Tag: Garden

Not just another day!

As our nation reels and staggers among seen and unseen factors, can all the kings horses and all the kings men put things back together again? Before we can get used to the day’s Papers, the next day dawns with worse stats. This is unreal, but like one person said, “..it was a disaster waiting to happen.” It is a war on everything we’ve known.

Today we prayed that we would really pray, set aside 21 days asking the Lord to hear our voice, for our people, our leaders, our healing as nations, as states, homes, families, individuals. 21 days of a fast from everything that holds me back: negative thoughts, distracted mind prone to worry..

all that. Remembering who God is, and what He means when He says, “If my people who are called by my Name will humble themselves and pray, I will forgive and heal their land…”

Took this pic- our tiny saplings grow into little plants, as a nation plummets…. where?

Moki, an acquaintance will laugh at this post: not everyone believes in God. And then not everyone believes God answers prayers. And then some believe in a God of disaster. When He speaks He is a mere Judge. He is, but He’s also the One that lets new skies each day lift my heart. Am spending the next 21 tugging at the hem of His garment, seeking Grace.

Yeah, mid– storm, sailors do cry “Mayday!”

This morning my heart is curiously still: yeah I’m seeking His face. He’s brought us through worse. Covid and poor disaster management is not the worst ill there is. A worse one stares us in the face- the soul of man, woman and child that lives alone, without the Friendship of the One who made us all, one Who waits to meet us here before it is too late.

FMF Writers

Sermons from my ‘Jacquemontia’!

Years ago my husband NJ had gifted me a bouquet of blue silk roses for our anniversary, but later a relative wanted it for her wedding bouquet. I didn’t have the heart to say No, nor could find another just like it. What followed was an endless search for the blue roses, in every shop and city we could think of, yes even after Amazon happened but no sign of any blue beauties.

Then this year as we dropped our daughter off at a lane across from nice shop called Green Tag complete with Einstein looking Owner who could sniff out our need; “What exactly d’you want?” Einstein asked his serious eyes lit up with joy. We mumbled. He understood and left us to ourselves and his collections of fern, ZZ, Water babies, Palm giants & dwarves, Bird of paradise wild stalk and then I saw her, clustered at the roof of Einstein’s green house. Not one bloom on her but she called at me.

Jacquemontia.” Einstein whispered with reverent awe.

Back home I looked up the name. Oh my. Such a big name for wee creeper in my tiny balcony. Then the flowers arrived. Blue yeah. Not roses, not silk, but real. One, then two, three, four. And every bud a promise of restoration. Not just make believe but the real thing. A real planting of the Creators Words coming to Life. Our daughter Vihan took this pic and with every new bud I’m thinking on how He restores, with no limits, in ways we cannot imagine. I’m staring at His fingers writing sermons in little Jacquemontia, all for my tiny window on heaven.

Christ never ceases to stun me. Never.

April beauty

My April flower – Jacque- montia, big name for a bushling, already a favorite in our tiny balcony garden. It is war with local pigeon though, that want to nest here. One feather head, Tina born here, now tries tag her brood in, every season along with speckled partner. They are a mess, and we’ve told them that. They need to get independent. Get a tree. They won’t listen. Now there’s Jacquemont– found her at a local shop, she loves the sun. Reminds me of India. Teeming with survival.

Indoors for a closer capture of tiny blossom. (Painting is by Kitsy Ruth: Waterfall/blossom).

To know you are loved, is being a garden in full bloom

*her name was Pinku

I cannot describe the stink of the room with not one normal smelling thing in it. We had just walked through slush to get here. Marin, the lady with ash blonde fringe and eyes like green stars, she ploughs on as if it were a normal day. In the room, the child* sits with amputated leg; my thoughts are a hung merry-go-round. The child will die soon, her grandmother tells us. The old lady sits spreadeagled in the floor with the abandon of hopelessness and dare. Like- dare you tell me any thing about hygiene– poverty did that to her. To us all. As we leave, the child’s eyes are wide saucers above her smile. She wants to say much but is afraid of Grandma. She loved drawing class with me, and times we did little stories from the Bible. I say ‘did’ because we’d act them out, act out those scenes where we were actors, we were boat and waves, we were the storm, we were scared in the storm till we saw Jesus walking on the water to us, and then we’d scream for sheer happy riotous fear/ joy.

All this I felt as we left the child and grandmother; the child died a few months later. I never forget how beautiful her face was in that little room strung with gunny sack and tarpaulin. The child knew she was loved by Christ, the pain did nothing to stop her joy: like a garden in bloom, in the breeze that took its fragrance into other places.

Friday five minute Writers

Here Time stands still…

Two minutes to sundown, my roses have bloomed, two tiny strawberry blossoms under honeysuckle all in our garden balcony in the sun going down, I’m staring

Friday five minute writers

staring at Time thats raced, stalled, touched everything, and left this moment untouched by its arms. Am staring at news here and there about Farmers in the streets furious at somethings, staring at a sky gaudy with pink gold as if nothing matters;

as if its all still too beautiful to get ugly. Somewhere in the trees a new bird calls; I cannot distinguish its cry. It has a blue black tail and hat, all the size of my palm. Tomorrow I must paint again after we’ve boxed giveaway clothes to a Place called Liz’s Trust where a single woman with a tiny face and long arms Care takes 50 children in a house with green painted windows and lemon yellow terrace. Its my new beautiful thing: Liz’s Trust. The woman’s voice reminds me of this bird’s, not in its tone but freedom. As if there were no new 70% stronger Covid wave or Avian Flu: or questions searing colonies of humans waiting to dance again like they used to in buses and offices and bazaars.

The sun dips behind a family of palm trees as the sky sulks then dims. The new blue bird twips one last time then back flips into a gorgeous frizzed thorn tree. I’m hungry for some fruit but still can’t stop staring at colors turning slate gray, shining in the aftermath of dusk, in the memory of Light…

it is chilly. January in my city is like that, a foot in summer, but not yet. Leaves are gold, red, brown, confused and happily. I lean in a small breeze; it stammers in the curtain then settles in my shoulder. Before the day ends officially, freeze the moment- hold it close, treasure its gift. It is kind and true like its always been. Its motives are pure- it just needed to meet you, was made for you. Every leaf and piece of color, every sound and scape, made for you and me, but we are distracted by the lives of distractions. We are attracted to these; don’t ask me why. Maybe we’re just staring at some things more than others. Maybe if we chose what to stare at…maybe if we re-grouped priorities, maybe if we got away a bit, to get back to where we began, to Creations’ core, and where we first saw Beauty….maybe then we’d remember how beautiful life is…

Pitch perfect Prayer for July

I tried to pray today, it was like going to a store and not wanting anything any more except a counter that could take requests for giving. Giving thanks.

RNoel

*

In all the recent Mayhem and Jittery June Viral chaos, the centre of me sat down to stare at another month for all of us. Suddenly the things that used to scare me don’t anymore. How come? The people that used to taunt, seem to have lost fang and fuss. Now how?! I don’t know. The rabid need for money seems to have bitten off it’s own head. Sure we all still need the MO but something’s changed and we’re a little less orthodox about our own goodness. We’re all a little more orthodox about our own littleness. We are maybe more crazy and yelly 😅 if that’s a word. We are kinder, if that’s possible. Those who never spoke now speak. The insanely noisy have become quiet. Me, I begin to pray and end up speechless. I remember my Prayer List last year this time. How I’ve changed, haven’t we all?

July, how’re you going to be? Will I be pretty, will I be rich… here’s what he said to me.. que sera sera… if you remember that song.

Meanwhile our 19 year old heals in new ways. The hyperaction you see in below video has decreased way more than we thought possible. He’s still pitch perfect, and a crazy guy for calender memory. And a whole host of things.

Am grateful for the tremendous healing he’s had over the past month. We’re able to play like we used to, chat .. .

He actively hates Covid for the restrictions its imposed on our outdoor lives but home has become a more beautiful place with its quiet surroundings and green. Our lil gardens grow with the rains this monsoon; trees fill with new kinds of birds. Yeah I am speechless this July, with deep need for better days yes, but also gratitude for the million gifts we may not even know we were born with.

This July I’m praying we will know and use our gifts well. What a tragedy to not notice the stash within us.

This July what’s my personal Pitch