Flat Stones and Fluffy Cats…

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Flat stones, or palm stones as they are more commonly known, have a satisfaction to them inherent in their shape and a comfort all their own, that can be immediately felt as soon as you pick one up.

Being flat, they are obviously a lot easier to transport in pockets. They are lovely to balance in each hand during meditation for convenience as well as reaping the benefit of the crystal’s own individual properties; likewise, they are ideal for using during a session of Reiki or crystal healing.

mdeMoss Agate… calming and empowering, connected to Mother Earth

Again, as they are polished and shaped, the crystal energy can be contained and directed. A little exercise I like to do in times of stress, not mindfulness exactly, more like giving yourself space to breathe and time to collect your thoughts…

19074484_137204760168065_305902843_oJade for wealth, wisdom and peace…

Hold your palm stone, and just have a quick look at it, to fix its visual appearance in your memory. Then just hold it in your closed hand and re-trace, in your mind, every aspect of its appearance, every little inclusion, every flaw, every irregularity and travel the landscape of your stone in your mind.

mdeFluorite is protective and calming and varied in colour…

Just really, as I said, a little exercise to give yourself a moment’s pause. I found out something lovely the other day – (I’m really sorry, but I can’t remember where it came from, so thank you unknown knowledge benefactor…) – that all these little chips and cracks in your crystals are called empathy flaws, and are said to mirror your own emotional journey.

These palm stones have a lovely, tactile comfort to them as well… just like cat fur… My four girls all have different textures of fur, none of them really have the long coat that I would call fluffy. Their fur is still wonderful all the same! Much to my regret, I am allergic to rabbits, event though I had them as pets as a little girl…love fluffy bunnies…

Tooty has a very thick undercoat to her fur, with a sleek black overlay, and just the one spot of white…

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Ting has wonderful shades in her fur, ranging from from coffee through to mud, even though it is quite coarse to the touch on her back, her tummy fluff is quite soft – even her whiskers are bi-coloured!…

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Lily has fur like a little fire demon, soft black and glossy, yet when the sun catches it, shades of burnished gold and chocolate.

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And of course, Madame La Princesse. She has the softest, most delectable fur… if Keats were still alive, I’m quite sure he would write an ode entirely devoted to the quality of her covering… it’s soft, it’s silky and if I could bottle the way it smells, I’d make a fortune.

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Like the palm stones, there is a comfort and warmth in the very shape of a curled up fluffy cat; a continuity symbolised by the roundness of their shapes, flowing and infinite.

mdeMulti-layered Red and Golden Tiger’s Eye for courage, determination and protection

Wardrobe

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She hated that wardrobe. It stood, hulking and ugly, in their small bedroom, occupying nearly all the wall it lay against.

It was fatly encased in ugly faux-pine veneer and had a mirrored double front – he’d insisted on that – and he would often stand before it, with his shirt off, pulling what he considered handsome faces and sucking in his enormous gut.

She hated it. She remembered the day it had been delivered. He had summoned her to help construct it and in his wisdom, he never bothered to read something as basic as instructions, preferring instead to get her to read them out so he could then shout at her for her stupidity and slowness in not passing him what he wanted before he even knew himself.

He made her cry about it, so she hated the wardrobe with a passion, its smirking ugly veneer and harsh mirrored surface intruding on her sleep at night times. It loomed threateningly over her while she tried to sleep and made ominous creaking noises. The mirrors showed the smallest blemish and were often covered in strange smears that she had to polish away.

He loved to open the wardrobe’s sliding doors, like great jaws, and admire his collection of clothes, running his hands lovingly along the carefully ironed shirts on their padded hangers, relics of a youth when he was thinner.

Yer can ‘ave all these when I die,” he’d say to his son, caressing one particularly vile embroidered shirt that was still in its wrapper, twenty years after its original purchase.

His son nodded politely, a bemused expression on his face as his father started pulling out heaps of musty woollen jumpers, never worn, shirts that were so out of fashion they wouldn’t even qualify as vintage and trousers that were a record of the old man’s ballooning waist.

She watched, and burned, hating the way he ran his hands tenderly across the piles of decaying clothes, the jeans and expensive trousers, when he was so fat now he could only just manage to pull on tracksuit bottoms. With a curt order to her to put everything away, he left the room.

The wardrobe squatted malevolently in the corner. She hated it. The clothes inside were musty, the shoes decaying, the trousers dusty. There were sweaters in there older than their son, that had never seen the light of day, much less been worn. Her own humble collection had been pushed into drawers, shared a small space of her son’s wardrobe, while his wardrobe spread and dominated.

She yearned for something small and elegant, an antique, bow-fronted graceful piece of furniture, perhaps, with a kind mirror, one that complimented, rather than sneered, that co-existed pleasantly, rather than dominated.

Then one day he died.

After the funeral, she and her son came home, and there was a lightness in the house, a lessening. She turned to her son, and with a smile, she said:

Fetch me some large plastic bags and the screwdrivers…”

She kicked off her shoes and cast off her coat and set to: the musty jumpers, the faded shirts, the rotting trousers and frayed t-shirts were all ruthlessly pulled from their hiding places, the guts of the wardrobe stripped out, and stuffed into bags.

Carefully and skilfully, she dismantled the wardrobe, and her son helped her to carry the pieces downstairs and into the garden. It didn’t go easily – oh no, it put up a fight and she had several bruises and a broken fingernail to show for it, but she was determined.

The far wall of her bedroom – for it was hers now – stood naked and honest. She would need to re-decorate.

She returned downstairs to her son and together, they fetched the petrol from the shed. Carefully, they piled all the old clothes on top of the wardrobe pieces and baptised them with petrol. The son struck a match, and dropped it on to the pile, stepping back to put an arm around his mother’s shoulders.

Fat billows of greasy black smoke rose into the sky, chased by red-gold flame; and much badness and ill-feeling was cleansed away that night.

sdr

Umbrellas…

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I have a love/hate relationship with umbrellas. I adore the concept of something that can keep me dry and shelter me from rain, especially during the British summers; but I am engaged in the perpetual search for one that will withstand the blustering gales that usually accompany the rain.

Conversely, I resent having to spend a lot of money on something that will keep me dry, especially during the British summers… as wet and bedraggled is not a good look for me.

I tend to batch-buy umbrellas from the Pound Shop, when really I should just invest the money in one decent umbrella. My son was blessed by the Umbrella Fairy, as returning from his interview at Loughborough University. On the bus back to the train station, he found an umbrella. It was quite a special one, heavy duty, automatic opening and black, a suitably masculine colour. It appeared unaccompanied – indeed, rather lonely, sat, as it was, by itself in the seat nearest the window. So he did the only thing he felt he could do and re-homed the umbrella, with himself.

Sometimes, my son would let me share its shelter, watching as I struggled grimly with yet another Pound Shop umbrella that turned itself inside out and fought like a wildcat, ripping out chunks of my hair as I gave up and forced it into a rubbish bin. Once, I bought a particularly nice Pound Shop umbrella, in zebra print – I got outside, opened it up as it was raining, of course… then watched in disbelief as the waterproof covering ripped itself free of the stem and cartwheeled off merrily into the sky.

I was left with a bemused expression and a metal stick, which was, quite frankly, neither use nor ornament…

sdr

My son’s umbrella, however, gave noble shelter to all who asked, until one day, tragedy struck. He left it on the bus. He was very sad, as was I, but sometimes these things happen for a reason. The umbrella graced us with its presence for a short while, to show us the error of our ways, and then it left, in much the same manner it had arrived.

We never saw it again…

sdr

English Weather

WEATHERSky Mirror by Anish Kapoor – the reflection caught a lovely summer sun and sky

Waking up freezing
Coughing and sneezing
Preparing to meet
Another day of wet feet.

Whipped by the wind
And beaten by rain
Hailstones enough
To cause physical pain

And that’s just Spring…

Summer, true Summer
Benevolent and caring
Paddling pools and suncream
And ice cream sharing

The warmth collects
Like molten oil
In aching bones
While others boil

Not me…

I rejoice in the baking heat
Life is good!
Life is sweet!

Hell won’t be hot enough for me.

EPSON MFP imageAnd that was this month’s Poetry Pimple… Happy Friday everybody! 

Thank Yous and Thoughts

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We don’t say thank you enough, nowadays, I feel… for someone opening the door for you, for even just receiving your change at the shop… I need to say some thank yous… Marje of Kyrosmagica has nominated me for the Hidden Gem Blog of the Blogger’s Bash, a very kind thought. Please do go and have a look at her blog – you might find a familiar face there… Lily, doing some promotion work for Marje’s book, out this summer – [Here is the link if you would like to see what the Blogger’s Bash is about, as organised by Sacha Black…]

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Also… we need to give thanks in the sense of feeling gratitude for the gifts we have and the world we live in – it’s a beautiful place after all.

As always, I would like to thank anyone who has been kind enough to stop by for a read, a like or a subscribe. Your interest is much appreciated and comments always welcome. xx

THANKS

Charlie says: “Be nice!”

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💕 Cheerio! 💕