Affirmation

I know it can be a real pain in the posterior to listen to someone else’s music choice. Time. Always time.

Today I took time, had time, enjoyed time, rediscovered time , passed time, had a lovely time.

Doing?

Hanging out in the garden with my kids. Twenty-two year old and I connecting. Doing shoulder stands on the grass with my eight year old. I was better at it. Just sayin’.  Thirteen year old ‘posing like a haddie’, being a thirteen year old with charm and exuberance. The rest of my crew were elsewhere.

We nibbled, sipped, giggled, talked about everything under the sun.

Mostly, it’s down to sunshine. It’s here! 24° ‘s worth. All bloody day. Right up until it started to cool but was still pleasant enough to sit out and enjoy. And when over? Well, the mood was already established. Move into the kitchen. Big kitchen. Sip, chat, music. Dance. Yoga moves. Hands down, I can do more than my kids. Any idea how life-affirming that can be to a 54 year old? Exactly!

I had to chase them from the kitchen to bed. I asked, ‘What song would you say captures this evening?’

Mary-Kate’s answer surprised me. All the moreso because I’ve been meaning to post this song for a few weeks.

It takes me back to a holiday when my eldest (one of the absent) introduced me to this duo. Maybe about ten/twelve years ago. Thereabouts. 

The duo didn’t hang about long. Difference of artistic direction, apparently.

I could yak on about the ins and outs of this evening but I won’t. Instead you might want to replace the details with details of your own. Those times when somehow – without apparent effort – everything about family just comes together.

The dou are Savage Garden.

The song ‘Affirmation’.

The words – probably the nearest thing I have to saying what I -and maybe many of us – feel about so many things.

And it’s pretty good for dancing to. Bendy yoga moves optional. But most enjoyable.

Today love and life and family is affirmed.

May you find affirmation in the words. And in your family. In your life.

If you have the time it’s worth a listen. The song is catchy. The lyrics – on screen – would be well worth adhering to as a credo.

 

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Underground Energy

Hi Scottishmomus Readers,

 

Jjjj-1   My name is Lisa. I run a blog land called Underground Energy and I am the next  guest to post in the land of Anne-Marie. In my land, we discuss life in general and  in depth, sideways and from the bird’s eye view; even upside down. I’m married  to Johnny Ojanpera, so many times our blogs overlap. Sometimes, it’s even funny,  as we each run a “secret” tabloid on the other.

 

Anyway, I was in deep thought today and my mind did some pond wandering to  wolf packs, which got me to thinking about the people I hang out with, or my  wolf pack. Because in my land we are all wolves. You see, my wolf pack is a pack  of lone wolves. Yes, you heard me correctly. We are indeed a pack of lone wolves.  For some reason or other, each of us has had to take a path that has been pretty  isolated.

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So, when the Hopi elder gave the advice that everyone should have a pack, we did the only thing lone wolves could do. We started a pack of lone wolves. We had some issues to work out. Negotiations that we had to naturally come to terms with over such a suggestion of being part of a pack. It was rather absurd at first. We actually enjoy being in silence, alone, together. Yes, alone together, that is the simplest way to describe it.

 

I think the hardest part of being in our wolf pack is setting a pace that is good for everyone, but eventually we come to terms and then we are a well oiled machine.Screenshot_2014-04-01-09-17-00-1

 

Oh, we also write fiction, poetry, novels,op-eds, the occasionally conspiracy theory, bitch about the world’s problems, mental problems, pretend to portal to other worlds, draw, paint, write music, sing, dance, laugh, take photographs with the occasional photo war, raise children and have animals as friends. Oh!, and we have a weekly music theme.

 

Disclaimer: Sometimes the trees are upside down in our world. Writers, I swear, always coming up with shit that isn’t there. 😉

 

Thank you,

Lisa Ojanpera

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“Coming together is a beginning;
keeping together is progress;
working together is success.”

Thank you,

Purplerays

You can also find us on Love Songs and Mood Swings

Imagine A Hug

Imagine, if you will, for a moment,

Soft feathers alight on your heart,

Like a balm to skin when it’s broken,

Soothing, by touch, to impart.

 

Imagine their strokes, almost fleeting,

Whispers of breeze blown within,

Tendering comfort and easing

Scalded and blistered of skin.

 

Imagine a cloak made of feathers,

Down of the fluffiest fleece,

Enfolding and holding together,

Protecting and giving you peace.

 

Imagine a hug made from heaven,

Lined by all angel wings,

Inviting, with arms always open,

Embracing relief that it brings.

I’ll be on the ferry by now, off to Ireland for a week or so for a family holiday. I’ve been rushing around like a maddy getting bits and pieces organised so my reading has been scant at best. This is the only post I have scheduled and I’m going to have a break away from all things techy – well apart from my kindle and maybe my phone! Hugs to all you lovely people and see you on my return, God willing.x

Matins’ Bell

‘I’m tired now’, he said, by light of darkness,

mumbled into night his waking thoughts,

a plaintive sort of fatigued exaltation,

no defeat but crushed by earthly knocks.

A glimmer in the darkness listened keenly,

spluttered into life to ease his pain,

descended on his forehead as he struggled

pasting joys in desiccated pains.

In dreams he saw a dancer up above him,

then dancing on the parquet floor of hairless pate

and, in the gentle tapping of her footsteps,

he traversed back in time through all life’s gates.

To childhood days that merged with church’s bell ring

and infant hands so soft within his grasp,

sunshine holidays and harder times when

they’d pulled in belts and wondered if, perhaps,

the work and want, the endless, restless passage,

fraught with cares and doing all he could

were worth the love of all that gathered round him.

He sighed in sleep and smiled at all the good.

The dancer danced and then lay flat upon him,

impressed herself, as light, into his mind,

bestowed the recollected visions of his voyage

and whispered tunes he’d carried deep inside.

His breathing eased and slowed to mellow movements,

shallow sighs belied the deeper well,

exchange of life, the price became apparent,

sleep on in peace or ring aged matins bell.

Light maintained its presence in his mindset,

centred on his soul when he awoke,

he smiled at love that lay asleep beside him

and whispered thanks to angels when they spoke.

In The Cloisters

One of my nieces graduated yesterday from Glasgow University, a beautiful young woman now independent from the hallowed halls of a structure of sublime architecture. My camera phone does not do the cloisters justice but I hope my words may. There were tears of pride and happiness as the 100 or so new graduates from the Veterinary School took their Hippocratic Oath and tears of familial love as the sworn-in veterinarians applauded their family and those who had guided their path for their five years of study. It was very moving. I slept for 10 hours straight when I came home!

 

The cloisters

 

Under shelter’d walkway ’round the courtyard of my soul,

In custom-built protection I may stroll

Some time or two, meandering in seclusion,

In contemplating fragments of the whole.

 

Colonnades supporting covered arches, portico to all that lies beyond,

Finger’d thoughts meander deftly, softly, touching swaying ferns and synapse’d fronds,

Face uplifted to the filter’d breezes,

Spirit sails on sun-streaked golden pond.

 

Arcade where columns peak to vaulted vantage, background buzz of bees and dulcet drone,

Nestled hemisphere of hermit’s haven, causes sought beneath a hallow’d dome

Where intersections advocate for essence,

Intercede and plead my way back home.

 

In teardrops’ rain a moment of calm capture, the briefest sort of pleasant reverie,

Infused prayer, exhaled from central solstice, length of one, eternal brevity,

Whose hush of rapid rapture leaves me breathless,

Gasping for source-poured liquidity.

 

In quiet cloisters fit for pensive purpose, open galleries portray their ancient frames,

Past and present catch up to the future, in cathedral’s mind where echoes may be tamed,

Till tumult teems again ‘mid errant pedestrian,

But solace sought in silent space still reigns.

 

Rebecca’s graduation coincided with her dad’s – my brother –  34 years ago and the Independence Day celebrated by Americans everywhere. I hope your day of gratitude for liberation was as special as that of my niece’s. I hope your future shines from cloistered thought.

Sunday Up The Braes

It’s a year since I’ve been here. And Father’s Day has rolled around once more, taking me back to early memories and to one of my first posts.
My husband is like my dad in his love of nature and the memories he helps to create for our children, giving of himself and his time and love.
To all dads today I wish you a wonderful Father’s Day. What you do makes the difference in how we remember a father’s love.
I remember mine so clearly.

scottishmomus

Sunday comes.

We fetch our summer buckets; gaily coloured, red, blue, yellow and green. In a while, the plastic pails will hold Autumn’s fruits. Dad holds hands with one or other of us, alternating as each child takes a turn to race ahead. We skip along, stopping to check the hedgerows, trying to spot the nests that are hidden there. And, when we do, a proud cry goes up.

‘I’ve found one!’

We count the eggs but do not touch. We have been warned. None of us wants to be responsible for the mother bird’s non-return. Dad’s previous instructions are always bidden; his wisdom heeded, if not always completely understood.

We examine the markings on the eggs and note their colour. Dad identifies them. Sometimes we are proud to remember their names from earlier lessons. We scan the skies for the parents and wait quietly some way off to see…

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And so it goes….

The plans changed.

We adapted.

That’s life.

Six became four,

then five,

by technology.

Presence begat

seven.

Two absent by

choice,

circumstance.

Seven embraced nine,

then many.

Growing conversation

included the world,

its entirety,

its meaning,

purpose,

subterfuge,

conspiracies

and realities.

And realities of conspiracies.

 

Gallons of humour.

Tears

of laughter

and understanding.

Hugs and kisses of short farewells

and longer journeys.

Dismissives of maternal worry

enclosed in comprehensive travelogues.

Tickles of

tender teasing,

rude, graphic, enacted

diffusion.

Undiluted,

concentrated

love.

My family.

More growth.

And so it goes.

May Music, Day 22 – Keep It In The Family

Another of Twindaddy’s questions that’s got me somewhat flummoxed.

Everyone in this house sings. It’s difficult to ascertain just who they’re singing to sometimes. Or at. There are always guitars and songs on the go and not necessarily to anyone. Just music and voices coming from various rooms in the house. A real ongoing cacophony at times till everyone converges spontaneously and has a bit of a singsong. Not a regular thing. Just whenever it happens.

The last one who sang to me was my youngest, Anna. At seven, she’s unabashed at impromptu performances and sings wholeheartedly to anyone who’ll listen.

A couple of weeks ago she had a wee friend to stay overnight and the two appeared in my bedroom the following morning and asked if I would listen to their duet. Eyes still half-closed and propped up on multiple pillows while my first coffee of the day began to do its work, I couldn’t muster the words to tell them to get lost until I was fully awake.

By the time they were finished giving me their rendition of ‘Let It Go’, I was fully awake and applauding loudly. So they sang it again. And I’ve had it sung to me multiple times since. Sometimes even at my request. She’s quite charming in her sincerity and sweetness.

I was tempted to record her and post it but she’s not in and, if I did, there’s every chance that she would want to take over my blog. And that’s not happening. Much as I love her to pieces.

So instead I’m opting for a song that hubby and I sing and dance along with whenever it comes on. Twin brothers, Craig and Charlie Reid, otherwise known as The Proclaimers, have a distinctive sound in that they deliberately trained to retain their Scottish accent while singing. They’ve been going since 1983 but I’m not sure how well known they are around the globe.

This is one of my favourites of theirs. Maybe my crew should get their act together. ‘Life With You’.

May Music, Day 19 – What’s Yours Is Mine – And Vice Versa

It’s taken me some time, though it’s still not an established fact in entirety, that some things in our home do, in fact, belong only to me.

I’m now fairly certain of finding most of my stuff where I left it. Mostly. Some things, however, still get lifted and meddled with. My phone was a case in point. Up until I put a lock on it, I was never quite sure which new background pic would greet me on any given day. Ditto with my laptop. Having a lock on both now means that I no longer have pictures of someone’s big toe staring at me or a wean’s selfie with appended message, ‘Do you love me? Admit it, I’m your favourite child!’

There’s a lot to be said for communal living. Folk tampering with my toys is not one of them.

Except I have no one to blame but myself for this next part. On first taking possession of my I-pod a few years ago – a ‘free’ gift with a new phone – I had no clue how to work it. One of my daughters took me, and it, in hand and downloaded all of her songs from her media library onto the contraption and showed me how to press a few strategic buttons. She helped me add a bunch  of my own. She doesn’t live here any more. So I’m stuck with her tunes and mine living together in some disharmony.

This one’s ok as the first, alphabetically, on my playlist. But it’s not one I would have downloaded myself. But, as Twindaddy’s asking, for question 19 of the 25 days of music challenge, what comes first, this is what you get. What’s mine, or not, is yours.

Anyone know how to delete without erasing the entire thing? No? Me neither.

A19 – Maximo Park

Ball Out Of Play

There’s a game that people play but I don’t get it;

it’s called take offence when none intent is there.

I’ve seen it all, enacted in my family,

with exes; dearest siblings pulling at their hair.

It’s a power sort of game that leaves a flavour;

a bitterness that tastes of dank decay,

when wealth of hate showers forth in spittle

but not for any words they had to say.

It’s for being who you are but they don’t like it;

like you’re happy and they can’t believe that’s real,

so the vitriol or silence seek to thwart it,

expunge the love, let crusty scabs not heal.

It’s a game I see in work and with companions,

as if life is just too easy so let’s fight;

a soap opera to my reality, really,

I don’t get it! How can this attitude resemble right?

Naivete has always been my virtue

and my vice as well, if truth be told at last;

I never comprehend that I’ve offended

for it’s the last thing that I’d seek, so always ask.

I’ll move my knight to your rook and I’ll ponder

the route to trap and check the king, no vice,

I’ll throw the dice and play the cards and wonder

if betting on the game is worth the hellish price.

I’ll move my dog and hope that I collect some

prize or fund for playing my game fair,

but changing rules, anarchic games that some love,

are way beyond the bet I’d ever dare.

There are bastards in this world, please don’t doubt it,

I know god loves them just as much as me,

but I decline to play the games they’re playing

and leave, I hope, with vestigial dignity.

I’ll watch from sidelines when my friends are challenged,

I’ll bite my tongue and pray for some control

but never when I see a bully smirking;

I’ll jump right in and save that goddamn goal.

The penalty of those who play this game; you know,

the one, where winners there are none, or broken souls,

is loneliness forever, never reaching,

destitute in spirit; fragmented whole.