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Autumn already?

Every year I let the ash leaves slip by. I love using them as decoration on plates as they are simply the perfect leaf. It has a graceful and slender form, balanced perfectly in a “leaf hand” of five with two opposite pairs of leaves and a single terminal leaf. The vein structure and stems imprint beautifully onto clay. But while they sway in green abundance on the slender branches all Summer I hardly notice them! Until Autumn arrives. As they flutter down in their thousands in silly yellow abandon I gather them frantically, knowing they will soon be gone and I will have to wait until Spring. I have one plate to show. ONE. Matilda #leaves #autumn #ashleaves #yellow #lostchances #lettingitslipby #pottery #imprintsonclay
Recent posts

Interflow

Photos by George Angus    Welsh poet John O'Donohue spoke of the earthern wisdom possessed by the animals we share this earth with.  “The animals are more ancient than us. They enjoy a seamless presence—a lyrical unity with the earth. Animals live outside in the wind, in the waters, in the mountains, and in the clay. The knowing of the earth is in them.”  When we become more sensitive and attuned to them, through presence, awareness, listening and looking, by deflating our self-importance, we enter into their state of knowing. O'Donohue referred to this state of shared awareness and being as “interflow” . What I do know is that we are mostly missing out through the lives we live. George  

Switch

    We are so self-centred. We bring every experience, all that happens, back to us,  me,  I. My creations, my world, my people, my job, my status. Somehow, in every conversation we end up at  Me.   We stroll in the vegetable patch, or in the veld, exclaiming: “Look, Chinese lanterns!”   Things can be so different if we look at the floating softness of Oriental lights, whispering under our breaths: “Look, gooseberries and flower-of-an-hour shaking their moorings!”   We live in a more-than-human world. George

The Sweet Life

  Our brother-in-law, William, loves the simple things in life – sunsets, a nice cup of coffee, hearty meals with family, a bowl of home made Barrowfield yoghurt, a good joke. Growing up in Douglas in the Northern Cape instilled in him this deep appreciation for the gentle beauty and value of ordinary things. For the largest part of his adult life – 31 years to be exact – he has worked as an electrical engineer at Sasol in Secunda. Not the ideal setting for someone touched by matters that feed the soul.  We weren’t surprised when he started beekeeping a number of years ago. It suits his character and acted as a very good counter-balance to his work at Sasol. He placed 2 hives behind the stone wall in our garden and it has been a wonderful journey for us too, learning through William more about these little miracle workers of nature. And we feel rich beyond belief when our bottles of “liquid gold”, tasting of Barrowfield, stand on the pantry shelf at the end of a good season. In the cou

Obvious

  It is said that Calvin Coolidge, or Silent Cal, the 30 th  US president, didn’t work himself to a stanstill.    Taking into account that he generally slept 11 hours a night, supplemented by daily naps and some  three-month extended vacations, the conclusion that he worked a maximum of 4 and a half hours a day doesn’t seem too far-fetched. And the times he was in the Oval Office, he often pulled out  the bottom drawer of his desk, put his feet into it and counted the cars passing by on Pennsylvania Avenue.   When he passed away in 1933, Gertrude Stein reportedly remarked: “Coolidge dead? How can you tell?”   In 2 Kings 6 we are told of another leader, King Jehoram of Israel. With his city under siege by the Syrian army and Samaria experiencing a terrible famine, he walks on the  city wall. While doing so, he hears the horrific story of two mothers who started eating their children in an effort to stay alive. On hearing that he tears his clothes in anguish and as he walks along, the pe

Traces Of Longing

  I often use the image of stringing beads when I start to write about things that announce themselves over time. I’ll hear a song or read a line or passage, see a movie, and an unexpected element of a theme that I didn’t choose in the first place will gently arrive and take its place among the other elements already waiting.   Lately it is the relationship, or romantic love, between two people. How we search for it, what we expect to find, how it plays out, the mystery in it all.   In Alexander McCall Smith’s book, The Full Cupboard of Life, the main character, private detective Mma  Precious Ramotswe comes to the conclusion:  “If you were  in the mood for falling in love, or marrying, then perhaps it did not matter very much whom you would see when you turned the corner. You were looking for somebody, and there was somebody, and you would convince yourself that this random person was what you were really looking for in the first place.”   A full amount of limbs and a breath seem to b

Confession

Photograph by George Angus We hear the beginning. And see the end. Only occasionally do we witness the middle where everything happens.   It starts with worn-out pick up lines, shaken by the dozen out of a box: “Hi gorgeous! How was heaven when you left it?” “Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?” “Aside from being sexy, what else do you do for a living?”   On and on, right under our window. Up to a point where we lean out and shout: “Please! Enough already!”   The end is messier. No, really. Like in dirty. Where you can only explain it as a mixup of vowels and bowels. Poetry in motion of sorts, I guess.   You are lucky if you catch him in the middle. Unaware, totally taken up by being smitten.  Leaning against the love of his life, his soulmate, his purpose for living. Whispering short affectionate phrases, staring into the eyes staring, nibbling on a beautiful forehead.   What puzzles us is how he knows there is love to be found in the bakkie mirror in the first place. Or