In my dream,

dolphins were playing with happy abandonment in a friendly sea.

I watched, enthralled.

Clapped my hands in delight and gratitude for their presence,

for their joy at just being.

My applause stopped their play and in mid-air, half in and half out of the water,

as still as statues, they looked at me.

Locked in their searching gaze,

I was aware of myself,

aware that we saw each other,

in that place of knowing that lies just below the surface of everyday.

Seeing the one in all.


The Story


They were at the water’s edge.

He had something in his hand, and too late, she saw it fall.

It floated on the surface for a while,

the water gently washing over the cover,

mottled brown and gold.

Bound with a silk ribbon.


‘It’s not too late,’ she said. ‘I can maybe reach out and save it’.


She stepped forward.

To stop it floating further away.

The boy watched, his silence defeating her.


Gradually, the book slipped below the surface,

gently down as they watched.

She noticed how clear the water was,

and how shallow too.

Perhaps she could still rescue the precious book,

the story she so loved,

but it was already out of reach.


Illuminated below the surface,

the book shone brightly in the sunlight,

but its purpose achieved,

it slowly disappeared.

Dissolving into the glistening pebbles of the river bed.


Father’s Day


16th June 2013


Three brothers, fishermen and best friends, sharing their lives and work, were suddenly taken from their families. Drowned, so close to home.


We shared the devastation of this tragedy with the community of this and other villages, towns, and beyond. Mourned the loss of three brothers, laid to rest, on the eve of Father’s Day.

May the souls of three brothers, rest in peace, and God give comfort to their families.



Lobster pots




















It is evening now. I am in a local hotel restaurant overlooking the sea, with my husband and some friends. Momentarily, I am aware of a scent. Aromatic? Yes, I think I know what it is. Most certainly it is pipe tobacco, but no-one here is smoking. Smoking is banned, in all public places, and come to think of it, I haven’t seen anyone smoking a pipe in years, in public or in private, but there it is again.

No explanation. My body responds to the familiar scent with a  sense of well-being,  a relaxed contentment.

My own Father has been gone from this world a long time, but it is not until this morning that I suddenly remember, he used to smoke a pipe.








The Weight of Time

In this moment.

– NOW –

I am o.k.

Time bubble

My mind races to a time that is not of this moment. A somewhere in the future time. Very soon, or distant. My shoulders ache. My arms are heavy. My legs stiff. My thoughts, too unbearable to think. I try to hide. I will not face it. I will not give it permission. But it is so hard, to be in the peace of now, when time is neither here nor there, and yet, it’s weight is everywhere.


On the step outside the garden door,  an ant follows silver tracks left by a snail on paving stones. The frantic pace of the ant exaggerates the puzzle of random trails, crossing back and forth, up and down.

The snail may have had a clear idea of where he was going when he started, but the tell-tale signs of his meanderings show clearly in morning sunlight. After moving along in a reasonably straight course, he made a sharp turn to the right, oozing along for a short distance. Heading off at a tangent once again, he returned to the original westerly route for an equally short journey. Veering sharply to the left, and possibly finding the view there unappealing, he was almost back on track, but round in dizzy circles he wandered, muddling along in a tangle until finally, he reached the edge of the step. With all kinds of vegetation almost within reach, it is not clear which way he went. A snail is a snail after all.


Snail, you are slow, your wanderings are a jumble.

Compared to what, said the snail.

Compared to my speed and efficiency, said the ant.

I am not in a hurry, said the snail, besides, I rather enjoy going around in circles, to see again what I might have missed.

It wouldn’t suit me, said the ant. I’m in the business of time and motion, and time waits for no ant.

Then why do you follow my trail. Said the snail.

I investigate everything, said the ant. No stone unturned, that’s my motto.

You are indeed industrious, said the snail. Excuse me while I take a nap.


After I had written the above, a few days ago, I had in mind a simple drawing of mine, scribbled a few months ago, that would suit the short description. I looked in my art bags, and boxes, and folders. Searched, and searched, but the scribble would not come to light.

Today, I read a fellow blogger’s account of why he doesn’t add illustrations to his writings. A blog purely for writing. Admirable.

Putting aside my search for the elusive scribble, I have done the same with this post. A lesson learned, with the help of another human being, an ant and a snail.

(But I will find that scribble, and possibly attach it to another post.)