This has been a strange, subdued week; fitting, I suppose for the time when we ponder the events that took place in the Holy Land over two thousand years ago. Much of what happened then went unnoticed by 'the world'.
But now, in our time, something else is happening to claim our attention and our sympathy. These are the events in Tibet. The Dalai Lama has become such a revered figure of spirituality for so many people, and he is surely suffering greatly.
So it seems somewhat out of kilter that I'm packing my bag to fly off for a week's vacation. Still, I'll be glad of the break. As Good Friday turns to Easter Saturday and then Sunday, I'll think about how, for me, Easter is a festival of the morning. I'll get up in time to celebrate the dawn and take a little walk by the water.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Monday Monday
Monday of Holy Week, and St. Patrick's day to boot! I'm starting to feel the approach of Easter where even last week it felt impossible, especially because Easter this year will happen as early as it possibly can.
This morning I have to decided: will I wear the green? My maternal great grand-father hailed from Ireland, but I never really thought about this side of my Celtic heritage until I flew to Cork for a weekend. When I arrived I had time to spare before catching a bus to Dunvegan. Looking around the airport, I saw so many pamphlets about searching for Irish ancestors that it woke me up to the fact that many, many people visit Ireland on that kind of quest. As I sat on the bus next to a lovely and generous Irish colleen, ("Have one of these sweets, do.") I looked out on those green green fields with new eyes and something was opened for me.
Ah the soft, shimmering air! I almost expected to see a few leprechauns peeping out from behind one of those low, grey stone walls... the fascination of the sound of English spoken with liquid vowels that fell softly on my ears. It was quite an experience, and my only regret was that I didn't get to hear live music in a pub. Luckily that's something I can make up for tonight, right around the corner.
So yes, probably I'll don my jeans and dig out that green tee shirt that gives my skin a ghostly tinge. What I won't do is go on an Irish-type binge!
This morning I have to decided: will I wear the green? My maternal great grand-father hailed from Ireland, but I never really thought about this side of my Celtic heritage until I flew to Cork for a weekend. When I arrived I had time to spare before catching a bus to Dunvegan. Looking around the airport, I saw so many pamphlets about searching for Irish ancestors that it woke me up to the fact that many, many people visit Ireland on that kind of quest. As I sat on the bus next to a lovely and generous Irish colleen, ("Have one of these sweets, do.") I looked out on those green green fields with new eyes and something was opened for me.
Ah the soft, shimmering air! I almost expected to see a few leprechauns peeping out from behind one of those low, grey stone walls... the fascination of the sound of English spoken with liquid vowels that fell softly on my ears. It was quite an experience, and my only regret was that I didn't get to hear live music in a pub. Luckily that's something I can make up for tonight, right around the corner.
So yes, probably I'll don my jeans and dig out that green tee shirt that gives my skin a ghostly tinge. What I won't do is go on an Irish-type binge!
Monday, March 10, 2008
Not Jamaica, but...
I had a wonderful, retreat-like weekend away. That's why this post is late. Instead of beaches we had snow-drifts, ice-pellets and, last night, a grail moon and stars like I've never seen before in this part of the world. All quite breath-takingly beautiful, except for the ice pellets. People sometimes ask me if I miss Africa and I can reply truthfully, 'no'. What I miss is the southern sky, the sight of the southern cross, the bright swathe of the milky way.
Um, well, this post wasn't going to be about the heavens, but about soup. So here I go.
My culinary year is mostly divided into two seasons: soup season and salad season. We do do salads in winter too, but not so much, and seldom for lunch. So we have our soup repertoire and occasionally add to that. Last time wise daughter visited she told us about an interesting experiment and discovery that was made in Britain. The upshot of it is this.
If you eat a plateful of food you can go for x many hours without feeling hungry. But, if you eat that same food as a soup (a liquid) it'll take you a considerable amount of time longer before you feel hungry. Now, I find that fascinating, because you'd think it would be the other way around, seeing as soup is more easily digestible.
Fine for me. I'll eat my lunchtime bowl of soup knowing I can nap happily, confident that I won't be woken by pangs of hunger.
Um, well, this post wasn't going to be about the heavens, but about soup. So here I go.
My culinary year is mostly divided into two seasons: soup season and salad season. We do do salads in winter too, but not so much, and seldom for lunch. So we have our soup repertoire and occasionally add to that. Last time wise daughter visited she told us about an interesting experiment and discovery that was made in Britain. The upshot of it is this.
If you eat a plateful of food you can go for x many hours without feeling hungry. But, if you eat that same food as a soup (a liquid) it'll take you a considerable amount of time longer before you feel hungry. Now, I find that fascinating, because you'd think it would be the other way around, seeing as soup is more easily digestible.
Fine for me. I'll eat my lunchtime bowl of soup knowing I can nap happily, confident that I won't be woken by pangs of hunger.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
let's fly away
It's been a rough week, mostly because the little person wasn't keen on eating. On Friday evening when my dear husband asked, "What's our plan tonight?" I told him, "We're catching a plane to Jamaica."
Well, that might not be my fantasy destination if I thought about it for longer than two seconds. Interesting enough, I believe that women are inclined to make quite definite 'escape' plans in their imaginations. That's what I read in a British magazine, anyhow, and I quite like the idea of spending some thought on this. If I did, I'd be able to go to a different place in my mind for a little warmth and downtime. Ah well, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?? It seems so.
Magazines, especially upmarket British ones, are kind of my secret indulgence, although I only buy maybe three or four a year, and mostly when I'm traveling. But I've enjoyed those rags ever since my teenage days in London when my fellow boarders and I used to read Women's Own and the French version of Elle. Wow, how long ago that feels. A world away.
It's an interesting word, magazine. I'm sorry I don't have the etymology to hand. That's because I missed my chance to buy a second-hand Shorter Oxford English dictionary. Maybe I should look again.
The trouble today is that, with all those adverts, often a magazine's contents are closer to the French 'magazin' (i.e. shop, if you're not into the second official language). I'm okay with a few advertisements, but not so many that an issue ends up weighing as much as my carry on luggage. Hmm, I wonder what I should pack before taking off?
Well, that might not be my fantasy destination if I thought about it for longer than two seconds. Interesting enough, I believe that women are inclined to make quite definite 'escape' plans in their imaginations. That's what I read in a British magazine, anyhow, and I quite like the idea of spending some thought on this. If I did, I'd be able to go to a different place in my mind for a little warmth and downtime. Ah well, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?? It seems so.
Magazines, especially upmarket British ones, are kind of my secret indulgence, although I only buy maybe three or four a year, and mostly when I'm traveling. But I've enjoyed those rags ever since my teenage days in London when my fellow boarders and I used to read Women's Own and the French version of Elle. Wow, how long ago that feels. A world away.
It's an interesting word, magazine. I'm sorry I don't have the etymology to hand. That's because I missed my chance to buy a second-hand Shorter Oxford English dictionary. Maybe I should look again.
The trouble today is that, with all those adverts, often a magazine's contents are closer to the French 'magazin' (i.e. shop, if you're not into the second official language). I'm okay with a few advertisements, but not so many that an issue ends up weighing as much as my carry on luggage. Hmm, I wonder what I should pack before taking off?
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