Today seems breathless. No stirring of the dried reeds, or whisper of breeze through my hair. The harbour is empty, boats lying desolate, waiting for water. Air lies heavily on the beach, pinned down by the thick layer of cloud. The seaweed lingers after the tide. Safely tucked away between dry Irish moss and empty mermaids purse lurks a periwinkle, seeking refreshment. I find myself hoping for the rain, full of expectation.
A bitter north wind blows around the house. Banging at windows and doors as though to seek entry. The fire in the hearth fights back defiantly, spitting up the chimney. I sit barricaded against the cold, quilt thrown over me. Hands occupied with stitching, the picture slowly forms.
A sunflower for a friend, cheery colours in the winter dusk. My mind wanders back to the summer. Sunflowers nodding their heads in the garden. Planted as part of Good Friday meditations, they took until late August to come into bloom. A period of waiting, of expectation. Of watering, care, nurture. Finally the buds were seen. They slowly opened out, blossoming in the heat. Following the sun with their faces.
Hands occupied with stitching, the picture slowly forms. Seeds planted. I wait for the coming of spring, for the blossoming. For the harvest.
‘For I know the plans I have for you’, declares the Lord, ‘Plans to prosper you, and not to harm you, plans to give you hope, and a future.’ Jeremiah 29:11
The rain makes mirrors of the pavements, reflecting the light. The sun prepares to descend in this winter world, readying himself for the new dawn. A double rainbow curves overhead, full of rich promises. Christmas Eve waits in hushed anticipation, sparkling into the night.
Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel. Isaiah 7:14
Merry Christmas! Nadolig Llawen! God Jul! Buon Natale! Frohliche Weihnacthen! Prettige Kerstmis! Crăciun fericit! I’m sure you get the message. Have a wonderful and blessed time.
A country walk today. The morning’s downpour has left the grass sodden. The water flows in a miniature stream, small waterfalls forming as it tumbles over rocks. Mud squelches under my boots, releasing them reluctantly to take the next step. A solitary leaf lies in the middle of the track, blown from some secret place. Waiting for spring, for new birth, it rests, at peace.