“You only lose what you cling to”

In French, you don’t say ‘I miss you'. You say ‘tu me manques,’ which could be taken as ‘you are missing from me.’ Missing from me, like a beating organ, or the flow of blood.

 A limb that was, now no longer. A hand to hold, a mouth to taste, so soon discarded, now replaced.

You filled your time with another so quickly.
Deaf and dumb with each new kiss, as if the dream of us did not exist.

He is no longer mine

It has been over a year since I have blogged, and it would not make sense to continue writing without acknowledging one of the major tremors that occurred toward the end of last year. The man I loved most parted ways with me. Going through all my photos over the year, and deciding what to write about had a heaviness attached to it. My memories all had him in each of the frames, and it feels like a heavy burden for me to carry them all on my own and not share them. Maybe it is like a wound that needs to be drained, sharing my sadness to lighten the load somehow. This was one of the last photos I unknowingly took of him and remains one which epitomises him best: a soft and tender soul, with a hint of sadness in his face I foolishly did not see at the time.

Mr Handsome turned and walked away, and I turned to medication. In hindsight a decision that I will never make again, and one which I would not recommend to anyone. At the point where I could no longer distinguish my own thoughts and sensations from one another, I stopped taking the medication and decided on taking a less numbing approach, another Vipassana meditation course (an experience I will share too). Thankfully going again solidified my practice, and if nothing else reminded me the inevitability of change and impermanence. And now as Valentine's Day approaches (the horror among horrors of days stuffed with notions of rampant consumerism) I recall this poem to what love honestly is, neither red roses nor blue violets:

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

Here. 

It will blind you with tears 

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife. 

And so I journey on my own from this point. Do wish me luck, and I do hope to write and photograph some new stories and interesting things in the near future. This blog too will change and adapt to something new soon..

Polish pretties

Another autumn, and another visit to Poland. This time exploring new parts of it, and being pleasantly surprised by the contents every time. Beneath the at-times crumbling Soviet union blocks and stern comebacks from strangers lies emotive responses to difficult transitions, a visit to any art gallery shows how artists are tackling issues of its dark and difficult past. Wandering through a forest park dedicated to Communist miners in hometown Katowice, having my fill of old family photographs again, and visiting a nearby turn of the century mining residence of Nikiszowiec was rich in history and meaning.

Visiting Wrocław was a colourful stroll past renovated buildings, beautiful town squares, fresh food markets (oh the forest mushrooms!), museums and riversides. One is reminded through street photographs that much of the city was destroyed during WWII, but its colour, charm, and scattered tiny gnome sculptures are a treat to explore. There too my mum and I came across the first vegan restaurant I was to see in Poland (the most delicious one at that and always busy), and shows the slow and steady changes that are arising. All for the better.

Brighton abundance day

A happy outing to an apple orchard in Brighton with Mr Handsome and the Polish fairy at Stamner Park's annual abundance day. The day was filled with apple crumble, children pressing juice, a wander through the quiet woods and permaculture sites, tasting some of the 30 apple varieties found just in Sussex, spying pretty country cottages, tree climbing for the best fruit, and story telling in the orchard. And if in doubt with what to do with all those extra apples, cut them into round slices and dehydrate them for a snack later. Nothing more rewarding than seeing where one's food comes from, and sharing it with friends.

Shambala mandala

Festivals are a big deal in the UK. You cannot really say you have had a summer unless you have roughed it with a pair of wellies and some camping gear in some green field in the countryside for the weekend and come back disheveled and needing a scrub down. Shambala was a cacophony of glitter, secret gardens, swamp creatures, pyrotechnic dragons and glowing tulips. You could go for a communal yoga session or charlston class in the morning, head for a permaculture gathering or art workshop in the afternoon, watch a movie or a band or go on fun-fair rides in the evening. I came across fire-spitting horses, shaman rituals, gypsy caravans, friendly Polish faeries, cowboys and indians, glow-in-the-dark earthworm costumes, burning effigies and unicorns. The odd disgusting campsite did however spoil the mood (British festival goers are notorious for leaving everything behind at festivals, these organisers had some scruples however and had a recycling scheme in place, but still could not motivate everyone to clean after themselves), a seeming normality for first-world folk to throw things away after one weekend-use. Nothing like this atrocity though. Mental note: NEVER go to Reading Festival. EVER.

Summer in the city

Oh London, you really are the loveliest city when the sun is shining. This year I finally understood why Londoners endure so many months of the cold and the wet and the grey. For the few times it is sunny the whole atmosphere changes. Every day is Pimm's day, you go picnic on the Heath with chilled wine and meze, you go to music concerts in abandoned chapels, you laze about in one of the many public parks, you wander along the Camden locks, you giggle at how quickly Londoners are willing to take off their clothes when the sun is shining, you pop into a pub with Wimbledon on and coo at cute overheated bulldogs instead of watching the match, you visit some the many hidden gardens dotted around the city, you spot a pelican or two (whaaa?) at Buckingham Palace, and if you are bored with all that you pop onto a train and go to a beach instead. You get free bikram yoga on the central line, you go on walking tours the City of London organises every year over summer, you see protesters and policemen hugging during the annual Gay Pride parade, you find art beneath your feet, and a bench to sit on and soak up the sunshine. Thank you Summer for popping by, it's been swell. Same time next year then? xx

Cloud Cuckoo Land Festival 2013

My first foray into British festivals. And of course it rained. And I believed the weather forecasts that said 'sunny all week'. So wearing the same singular jersey for 4 days and slip slide navigation though mud without wellies was challenging, but be that as it may Cloud Cuckoo Land brought a collection of people together that resonated close to my own heart. Environmental activists, yurt makers, artists, singing faeries, smiling bubble makers, fracking opposers, shining faces, permaculture experts, recyclers, wild-haired children doing what they should be doing- playing outdoors, capitalist protesters and hoola hoopers. There were interesting talks about food waste (all food for staff was provided by the People's Kitchen who use diverted food from landfill - all delicious, all vegetarian), off the grid living (all the talks were powered by bicycle peddling), laughter and conventional yoga, rum imported on a sailboat (the greenest way to ship goods), eager participants making jewelry out of trash and being accosted by the glitter pixies. I volunteered with Upcycling, a non-profit that helps segregate all the rubbish accumulated during the festival. It was at times disheartening seeing what people throw away, and how carelessly they do it. Must be a first world thing. Came across men's ties still in their packaging, full sets of edible eggs in their cartons, tents, cans of unopened alcohol, clothes, cosmetics, fruit, shoes, toys, inflatable pool rings to name a few. So so much waste, most of it unsorted, and nowhere to put it but in the ground. Be that as it may, the spirit of this festival was worth the teeth chattering at night, and the mud-stained sneakers in the morning. Who needs mainstream festivals anyway?