The Amaryllis in Splendour

 

Amaryllis

By Connie Wanek

A flower needs to be this size

to conceal the winter window,

and this color, the red

of a Fiat with the top down,

to impress us, dull as we've grown.

Months ago the gigantic onion of a bulb

half above the soil

stuck out its green tongue

and slowly, day by day,

the flower itself entered our world,

closed, like hands that captured a moth,

then open, as eyes open,

and the amaryllis, seeing us,

was somehow undiscouraged.

It stands before us now

as we eat our soup;

you pour a little of your drinking water

into its saucer, and a few crumbs

of fragrant earth fall

onto the tabletop.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48910/amaryllis

Here is the Amaryllis that Helen and Mark gave us, in its splendour.  It must have happened overnight, as the last time I saw it it was a long green shoot.  Above it is one of the artist Brian Burchill's paintings, from his late period, when he was painting the Downland a lot.

The poet Dylan Thomas wrote about "the force that through the green shoot drives the flower".  And what is the force, that produces a tiny seed (or bulb or corm) coded with so much information that it becomes a green shoot, and then becomes the miracle of artistry and engineering we see above?

It is the spirit of the Sovereign Lord Jehovah, the Grand Creator.

As you see I found an amaryllis poem on line.  Wish I could have written one myself, but who knows, maybe it will inspire me.

I had an unusually busy Saturday - for me, these days.  Got the washing done, scrubbed out the bathroom, dusted and polished the bedroom, and cleared up all my vast supply of medicines and medical supplies, and restored order.  And got some witnessing letters done, plus my Watchtower study for Sunday - a very comforting article about the Book of Job. Its on JW.org, under "Meetings", should you want to read it. And of course I had supper ready for Captain B when he returned from a wet day in The Field.

However, although it was hardly a marathon, I felt really ill by the end of the day - and have developed an interesting new pain under my right shoulder which means I can't reach up for anything at the moment. I was only able to be just in time for the Zoom meeting on Sunday, even though Col was at home to help me, that is how creaky I was!  And then we watched Bargain Hunt with our lunch.  Both teams made money, and both got golden gavels, so a happy outcome.  And I spent the afternoon making a cauliflower cheese for supper. It was OK, but not as good as Nute's.

By Monday morning, my right knee was painful and swollen... and as for the News - the levels of corruption being revealed as more and more of the horrors from the Epstein files come to light - horrible. He was, it seems, an equal opportunity corrupter, both wings of the political system being involved - willingly so, as far as I can tell. 

I was busy in a Zoom session this morning when the phone rang.  It was Pen. "Hi Pen" I said surprised. "Have you forgotten we are having our Zoom meeting early today?" she asked.

I had.

So I hastily came out of Zoom Session One and joined my Sibling Zoom Session.  John had forgotten too and turned up at 11:00 as usual. So we did get 15 minutes with him.  It was quite handy in a way, as I had not managed to make anything for lunch - a bad Sunday and a bad night - pain - but that gave me time to get a sort of veg curry soup/stew up and running.  It is simmering now, as I finish this blog.  So, on that (un)astounding bit of News, I won't say: Hold the Presses! - but will finish this and post.

The February Calendar

 

This is the February picture from our 2026 orchid calendar. It is a Broad-leaved Helleborine.  It is another exquisite miracle of artistry and engineering, the work of the Grand Creator, Jehovah, the God of Abraham.   The photo is of course by Col, and he has chosen wild orchids - ones he has photographed here in the UK.

I didn't realise how many we had until he started photographing them.

My dentist fixed the little gizmo that fell off my tooth but warned me that if it does not last very long - the first one lasted four years - then he will have to do something more drastic next time, involving more drilling and all the rest of it.  When I said gloomily that it might be me that did not last the next four years he was quite upset.  Not sure if it was because I am such a lovely patient, or such a lucrative one...

We called round to see the Lady of the Flowers on Wednesday morning. She has been asking me to come round for a chat and that was about the first chance what with all the medical stuff. She seemed a lot more cheerful than when she rang me last week, so that is something.  She has rung me to say how much she enjoyed the visit and hopes I will come again.  Which I hope I will.

But how I wish that she would stop just for a moment and really listen to what her Creator is telling her, and how he can and will help her if she does.  

I zoomed with a friend on Thursday morning, and again this afternoon.  We encouraged each other in the important work we all have to do.

It is hard to know what to say about the News.  The whole Jeffrey Epstein thing ought at least to help to wake people up to just how corrupt and rotted the whole system of things is.  But the rescue promised in Eden is so close now, so there is no need to despair.

It is raining again this morning, after a day of rain yesterday.  So far February is living up to the name the Romans gave it.  Having said that the sun came out after lunch, but seems to have taken itself off again.

Mind you, I like gloomy weather - rains and storms and fogs and snow and all - but most people seem to want blazing sunshine every day, as we had in Saudi Arabia.  And while the desert certainly has its beauty, I missed the green, and the blue skies and the scudding clouds and the misty mornings.  

I suppose the nearest we had to misty mornings there was when there was a sandstorm blowing and you would see a great wall of sand heading for our little expat town.

Another February

 

FEBRUARY 1986, SHEFFIELD

              by me

Go back, you foolish little bulb

Winter has not gone

Do not be fooled by this warm February sun

Put those twigs back, reckless little bird

March is still to come

Its killing frosts will drop you

One by one.

As you can see I wrote this poem in February 1986, in Sheffield. So long ago. Whether it will be this kind of February this year remains to be seen. But for sure it has been much warmer than it should have been.

If we had a garden, I would have crocus (crocuses? croci?) - which out of all the dazzling spring flowers, are my favourite. So I will look out for a crocus pic in The Captain's photo gallery.

Well, we have made it through to another February - just - in that I am starting this blog on the 1st day of the month. Our calendar now gives us the Broad-leaved Helleborine orchid, which I must hang a blog on during the month.

Not a great start to the month as not only do I have a scan on Monday, but, to add icing to the dismal cake, I have just lost a crown from my tooth and will have to book a dental visit. I have to keep reminding myself that I am very fortunate still to be here, still enjoying life, still learning (thanks to the wonderful teaching from Jehovah's organisation), and above all to have the hope of living on this beautiful planet for ever, in perfect health.

But I am on borrowed time now, my threescore years and ten having long gone.

The scan was done yesterday. Very quickly, as we got there early - thanks to my Chauffeur Captain Butterfly who hustled me along. I won't get the results for a week or two. My dental visit is booked for this morning. Aaarrgghh...

Stormy Weather - physically and metaphorically

We are having very stormy weather, with wonderful seas.  We love living with the sound of the sea.  I like the winter anyway and the stormy seas do add to the drama of it.

Apparently the Romans, in the days they were occupying Britain, called February the month of fill-dyke, as there was so much rain. Well, this year, January has filled our dykes so much I don't know if there can be much more water up there.  

The metaphorical storm was that I was suddenly removed from Facebook, then just as suddenly returned, after an appeal. But I have been wondering for some time if I should be on the venue.  It seems to be getting meaner, and also am I wasting too much time on it.

On that basis though - well, the time-wasting one - I probably ought to be banned from Youtube.

The internet and now AI are ushering in a strange new world - the full effects of which are unquantifiable.  Has any generation seen more change than our generation - apart, that is, from Noah and his family? When they came out of the Ark, the earth they last saw when Jehovah closed the door of the Ark would have been changed beyond belief. Just the weight of all the water coming down must have changed the landscape immeasurably.  And, interestingly, Jesus himself likened the days we are living in now to "the days of Noah".  We are very close to our rescue, and this time it will be a lasting deliverance.

Medical things resume next week, as I have my scan.  It seems likely it will be followed by an operation - and I just don't know if I can face, or survive, the horrors of the wards again.  This is the stormy weather of old age.

And re the News - well, it does not get any better.  The horrors increase.  And the continuing revelations about the Epstein scandals are telling us just how corrupt the whole system of things is.  But please do not despair.  Jehovah has assured us that he will be making all things new. 

There will be a new and perfect government over the earth - the heavenly one, the Kingdom of God - and think of having a new body, a perfect one. Then we can learn to perfectly reflect our loving, wise Creator in all our ways.

And, at the end of the Thousand Years when all here on the earth is paradise, what wonderful new things might there be?  The thing is to listen to Jehovah now, and be there to find out!

Jane and Prudence - and prudence

 

"She went up to the chestnut tree and leaned her head against its trunk. Perhaps she could hear the sap rising and the flowers preparing to burst out of the buds. Not one of all those ravenous hours, but thee devours?  Well, yes, that was true still, but it mattered less on a spring morning."

A quote from "Jane and Prudence", which quotes one of the metaphysical poets, John Cleveland.

I have been re-reading Barbara Pym's "Jane and Prudence". And it is so funny - seems to get funnier on every reading, as the author applies her experience in the field of archeology to examining with a beady (but not unkind) eye, the various tribes around her - the High Churchers, the Low Churchers, the Chapel attendees, etc. And the Class/Castes system is well observed too - once again sharply, but not unkindly. 

But she is as conscious of our mortality, of the shortness of our lives, as Philip Larkin is - hence the quote from John Cleveland, about the ravenous hours.

The main event of my week so far is that I was suddenly removed from facebook, and after an appeal, suddenly reinstated!  I have no idea why. But what was lovely is that a long time facebook friend managed to find me via this blog and so we were still able to be in communication.

Facebook - that somewhat faceless entity - seemed to want me to prove that I am who I say I am. Which is odd, as I am transparent in cyberspace. I post under my own name, I blog our retirement, and my books have their own Amazon pages. And I write under my own name.  Anyway, clearly they were reasonable enough to accept that once I did appeal. And I thank them for it.

It seems likely that someone complained about me.  I do witness online when I can and I had just posted replies to two posts, one of which I maybe should not have.  But it is very difficult when you see someone refusing to accept what the Bible says, when they clearly do not know what it says - and might welcome it if they did.  

Anyway, I must try to be more prudent.  But it is not easy.  Once you know what the Bible actually says, you so much want everyone to know it too.

Storm Chandra is raging and has caused a lot of flooding.

The pic above is a photo of a chestnut flower from Col's photo gallery.

Visitors

 

VISITORS AT ENDCLIFFE VALE

by me

“We cannot read, we cannot write

Here is my daughter, one of twelve

We are the world’s lost wandering tribe

And camp outside of Chesterfield.”

She sold me a handmade tablecloth

She told me lots of flattering things

And quite a lot of truth

You’re under threat you wandering tribe

From Social Workers, Council Plans, and Gypsy Sites

But miraculously you both sit there

True Romany

You cannot read, you cannot write.

I wrote this poem so many years ago - during the time when my parents were enjoying their own retirement. About once a year this small Romany lady with her watchful little daughter would come to the bungalow. My mother always asked them in and offered them tea and biscuits, but they would never come inside, as the mother said that they were always suspected of stealing - stereotyped as thieves.

And sadly she does have a point. I once, also many years ago, worked on a building site where a Romany lad was employed for a while. He was sacked, accused of pilfering. Yet the pilfering continued after he left, and, I suspect, had been going on well before he arrived.

So, respecting their fears, we always had our tea together outside in my parents' garden - had a good chat - and we always bought something. (Though NOT "lucky" white heather. Jehovah asks us to avoid all such things.)

I don't know if the expression "gypsy sites" is used now, but it was back when I wrote the poem. But I note I have not mentioned it in a positive way anyway. It seemed somehow a contradiction in terms. And hopefully Social Workers are more empathetic now than they were back then.

Yet people do need to be able to read and write. It is so important. After all, our Creator, Jehovah, left his word, his guide, for us in written form. So I wish there could be a way to help all children become literate without taking them away from their parents, or forcing them into a school system where they will be bullied.

The photo I have chosen for this blog is from Col's photo gallery, as usual, and is of a Ken Reah painting of Endcliffe Park. The artist was obsessed by the park for a while, its light and shade, and all its seasons. Before he died, he was making installation art for the garden. He had already sold one piece, and one of his creations still stands in the bungalow garden.

I finally have my scan arranged - in February. Not bad, so thank you NHS.

We saw Jacks on Friday morning and talked about old times - this time about Col's first meeting with her in Spain, when she and Bruce took him to see the gorge at Ronda. And I saw the nurse at the surgery for results of the tests - not perfect, but not bad, keep on with what I am doing basically - then we saw the audiologist via a bit of shopping in Rustingon.

The minimal amount of walking required took me to my limits - very painful and difficult. I try not to think about how much I loved walking, but look ahead to the moment when - if I am there! - I will be able to walk and run about once again, one of the many wonderful things that will happen when God's Kingdom is ruling over the earth:

At that time the eyes of the blind will be opened,

And the ears of the deaf will be unstopped.

At that time the lame will leap like the deer,

And the tongue of the speechless will shout for joy.

For waters will burst forth in the wilderness,

And streams in the desert plain.

- Isaiah 35:5,6

On Bandos Island

ON BANDOS ISLAND

by me


Palms iced with frangipan
Hide coral strand
Coconuts carelessly
Crash onto sand
Hermit crabs shop for shell
By mangrove root
At night giant bats glide out
Hunting for fruit.

I was thinking about our many trips to the Maldives, usually to Bandos Island with the Aramco Shoal - who were great holiday companions.  And it is there, holiday after holiday, that I wrote my first book, sitting under a palm tree, sipping whatever tropical fruit juice the bar was currently selling. So I guess this has turned into a: Please Buy My Book blogpost.

I am re-reading Barbara Pym's "Less than Angels", and enjoying it so much, on a third reading. So now I am going to have to add it to my list of her best books ever. She has such fun with the whole anthropology thing.

We woke up to another stormy morning - wind and rain, and wonderful waves on the Channel. I pixellated myself to the Field Service meeting, but haven't done any witnessing yet, as I spent my morning making (yet another) apple crumble, and a mushroom curry to have tonight.

The Captain and I have a medical end to our week coming up - a scan for Himself tomorrow and two medical appointments for me Friday afternoon - doctor's surgery then Boots for a fitting of my new ears.

Sorry - what's that you say? Please wait till Friday to tell me.

On the doubleplusgood side though we plan to visit Jacks in the morning and we seem to cheer each other up remembering all the good times we had. We agreed last week that it is a good thing we did our travelling while we could. Like us, Jacks (plus husband and kids) lived abroad for many years.

A facebook friend, Marcin in Oz, was posting about Victor Hugo today, which took me back to my faraway convent schooldays, when I was doing French for "O" level. One line of a Hugo poem has stayed with me down all the decades, such is the power of language.

The line is "La laine des moutons sinistres de la mer".

I put that line into Google and found the poem. So, to put it into context and translation, this is how the poem ends:

I can still hear, far off in the working-class plain,

The gentle goatherd singing behind me,

And, there, before me, the pensive old guardian

Of the foam, the swell, the seaweed, the reef,

And the ceaseless, endlessly churning waves,

The shepherd on the promontory with his cloud-hat,

Leans his elbows and dreams to the sound of all infinities,

And, in the rising of the blessed clouds,

Watches the triumphant moon rise,

While the shadow trembles, and the harsh gust

Scatters to all the winds with its bitter breath

The wool of the sea's sinister sheep.

The poem, a romantic one is called "Shepherds and Flocks".

The wool of the sinister sheep of the sea will be blowing all over the road today in foam flowers as the gale roars and the sea surges just outside our windows.