Tag: #writersnetwork

Healing from one bullet

I just saw this piece by Malala. If you haven’t heard about her, read on.

The chaos being experienced right now is not a distant event: it is the scream of humans that will follow us in ways we can’t know yet. What can we do? I’m praying. There’s people praying that those who can make a difference will do so.

https://podium.bulletin.com/269177711419542

Emotional Civilization

I’ve been intrigued by Olivia Laing’s article ‘How to be alone’, which yelled for attention in my Google search for global pulse few months ago.

E.Hopper’s Night Hawk. Net pic

***

We have been a planet of People Groups: Consumers/Givers/Sitters/ Standers/ Travellers/ Chatterers… We talked of things we knew;


now it feels like we are Letters we never knew we could write, read by people we may never see, and it all breathes close enough to be real. 


Quoting O.Lang, “The weird gift of loneliness is that it grounds us in our common humanity. However frightened we may feel we have never been less alone.” 

(Her words stand tall and stark among all our comment on life issues, ach! Things more devastating than Covid: racism, depression …after the Mr. Floyds and recent spate of suicides, oh Economic crises et al, we know better);

Lang covers Ed. Hopper’s painting ‘Night Hawk’, along with twitter’s colorless version of Hopper’s Hawk in the age of Coronavirus..’ 


Ugh but yes, the aspect of Colour draining from us as we grow 3 feet from each other and gaze at new leaf, beetle, ant for sweet newness,


this is war on wars of Likes, Shares, Claps, War on self impositions where we once screamed to be heard, known, read…


Today there’s a mirror on the wall and it edits nothing of our Global Face staring at Us like never before:  


a Stare that visits possibly once every Era.

And this. That we have never been less alone:


here I am every human, mid new madness and uncertainty:

this new Status is louder than the noise of everything else we’ve known. May we all live to look back on these times as vital chapters of Emotional Civilisation…..if we have the time to….(more) ..

In our Quest for Peace, maybe our hunger will lead us to what truly fulfills: oh, our thirst quench our aimless dissatisfaction. Maybe poverty of spirit is necessary to strip us of materialism. Maybe when we are weak we are strong. Maybe when Feet are cut away we find Wings that rise us up to new Air more varified than Oxygen. It has a new name: It breathes the breath of a Three letter Word: God. How could we step in the divine if we think we are only physical? Loneliness is a Reflector. We are the moon to a Light too strong to look at. We are met with the silence of the sun and it burns into our skin a new awareness of life as it now is. We are not in control anymore. Not parliaments, not horses and kings can decipher a pokey horned virus that has us gagging in masks and gear we wouldn’t have touched last year this time. We’ve been paintings in the wall. We’ve been silenced by the bleating of social approval, but not anymore.

I look in the mirror and see a new me, she is unafraid of honesty…. time is way too short to waste in formalities. We are more than paint and walls. We are more than conquerors through Him who loved/ loves us so wide and deep and long… it reaches through all my anxiety…

Love like that makes me need a moment alone, to just digest the Unseen. Its where we are each headed: Its Face is pure unadulterated Love. Love unlike ours’ …Pursuing, waiting, healing, forgiving, eternal & beyond the embrace of a Society that is perhaps too numbed to not be suspicious of Power like that. Choose Life or Death, Love or Hate, indifference and acceptance. How many choices have we left? How many days in which to choose…

yea may these be vital moments of Emotional Civilisation.

Rayla N.

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Something beautiful

Something red, Patti

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.” ― Pablo Neruda

Quote — Charmed Chaos

From sun garden@hospital park, yesterday. Botanical name for ‘Crown of thorns’.. unsure, but I hear this one is best found in Madagascar

Euphorbia milii, the crown of thorns, Christ plant, or Christ thorn, called Corona de Cristo in Latin America, is a species of flowering plant in the spurge family Euphorbiaciae, native to Madagascar. The species name commemorates Baron Milius, once Governor of Réunion, who introduced the species to France in 1821. Wikipedia

2030 …

Typo! Though it gets me asking:

what will it be like, a decade down?

This morning early at nearby Lake with fam and a few friends after midnight candles and chatty sleepover,

January felt chilly brrrrr 8 am, it was cloudy sun,

With my sis the eye Doc in cheq scarf, & morning mist

What will the next 365… 366 days hold as we do a leap year?

Will there be paper? Hey do people still write on paper?

… there be trees?

Water…?

..bees for candles? 🙂

brotherhood, togetherness, families, oxygen,

seasons?

What will we be blogging about,

or eating?


Will the animal kingdom be soft toys
and trees be synthetic forests?
Will words fade into softer language ? https://youtu.be/RoACcf2q6jw

Last night we ashed 2019’s ugh habits. There were Promises

We held hands,

..for God so loved the world…
Early this morning our pigeon chick(Tina) now she’s all grown & hatches! Can you see her?

What about Us? Will we be happy, humane, will there be peace… not a decade down but year next….?

Our son Joh, (and I don’t know about the rightness of what his Tee says), though

🌻


happy 2020 she’s almost a day old. I wish you Peace.

Thankyou Soups Bee.

Joseph’s lost head & that Other fantastic Noel!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDyUSTT9sC4


The First Noel by Vihan Damaris.
A Carol that has our family name(Noel) hehe! And that’s our daughter. Do listen if you would.
Crib by Cheshire House inmates, Mumbai: a lady with one arm, Mikai, the paralytic…

We took them out one by one. Joseph has lost his little clay head and there’s no time to fix him back so I cover his torso with a tiny cane head piece. Can you spot Joseph?

Our son Johann is blind and yes he put out each figure like last Christmas, but this time, post seizures/ meds, he cannot concentrate. His hands shake and I do not insist that Joseph goes next to Mary, so it’s all askew. Does it matter, I wonder.

Would the real Joseph have been quietly seated next to new mom Mary? Wouldn’t he have lost his head, even just a wee bit,with this surreal pregnancy of his betrothed, a ferocious Herod, … the details of that divine birth blow my mind each time. My spirit fills with gratitude that over the years, Christ has not stayed in clay, but has gazed into my life with very real presence.

Confusing pic👆? Our tiny Tree from a Shopping complex. I’d love to think those are two fairies legs!

The reality of Christmas is fantastic. A Divine Babe that grew to face a Cross, a resurrection garden, He would walk through walls to get through my heart of stone.

May the heart of you be warmed warmed warmed this season, with Love Divine from the Manger to the moon and back.💓

House with roof in the floor

Thankyou Yomargey, UK

Once upon a time there was this one roomed house with a thatched roof, and it was a nice house to a nice couple. They were happy people with enough peace and joy to go around this season and the next. Farmer Jose and wife grew potatoes and onions, they were not rich they were not poor, but they had enough to go around for visitors and neighbours.

Oneday thieves broke in; the thatched roofing fell in as four local young men stole through their well worn box of coins and notes.

Farmer Jose and wife asked the boys why they hadn’t told them they were coming, they could’ve cooked them a warm meal, they said. It was nearing midnight but the old man took out some fruit and offered it to the young men.

“Keep the coins,” Jose said as the men left their home. “And do come back tomorrow if you can. We are lonely for company, and our sons live far away.”

The four young men returned to fix the roof, and would return to the Joses’ whenever they could.

..

This is a true story, I just don’t remember the names.

Cold bench at Hyde Park.

Courtesy Dave Bignell
thephoblography.blog

This Bench follows me room to room, down the stairs and out the door. What drew Dave Bignell to capture it?

“Well I used to walk through Hyde Park every morning when I worked in London and of course every season transformed my surroundings. I think in this particular case the bench just looked lonely or somehow protected by the lamppost, like it was standing guard.

thephoblography.blog

It is delicious chilly outside here in Bangalore India, welcome chilly after a humid late monsoon. I’ve been blog writing ferocious after 365 days of waiting for our youngest to heal. My mind is too preoccupied to start December decor officially at home, but this photograph last week pulled me in like lyrics of a yuletide cantata would; you thought you got its message, but nah not yet.

My Ma and Gran went at Christmas like heaven would have a heart attack if they didn’t. I’m not the high octane happy worker bees they were, not me, but this photograph from a place I’ve never been gets my attention just when energy levels are belly crawling. There I said it.

Out in my street by a bus stop, two men in the sidewalk, not 25 years old but with ancient eyes: one spits paan*, the other stares back at me. His friend looks away. They must think I’m waiting for a bus-

Life’s a bus, my Dad would say in his earlier years.

He couldn’t speak much before he went. Illness did that to him. I wish he’d stayed, but you don’t get to order these things. The 25 year olds in the pavement would understand that. Life’s not a bus Dad, its an earth in orbit going on and on. Seasons change, you and I in the beach, you laughing at me falling off the cycle, I was a hopeless learner. You were Unshakeable, you never told me I couldn’t do something if I wanted to. You never lost courage, ’twas seasons that went to winter around you. It got in you almost, like a chill season but inside you were the same person. You and I cannot really change even if I’m quieter these days of rising price, oh fixing salads with no onion, he-he what’d Gran have done with the onion mini-famine we have here? She’d grow her own veggies..

no dad its no bus: we are sitters, walkers, standing leaving arriving. Life is beautiful Dad, you didn’t want to go, who wants to die except my neighbour Mr.Alvarez and his Haiku poems on graves and sweet dying, he reads it out, smacks it out like it is candy. At Christmas Mr. Alvarez misses his two daughters in Kuala Lumpur and Greece, then he wants to hang low and not talk to his round faced wife who will not talk either. Please dear God, keep them from visiting this us this Christmas, I cannot answer questions about new lights, I like the ones we have, a few don’t work here and there but they are milestones of things we did and did not do. Alvarez has to deck his roof with lights to outshine Mars. He says so, that’s how I know. I like my life next to jacaranda trees with squirrel, our muted traffic snarls and manger clay angels with chipped nose and yes, Joseph’s (human father of Jesus) miniature clay head fallen off last Christmas: need to cello tape him back on.

At home we finish a chinese lunch, Kitsy our teenager enjoys playing chef. Jeff my husband is at a river in his easel, he paints rivers, no surprise. He’s from hilly river running Coorg district south of India. Dia and Joh are a few kms away getting the sun. No more seizures for Joh hopefully, but the aggressive side effects of his meds have us running circles to work his chi & chu, or whatever energies are called. Li my sis called last night, she doesn’t feel like Christmas with Dad and Ma gone, she cannot decorate for carolers, her knee hurts. How are you Ray? Just back from a village visit with her carol crew, Li is a village doc. She reminds me of Dad, and Ma in bits. Thel, eldest sis is like her own self + added fizz over the years. Me I’m growing more like my kids, picking their vocabulary and shoulder shrug. Rolling of eyes in particular is liberating but on my generation it looks rude; they get away with it. We hang in together, Haha like parked lampposts and bench, and tree. In season and out.

This Bench. It is park furniture. All the stories and footprints and winters that have gone by haven’t moved it. It is untransformed, though a little worn, yes?

Christmas isn’t the nicest time for those who have lost a loved one, or lost heart; for those feel alone it is easily a time of more than they can bear. I’m thinking about the quality of not being moved. I’m thinking of that Lamp post, the Tree and Bench all there like friends.

I guess December is that time we could spin stories out of threadbare sack cloth but I’m feeling the right to not be moved and it’s a heart strengthening feeling.

I’m thinking on something I read about: that Unshakeable Kingdom we all have for the asking; that secret place deep inside where the Love of God stands by us like a Light in a storm. That storm ravaged place where we’re parked? It can feel cold and uninviting, or it can create whole new perspective: Strength that waits out the winter. I’m the bench, the lamppost, the trees; sometimes I’m the snow…

@raylarn

*paan- betel leaf.

….

‘Talk to me..’

Detail from Valley of Song. Oil. RN.

I said, “If You are here, talk to me,” and all I heard was the silence of my prayers emptying at altars and incense bowls.

“Talk to me,” I said but Your silence was like my emptying prayers at altars of incense bowls.
Talk to me talk talk to me I said, and in the silence of my emptied prayers You spoke and it was like a billion billion voices asking to be heard. To be heard.
..
©innerdialects

Art RN, detail of Valley of Songs.