One thing leads to another

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that a friend had lent me Staring at the sun: overcoming the dread of death by Irvin D Yalom. Well, one of the many references in it that caught my eye was to the story 'The Death of Ivan Ilyich' by Leo Tolstoy. Naturally I had to seek it out and buy it. I was expecting much angst and Russian hand-wringing, and yes, it's about a dying man struggling to come to terms with what's happening to him; but it's actually quite an easy read and there are some lovely observations in it about the human condition (no surprise there, methinks).

Elsewhere, I have booked some tickets for a forthcoming festival in Corby and the first event I'm going to next Friday is a performance of 'The Man Who Planted Trees,' by theatre company Impronto Teatro, which the programme promises will be 'bold and beautiful puppetry, physical theatre and vibrant storytelling'. The piece is an adaptation of the story of the same name by Jean Giono of a secluded shepherd who plants a forest, one acorn at a time. Intriguing - especially since we are warned to 'wear stout footwear' if we are going to join the audience! Naturally, I've bought a copy of the book, in an edition that is adorned with beautiful woodcut illustrations.

I've recently finished reading Fragile Things, a Neil Gaiman short story collection that my son Sam lent to me. The final tale, 'The Monarch of the Glen', is a novella based on the character Shadow, who first appears in the novel American Gods. Yes, you've guessed it: I'm now reading American Gods - in which there are several references to Herodotus' The Histories. 

Do I need to say what I've just added to my 'must read' list?

Timeshifting

A summer afternoon in Northamptonshire

I'm taking Wednesday off to go to Staffordshire to visit friends and family, so I shall treat that as my Bank Holiday and I'm working today. Writing a blog post counts as work, right?

Over the weekend, we braved the weather and went to the nearby village of Woodford for its regular late-August music festival, called WoodfordStock. Over two days, lots of local musicians gather in the pub garden to make merry and raise funds for Cransley Hospice. It rained, of course, it always does; but the crowds turned up as usual because (a) we all love Carol, who organises everything; (b) we all know someone who has benefited from the superb palliative care the hospice provides; and (c) we love the beer, burgers, cake and sideshows that go alongside the music.

So we stood there and tried to ignore the capillary action of trouser leg on wet grass and the trickle of water making its way inexorably down the back of the neck. This year, proceedings were almost brought to a halt by the most extraordinary sky - my picture doesn't really do it justice - with rolling cloud formations that looked more like a seascape. No one would have been surprised if a giant hand had reached down and lifted us up.

We didn't stay to the end. We had to go home to dry off, before heading out to see son Joe and his band playing in town - mercifully indoors - as part of another festival, called Ctr Alt-Fest Delete. As usual, Ivory Yardsale played a blinder and a good time was had by all. You can't beat loud music is a sweaty pub.

As at Woodford, there was a 'What the...?' moment, with the appearance of a dapper man wearing a white coat and carrying a basket of seafood for sale. Suddenly we were back in the 1960s. Even under normal circumstances there is nothing on this earth that could induce to me to eat a prawn; but an ambient cockle? That's really going too far.

Weekend roundup

Sunny Staithes already seems a long time ago

I've only been back at work for a week and it's as though I've never been away. All my freelance work was sitting there waiting for me - which will be nice when payday comes around, but was something of a shock to the system. Even so, I still managed a couple of coffee/lunch dates, so it's not all been nose to the grindstone and shoulder to the wheel.

I also dropped into the Weaving Words writers' group. I can't often make this, because they meet on Wednesdays when I'm usually teaching yoga. It was nice to see Kezzabelle and the gang. We sat in her garden until it went dark, wrapped up in blankets and illuminated by candles and lanterns: all very bo-ho!  We began with a prompt -  'camping', 'strong women' and 'encouraging words' - and it always amazes me how varied the results are when we come to read them out.

Also on the writing front, I made it to the shortlist of the Words With Jam First Page Competition, but didn't win.  Oh well, back to the drawing board. Congratulations to the winner, Annnie Walmsley, and there were a few names I recognised on the shortlist, too, so well done us!

This writing lark is clearly in my blood. My mum has recovered from her recent malaise and has a little something in the local paper's letters page. She has also heard from the Daily Telegraph that one of her contributions to its letters page will be used in its next book. Honestly, there's not stopping her!

Staring at the sun

I've had a lovely couple of weeks off, mooching and walking and eating and sleeping and, of course, reading. I sat and read Stephen King's On Writing in a whole day, which was bliss. Another of the books I've seen off was lent to me by one of my yoga students. We have parents of a certain age and were musing about life, the universe and everything - and death. The book is Staring at the sun: overcoming the dread of death by Irvin D Yalom. No, don't click away! It's one of the most optimistic books I've read for ages. So anyway, in amongst the  philosophising and coping strategies, there were a couple of snippets that I thought might be of interest to my writing friends: 

'Montaigne suggested that a writing studio have a good view of a cemetery in order to sharpen one’s thinking.' I once had some crystal therapy (don't judge me) in a room that overlooked a churchyard. The lady giving the treatment loved the view. Make of that what you will.

‘Indeed, the desire to be of value to others is largely what keeps me pecking away at my keyboard long past the standard time for retirement.’  Pecking away: isn't that a lovely image?

‘The act of writing itself feels like a renewal. I love the act of creation from the first glimmering of an idea to the final manuscript. I find the sheer mechanics to be a source of pleasure. I love the carpentry of the writing process: finding the perfect word, sanding and burnishing rough sentences, tinkering with the tick-tocks of phrase and sentence cadence.’  Stephen King says something similar. Again, a lovely image, don't you think? 

The other thing that struck me as an editor is that Yalom twice refers to the subtitle of his book as 'overcoming the terror of death', a word he deliberately chose in favour of anxiety. I wonder if his publisher changed it to dread without asking him. 

Celebrating the simple things

On Monday evening, I went to a session on mindfulness led by the lovely Sarah Fereday from rainbowbutterflywings.com. One of the many simple ways she suggested bringing ourselves into the moment was literally to stop and smell the flowers. She gave the example of some beautiful yellow roses she had passed on her way to work that brightened her journey (and took her mind off an impending dull meeting).

With that in mind, today's Celebrate the Small Things is focused on the lovely flowers in my garden.

At the moment I have a supply of self-set sweetpeas that come back year after year. I don't get many blooms off them, but hey: they're free! We also have some glorious dahlias, bought on a whim from Wilkinsons. We didn't know what colours they were going to be, so I'm delighted that one of them is a vibrant purple/pink: my favourite.

And in an uncharacteristically creative moment, I've potted up a fuchsia and a trailing something in an old teacup!

I'm taking a couple of weeks off from tomorrow. Well, not a complete break, because I'm self-employed and therefore permanently anxious. However, my online presence might be reduced.

Have a lovely weekend folks, and I'll be back soon.

Making the most of a lit fest

Everyone has their own plan of attack when they go to a literary festival (or any other festival, for that matter). This is what works for me.

1. Go by yourself. No, really, this is by far the best way, because you don't have to consider anyone else's feelings. There's none of that Are you ready for coffee? or What do you think about trying the politics tent? If you want to talk to someone, there'll be plenty of folk to engage with.
2. Sign up for advance notice of who's speaking, because the best and most famous speakers (not necessarily the same thing) will be booked up quickly and often on the day the tickets are released.
3. If you're planning to queue up for a signed copy, buy your book before the talk so you can be near the head of the line.
4. Go with an open mind and buy a ticket for at least one speaker you've never heard of, or at least whose books you've never ready.
5. Check your timings! There is usually a reasonable changeover between speakers, but make sure  you haven't left yourself five minutes to get to the other side of town. Chances are that latecomers won't be admitted.
6. Leave at least one session free so that you can book it on the day. Yes, this means you will probably end up in a sparsely populated tent listening to someone talk about something obscure, but this may well turn out to be your lightbulb moment.
7. As well your notebook and several pens, take a bottle of water and a few (discreet) snacks. It will save you wasting valuable time queuing for an overpriced wrap.
8. Explore the grounds/town. There are often pop-up sessions going on in odd corners of the venue. I've come across a lovely poetry readings, street performers, string quartets: all sorts of things and all for free. Don't forget to throw some money in the hat.
9. Just sit. Watch the world go buy. Assimilate what you've heard and seen. Make a few notes.
10. Become a volunteer at the festival. You will be exhilarated, stimulated and exhausted in equal measure, but boy: you'll have a great time.

Have I missed anything?

Something to celebrate (up to a point)

It seems that the harvest has begun in earnest. This is obviously a cause for celebration, but it is also a signal to roll up my sleeves and pretend I'm a housewife. Back in early spring, I was allowed to help put the netting over our fruit bushes. We've had too many seasons when they've gone from 'nearly ready' to 'ravaged by the birds' overnight. I don't know, then, why I was surprised when Himself fetched up in the kitchen on  Sunday afternoon with pounds and pounds of blackcurrants and redcurrants. 

'Lovely,' I said. 'I was wondering what to do this week.'

Since life is too short to take off all the nibbly little stalks to make proper jam, I've opted for jelly, which took care of about 6lb of fruit. That's plenty, given that while clearing a space for the jars I discovered some of last year's preserves that we still haven't eaten. 

We've eaten some of the new crop just as they were, cooked down and stirred into Greek yoghurt (and, yes, served with ice-cream, too). The rest are now bubbling away enthusiastically in demijohns on their way to becoming wine. They are in the corner of my 'office', making a reassuring bloop-bloop-bloop.

Cherry tomatoes are on their way

We've started digging up potatoes, as well, and onions and garlic are hanging in the shed to dry. Any minute now we shall be gathering courgettes and beans, and the tomatoes won't be far behind. Lovely stuff!

Have a great weekend, folks. 
 
Celebrate the Small Things  is a blog hop. Visit Lexa's Blog for the rules, and then post every Friday about something you're grateful  for that week. Originated by VikLit) and co-hosted by L.G. Keltner @ Writing Off The Edge and Tonja Drecker @ Kidbits Blog.