March madness

We have GALLOPPED through March. The days have grown increasingly lighter, the weather - despite Storm Gareth, so windy that I barely made it home in one piece on the bicycle - increasingly warmer. Several days spent sitting outside sipping coffee, if not taking an after-Sunday-lunch nap on the patio.

Daffodils are giving way to celandines; wild garlic is beginning to compete with the odd bluebell spiking out of the hedgerows; violets and daisies stud the lawn, primroses covering the banks along the lanes.

Stunning sunrises and sunsets, too.

The sun has been a fiery ball, shooting up above the hedge, blazing straight in to the bedroom window.

I'm grateful to be able to cycle, despite my arthritic knee: the specialist referred to the X-ray as 'horrifying' in that the cartilage has degenerated hugely and the knee is beginning to become somewhat deformed. Nevertheless, he also says I am managing it 'tremendously well' with exercise etc, so I shall continue to do so.

Converting my cycle to electric power is, however, greatly welcome.

Exercise and nature aside, March is full of cooing over photos and videos of Cara; parents' evenings - nearly four hours one night, over three hours the second (but at least we are not writing reports this term); and quite a few meals with friends and neighbours, always great fun. Meeting some fascinating people, too - my neighbour Nicky has some intriguing and interesting friends.

Friends: John Melhuish, a Catholic priest I have kept in touch with for over thirty years, and who has - had - friends on Guernsey who he met up with when he visited a few years ago, died suddenly. Wendy, a friend in church lost her ninety-five year old mother - not unexpected, of course, but still very sad. A good friend is undergoing chemotherapy... life is not without its sadnesses and difficulties.

Halfway through the month, though: our first Nightstop guest. We signed up to Nightstop - involving numerous training days, much form-filling and more than a little trepidation - which offers a safe place to sleep for a vulnerable young person. In Guernsey, homelessness looks like sofa-surfing, where a young person might leave the family to stay on a friend's sofa. We were lucky enough to be the scheme's first hosts on the island, as Nightstop was introduced to Guernsey only a few months ago. Pickle was in heaven, lapping up the attention and tickles which our guest kindly providd for her. And the best bit: a few days after the guest stayed, a more permanent solution was found for them as Action For Children worked hard to find accommodation.

And so the month rolled by....Easter approaches.

Lenten twigs: Swedish paskriset

It's Friday... but Sunday's a-coming! #lent #Easter #GoodFriday

March mindfulness. Mind full.

Home is where the heart is.

I’ve been pondering much on home, and all what that means, recently. I say recently: it feels as if I have been mulling over ‘home’ in my heart for huge parts of my life, inbetween just getting on with living in whatever home I am in at the time.

Home. Where the heart is. But what do you do when you have left your heart, or little bits of it at least, in various places and you can’t (easily, for anything is possible) go back to visit them? You can’t become reacquainted with those pieces of your heart you left behind, fitting them back into the You who you have become since then. You can only try to recognise in yourself those other parts of the world, the other parts of your life.

And what do you do when someone leaves you, taking tiny – or not so tiny – parts of your heart with them? You can’t say, ‘Oh, give me back that little sliver, that huge chunk, I can’t live without it,’ because it’s not possible. Once gone, it’s gone. Gone for the good of you, keeping you in relationship with the person who dared to leave you. And I’m talking children here, people, children who grew up too quickly and dashed off to have all manner of adventures. On their own. Without you. Just as it should be.

You carry on living, that’s what you do. You don’t die of a partial heart, but you don’t live whole-heartedly either. Part of your heart simply isn’t there. So it doesn’t matter how exciting your life might be right now, or how many adventures of your own you are having, or how settled and happy you are in your Nice Little Life, all safe and cosy: no, deep down you know you only live partially.

And that’s what we do. We live, knowing that we would like to be in two places at once. More, if we are honest with ourselves. Our hearts are at rest where we are and yet longing for Other: Other Places, Other People. We live with dichotomy, with paradox.

But look at it another way. Look at how rich your life is, how widespread your heart across countries, across continents, on the other side of town. You are filled with more experiences than you can count, simply by having been somewhere else. Your heart grows: with love for places, for people, through amazing experiences, encounters with others: new relationships.

Truly, it is a gift. To be able to share one’s life, give one’s heart away to others. A gift.