m wondering how I’m going to live my life well, in our new house. I’m wondering how I’m going to make a good marriage, and whether I can write more books, and write them well.

The books I haven’t written yet are also closed books, ahead of me. Babies yet to be conceived. I’m thinking of my character, April, in the novel I started just before the chaos of moving kicked in. I’m looking forward to returning to her. To doing the best I can for her.

One incandescent dusky world is all there is.

I’m going to try and love it.

Incandescence at Dusk

There is fire in everything,
shining and hidden –
Or so the saint believed. And I believe the saint:
Nothing stays the same
in the shimmering heat
Of dusk during Indian summer in the country.

Out here it is possible to perceive
That those brilliant red welts
slashed into the horizon
Are like a drunken whip
whistling across a horse’s back,
And that round ball flaring in the trees
Is like a coal sizzling
in the mouth of a desert prophet.

Be careful.
Someone has called the orange leaves
sweeping off the branches
The colorful palmprints of God
brushing against our faces.
Someone has called the banked piles
of twigs and twisted veins
The handprints of the underworld
Gathering at our ankles and burning
through the soles of our feet.
We have to bear the sunset deep inside us.
I don’t believe in ultimate things.
I don’t believe in the inextinguishable light
of the other world.
I don’t believe that we will be lifted up
and transfixed by radiance.
One incandescent dusky world is all there is.

But I like this vigilant saint
Who stood by the river at nightfall
And saw the angels descending
as burnished mirrors and fiery wheels,
As living creatures of fire,
as streams of white flame . . .

1500 years in his wake,
I can almost imagine
his disappointment and joy
When the first cool wind
starts to rise on the prairie,
When the soothing blue rain begins
to fall out of the cerulean night.

- Edward Hirsch
(homage to Dionysius the Areopagite)
The Night Parade

The start of a new chapter (everything is borrowed)

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This time last year I was living in Hampshire with my ex-partner of 13 years.

Now I’m in the skirts of the Malvern hills, engaged to be married to a Buddhist minister who I met when he was still officially a monk (oops).

Life, eh?

I’m currently writing from my old place, and I’ll be straddling two houses (and lives) for a while as I finish up my work in Hampshire. I’m surrounded by emptiness. All my books, chocolate, bits etc. are in Malvern. The cats are keeping me company here, but I’ll be moving them up at the weekend too (wish me LOTS of luck with that one…). Kaspa and all our things are just to the right of the hills in the picture.

It’s very odd, moving. It’s not just the physical upheaval – the fitting of all your (heavy, awkward to carry) possessions into a van like a jig-saw and driving them across the country. It’s a very emotional process. We are nesting creatures. We like to feel ‘at home’, and while we’re moving, all that energy doesn’t know where it should be settling. Here, or the new place? Somewhere in the middle?

I guess that it’s good for us to move occasionally. I try to remember that I’m only ever borrowing the house I live in, whether I have a mortgage or not. I’ll move from it at some point, or die in it. Everything we have is only borrowed.

When I remember this, it makes it easier to appreciate what I have right now at this very moment. I’m not in Malvern right now, but Kaspa is, and he’s making a start on our new life – sorting out the cupboard under the stairs, and timing the walk into town.

I have a dongle, and two cats to fuss, and a cup of earl grey made in the travel kettle my parents brought for me at the weekend. I also have a fine chocolate brownie given to us by one of our new neighbours. What more could any girl ask for?

Everything is borrowed. That’s my mantra, my koan for this week. Here’s to whatever you have right now, whatever borrowed things you are sitting on, writing with, eating, talking to. Here, or there. If you can keep it in your mind for long enough, you’ll realise that everywhere is home.

Planting seeds: Raving about runner beans

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This morning my neighbour suggested I pick some of his runner beans, as they had more than they could eat.

I tugged young long bean after long bean from the plant, and then I came in and stringed them – paring off one side and then the other a sharp knife – before cutting them into diamonds. I snapped one to enjoy the sound and to see how fresh they were, mere minutes from the plant to my pot.

As I worked, I reflected on how much I love runner beans. And I remembered my mum’s love of runner beans. I listened to her raving about runner beans for many years as I grew up. How much of my own love grew from the seeds she planted?

My mum sliced the beans into short diamonds, and now I do the same. Her own mother cut them this way too (and still does).

This time next year, I hope that me and my Mr. will be cooking our own home-grown runner beans. I will cut them into diamonds. I will boil them until tender, slather them with butter, and serve them to our friends – raving about them all the while.

Things you might be curious about

What are you passionate about? How might you plant the seeds of your enthusiasms in other people’s heads and hearts? What do your friends and family feel passionately about? How could you catch some of their enthusiasm?

Quotes:

Passion rebuilds the world for the youth. It makes all things alive and significant.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

A mother should give her children a superabundance of enthusiasm; that after they have lost all they are sure to lose on mixing with the world, enough may still remain to prompt fated support them through great actions.
~Augustus Hare (thanks mum)

This post is from my weekly newsletter – to sign up, put your email in the sign-up box on the right and tick ‘Planting Seeds’. You can also find out more about coaching at Planting Seeds.

Some jewels from the week

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“The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.”
- George Santayana

Too true, whiskey river, too true.

Here’s a prose poem by David Shumate (via The Writer’s Almanac) which talks about the same thing, even at the moment of death. The tenderness in it is heartbreaking.

Shooting the Horse

I unlatch the stall door, step inside, and stroke the silky neck of the old mare like a lover about to leave. I take an ear in hand, fold it over, and run my fingers across her muzzle. I coax her head up so I can blow into those nostrils. All part of the routine we taught each other long ago. I turn a half turn, pull a pistol from my coat, raise it to that long brow with the white blaze and place it between her sleepy eyes. I clear my throat. A sound much louder than it should be. I squeeze the trigger and the horse’s feet fly out from under her as gravity gives way to a force even more austere, which we have named mercy.

by David Shumate

And finally here’s a piece I enjoyed by Joslyn Hamilton on manifesting – I like a bit of de-bunking on a Friday.

I hope you all have marvellous weekends. Things are still busy busy busy here, but we’re definitely getting somewhere!

Planting seeds: Can I let go?

Coaching competition winners and Raymond Carver

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Big congratulations to Annie, Debbie and Michael – they all entered my competition and they’ve all won a copy of my book A Year of Questions: How to slow down and fall in love with life, and a free coaching session.

If you’re still wondering whether a coaching session might be a good idea for you right now, remember that I offer free 20 minute taster sessions on the telephone, or a free email coaching session. Have a look at my coaching site for more info. Or buy a gift session for a friend.

If you entered the competition I’ll be emailing you soon (as soon as I can get my email to start working). Thank you for entering.

Here’s a poem I really need to pay attention to this morning, this week, with its busy-ness and insecurity and tangled roots. Thank you, Carver, for the reminder.

This morning

This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk — determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong — duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I’ve trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back I didn’t know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.

Raymond Carver

Coaching competition results

Just Lie Down

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“Stress is basically a disconnection from the earth, a forgetting of the breath. Stress is an ignorant state. It believes that everything is an emergency. Nothing is that important. Just lie down.”

- Natalie Goldberg

Just lie down.

This quote goes perfectly with this poem, which is also about the mostly-invisible something-or-other that always holds us up. Thanks to Marilyn for letting me use it.

If you’re interested, you can read a bit about my morning chanting practice on Kaspa’s blog. This is something else that holds me up.

There’s still lots of change going on here. I suppose it’s when we have our usual props taken away (job, place to live, etc) that we start thinking we might fall over. I’ll try to remind myself when I feel that wobble. Just lie down.

And when you thought

it was long gone, here it is,

up your sleeve, in your pocket,

tucked under a sleeping cat.

You pull it out, let it fall,

drape it over both arms,

admire it’s improbability

a thin-air hammock, woven in light,

to be flung up

between

a cold house and a home,

harsh words and a smile.

Lie in it. It will hold you.

Marilyn Ricci

Free chocolate cake!!! *

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Okay, I stretched the truth a teensy bit there.

I don’t actually have any free chocolate cake for you. Although if you do like the look of this photo, I think you owe it to yourself to get yourself to a cake shop later today. Or tomorrow at the latest. Or get out your favourite recipe. You’re worth it.

I do have some free stuff to give away, though. And this is your final reminder. Three free sessions to either:

- get you started on that creative project you’ve been putting off

- help you bring balance back to your life (work-life or whatever feels out of whack)

- to discuss changing your career or how you can make your current work more meaningful

- or to simply get you going again on a project if you’re feeling a bit stuck.

We can do the session either on the phone or via email. Plus each winner will receive a copy of my book, A Year of Questions: How to slow down or fall in love with life.

All you have to do is send an email to fiona@fionarobyn.com with ‘gift session’ as the title before Sunday.

Easy peasey.

Although I can’t guarantee that the sessions will be as delicious as that cake. In fact, I’m starting to regret mentioning the cake at all….

Happy Thursdays x

* as previously mentioned, there is no actual free chocolate cake

Fancy a croodle?

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To croodle:

1. To cower or cuddle together, as from fear or cold; to lie close and snug together, as pigs in straw.

A dove to fly home to her nest and croodle there.

- C. Kingsley.

2. To fawn or coax.
3. To coo.

This is a word we need to bring into wider circulation today. Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to try and fit it into a sentence by the end of today.

The world needs more croodling.

Apologies for the cute kitten. I can’t resist sometimes. I promise to use a more serious photo tomorrow. But you must look closely at his little ears. : )