Things I've fallen in love with this week

1. I think I may have fallen in love with Sir Walter Raleigh while reading 'The Ocean to Cynthia'

[...]

Lost in the mud of those high-flowing streams
Which through more fairer fields their courses bend,
Slain with self-thoughts, amazed in fearful dreams,
Woes without date, discomforts without end:

From fruitful trees I gather withered leaves
And glean the broken ears with miser's hands:
Who sometime did enjoy the weighty sheaves
I seek fair flowers amid the brinish sand.

[...]

2. And also this dress, which I have decided shall be my wedding dress if I ever get married

3. Performing- the exhilaration of stage. I went on for Dance of the Knights not knowing if I would be able to smile because my cheeks felt wobbly with nervousness, but by the Folk Dance I didn't want to get off the stage and at the bows my smile was Arctic ocean wide

4. Paradise Lost. After writing my essay on the rhetoric of grace I'm hooked. Milton is a genius. And (I argue in my essay) Christ is the perfect simile.

'The overlapping of images that takes place in a simile is manifest in Christ - the image of Man over the image of God meet in his incarnate body and Christ is ‘made in the likeness of men’.  The overlapping is precisely what leads to salvation, as only by covering the shame and sin of Man with the perfection of God, can Man regain paradise... After losing the paradisal unity of God and Man predicated on sinlessness and obedience in Eden, God once again devises a means for a relationship with his creation. Where the pure language of Eden was corrupted with a simile, God uses a simile of his own to rectify the broken relationship and once again join two entities that have been made disparate.'

My guide to being alone

"Society is afraid of alone though, 

like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements, 

like people must have problems if, after awhile, nobody is dating them 

But alone is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless 

and lonely is healing if you make it."

-Tanya Davis

Listen to your breathing. It is a marvellous thing. Imagine how much you mother and father yearned to hear that sound the nine months before you were pushed into the world.

Listen to your crying. It's the same as above. Record your sad moments and talk to a camera as you do. You realise in that moment either how ridiculous, how beautiful, or how dire your sadness is.

Eat breakfast in every possible configuration. In bed, at your desk, sitting on the kitchen counter. Lying on the floor, sitting on the floor, walking around. I haven't yet tried headstands, because I don't want to waste my porridge.

Watch the movies that you watched when you were younger. Watching movies is often best alone. Cry over the baby field mice in 'The Animals of Farthing Wood', finally figure out that Mary was putting an ivory elephant in her night dress pocket, not a spoonful of porridge, realise that Spirited Away was neither as frightening nor as good as your six year old self judged and wonder if your judgement now is any better.

Sometimes have dance parties. But you must know when, and to what music. Time it out, with spaces, to preserve the special-ness and also to avoid annoying anyone downstairs. 

Eat both the bad food (that vegan palak paneer) and the good food (that vegan shepherd's pie) you cook, and eat bananas if you need to. They taste better with granola and almond butter.

Go on solitary journeys and adventures and sing as you cycle alone.

And listen to this poem:

'cause if you're happy in your head then solitude is blessed and alone is okay. 

Quinoa Porridge

This was today's breakfast situation. It was elegant, delicious and also as rare as a solar eclipse.

The reason I was laying a scarf (whose day job is covering a hideous green chair) on my table and actually arranging banana coins rather than just throwing them on as I usually do has a story behind it. This term Nat and I decided to do a kitchen challenge: Every week, we suggest a food theme, which we take and make our own by adding little quirks. This week I suggested we try reverse psychology on our food. That is, we would make usually savoury food sweet, and usually sweet food savoury. The past couple of weeks have been: Asian, and soup, and each time Nat would take absolutely gorgeous pictures of her food, while I would just make mine and then promptly inhale it. So to honour the challenge I decided to dress this week's bowl up a little.

There's also a reason why what is laying on the scarf is a bowl of quinoa porridge rather than the spinach pancakes with a chickpea and apple filling I initially planned to make. The reason is quite simply, that the spinach pancakes didn't happen.

On Tuesday night I decided to try the pancake recipe from Green Kitchen Stories, envisioning soft music playing as I gently flipped a speckled green pancake and stuffed it with just the right amount of a lemony-chickpea and apple filling. However, being in the tiny student kitchens of pearl house rather and lacking quite a few ingredients, things were rather different, and I found myself trying to scrape green mushy mess into a conceivably solid lump in order to salvage any hope of actually eating what could now only be called a green monster rather than a green pancake.

The whole thing tasted delicious, and the apple and chickpea filling balanced the earthy tones of the green lumps perfectly, however they were not presentable at all, no matter what scarf they were framed by. When I told Alex the next day about my kitchen mishaps, she euphemistically tried to make me feel a little better: 'Maybe they were more dropped scones than pancakes?'

Well, yes, if you mean dropped-on-the-floor.

So, to redeem my failed pancakes is why I found myself this morning making quinoa into porridge. Cinnamon-spiced, maple-drizzled, banana-crowned porridge.

Sometimes I feel like quinoa porridge on a silk scarf, other times I look like spinach lumps in a plastic swedish-glace container. That's life.

On Mondays and Tuesdays I'm generally spinach-lumpy. I'm rushing to finish my essay, my lunch is often something sad like a roasted sweet potato and a whole bowl of plain lettuce, or something bizarre like lots of bananas and almond butter and half a cucumber and maybe some shredded wheat. Whatsapps go unanswered, numerous blog posts are born out of mid-term boredom and then sit in the draft folder for weeks. I suppose what I'm trying to convey is that I am just as messy, human, and strange as most nineteen going on twenty year old people.

But I also have my quinoa porridge days, the days where I wake up at 7am in the morning to do Yoga before breakfast and then find the time before lectures to cycle down to Kings parade and draw (okay this happened once, and it got too cold to stay there for a long time so I finished one spire of the chapel, and a couple of cartoons of the various stages of Me writing an essay before cycling off to find warmth) or actually manage to do a proper cat eye in my stage make up, or figure out how to cut a mango.

What has your day been like?

Opening Night

I seem to have a bad tendency to be in the bathroom when someone comes knocking at my room door. Twice I was just half undressed to get in the shower and managed to wrap a towel round myself and answer, and the last time I said 'Coming' and the person heard 'Come in' and I had barely enough time to quickly get decent. All she wanted was a pair of chopsticks, which I don't have.

Tonight when I answered Natalia at the door, I had full stage make up on because I'd just returned from the opening night of Romeo and Juliet. The last ballet production I danced in was Avivas when I was about 8, so tonight was so so exciting.

Being part of the corps meant that during a couple of Soloists dances we were background townspeople or ball attendees. Often I feel that the miming as part of the background is harder than the actual dances, which become muscle memory by the time it gets to show. A few of the girls and I have found a way of overcoming that - we make up stories for the different scenes. For example, during Romeo's love-struck solo, Natalia and I are competing for the attention of Benvolio and Mercutio, during the pas de deux Laura tells me baout her philandering husband who is dancing with one of Juliet's friends, and during the Nurses scene, Natalie tells me about how terribly age has gotten to her and how she really should have something done about her saggy behind!

I'm tired, but I couldn't stop grinning on the cycle back, and tomorrow (which is closing night - when a show is just two days I don't know which is more exciting!) I'll get to dance again, and that is a wonderful blessing.

After 2 weeks of not running

A couple of weeks ago when I was running, I realised my feet hurt. The pain would start in the arches of my feet and creep up the insides of my calves as I kept going. Sometimes I would have to stop while en route down or back up the river, to let the pain subside before continuing, knowing that the pain would come back sooner or later.

After reading terrible possibilities of tendonitis and plantar fasciitis, I decided to stop. To completely boycott for a week or two to give my feet and muscles a chance to heal.

The thing is, I really love running. There's something transcendent about the move from inertia to excitement, and tiredness to a complete freedom and a sense of almost flying, especially in the last couple hundred metres of the run.When I run I feel like my sense are heightened, I see more clearly the beauty God paints in a sunset, my skin sighs when the sun touches it, or when the wind cools my red face.I love people watching as I run, wondering what other runners are thinking, what the couple on the bench are there for, how happy that man slouching by is.

So not-running was not-easy. I itched to get out there, I had to distract myself with stranger recipes in the kitchen, I ran marathons across deserts in my dreams.

Not-running seemed to me a state of resistance against the voice in my head that says 'Be stronger, be faster, be further' and instead finding bravery in being soft. Letting go of what I knew worked to make me feel joy, and finding joy in the small space of my room rather than the vision of the wide expanse of a sun-brushed field. Letting go of what I thought my body needed, and satisfying it's need for rest. Not-running gave me a certain clarity and calm that I'd missed.

I found myself having more time to write in my diary.

I found myself walking to places more often, and breathing in the sights and sounds of the city that can get blurred as I run by.

I found myself not feeling as if I had to exercise to justify a cracker or six of bananas and almond butter.

I discovered a hill I'd never seen before, and watched a sunset by myself.

a quick remember

In the past 7 days I've...

discovered a new hill

spoken publicly about how my vegan diet and my faith harmonise and reinforce each other

made vietnamese rice rolls

gone on a solo adventure

watched a student production of Bugsy Malone

decided I like the taste of mango

volunteered with the Cambridge Musuems at the Twilight at the Musuems event, walking through the rain to collect visitor feedback, which also means I;ve

visited 4 museums in 4 hours (and walked by the other 3, which I intend to go back to - especially the Polar Museum which has an exhibition on Shackleton!)

put in a nomination to be environment officer for medwards

gone to (and almost nodded off in) a lecture on Bonhoeffer

Have Bike Will Travel x Anglesey Abbey

I love Cambridge, I really do. But sometimes, I need to get out. On Monday I sat at my  desk, listening to an audio recording of Book I of Paradise Lost, and staring out of the window at the wispy horses-mane clouds which whispered 'come out, it's warm, it's wonderful, come out' By the time the recording ended, my bags were packed, I had a lunch box of Vietnamese rice rolls ready, and my coat was on.

The cycle to Anglesey Abbey actually followed the normal running route I take past the Cam and it's colourful barges, and then goes further. It was so lovely to speed past my familiar route, which I haven't been on for a while, taking an enforced rest from running because of the pain I was feeling in my feet when I ran (it's so hard to not run when the weather is so gorgeous, and the feet in my heart tap-a-tap a faster, impatient drum beat when I see blue sky, but I have a ballet show and life to perform, and therefore can't afford to ruin my feet).

When I got onto the national cycle route 51, I was mostly alone on the road, and so I belted out a breathless performance of Matt Redman's songs at the top of my voice.

Anglesey Abbey is a country house and it's surrounding gardens and grounds, and a mill which still grinds corn and sells flour to visitors. It's gardens are maintained throughout the year so that in every season they are beautiful and vibrant.

My camera promptly ran out of battery when I arrived, and so I took photos with my phone, starting in the winter garden. I couldn't decide whether the wall of red-twiggy plants made me feel like I was walking by a trench of fire, or through the Red Sea like the Israelites fleeing the Egyptians. Neither seemed right in my state of peace, walking through the gardens with absolutely nothing to move toward, or move away from. 

These yellow flowers were my favourite: they were like plant-versions sea urchins, and their branch curved in a way that made it look like a dragon.

The winter garden ended with a beautiful glade of silver birches, which waved gently in the wind, the eyes on their white trunks looking soberly at every person that passed by.

I popped into the Lode Mill which reminded me of Pakenham. A young girl with her family were climbing down the very steep wooden steps from the third to the second floor and she was terrified. 

'Mummy... mummy....MUMMY'

When she got near enough, her Dad lifted her down the last few steps, then helped his son (who wasn't at all afraid and basically ran down the stairs to the first floor) The Mum and girl were supposed to start going down, but she was almost sobbing, 'Let's stay here mummy' It struck me how often fear can paralyse us into staying in an in between place where nothing can hurt us - except our own inability to continue. All the same I wish I could have given that girl a big hug and somehow flown her down. It reminded me of the time I was in Temasek club with my Dad, and decided to go on the monkey bars. I was in the middle of crossing when, suddenly, I felt as if I let one hand go to swing to the next bar, I would most certainly fall. I was irrationally terrified, and only when my Dad lifted me down did I stop panicking.

I ate my lunch outside the Lode Mill, with very cold fingers.

Then I kept walking, on toward the Hoe Fen Wildlife Discovery Area. You know how people often have that fear of eating alone in public spaces? Sometimes I have a fear of walking alone in public space. If I'm entirely alone, it's fine. But when I'm alone among people who aren't, suddenly I don't know what to do with my hands. But walking, slowly, through that quiet forest, behind a couple, ahead of a family, I felt quite peaceful. I sometimes had to tell my brain to tell my feet to calm down and take things slowly, but I felt in place.

I didn't see any animals in Hoe Fen, but I did see a puzzling collection of branches tied with colourful string. It brought to mind what I've learnt about the word 'individual' this week. According to the Oxford English Dictionary (which is a word-lovers treasure trove), individual didn't start out meaning 'by itself, singled out from a crowd' as we construe it today. Initially it meant indivisible, one in substance or essence, and was often used to describe the trinity of the Christian Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Like rope, made of many strings bound together to form a single, indivisible entity.

As I walked back, it began raining, and I used my scarf as a hood. Then I glanced at the sleeve of my coat, and realised - it wasn't raining, it was hailing! I was glad to get back indoors at the visitors centre, where I sat and warmed up a little before getting back on my bike for the cycle back and another singing session.

come in softly

On a day with particularly blue sky and the sudden arrival of a carpet of snowdrops and crocuses near the library, I asked Becky, 'Is it Spring?'

Unfortunately Spring only properly arrives in March. But the return of birds to the trees and the white almond blossoms blooming everywhere have me convinced that it is creeping in.The sunlight looks different, less blue and more green, and though days are still cold they are less grey.

Alex tells me that her Grandma tells her to look for enough blue in the sky to sew a pair of sailor's trousers, and sometimes we have enough to clothe an entire navy.

Yesterday morning the grass was all frosted over, but as the sun rose the frost receded, and I could see the clear line between green sun-kissed grass and the frosty grass in the retreating shade.

Now I understand the beavers' longing for spring in 'The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe', after the witch's spell of seemingly eternal winter:

“Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.”

Will that be heaven too? The Spring that follows the Winter of human existence, life upon life after we have lost all our leaves? Quickly come, Lord Jesus.

10/02/2016

It was a summer-in-winter day today, one of those days where I feel overjoyed cycling even though I have (for the umpteenth time) forgotten my gloves.

I arrived in Darwin college early for my supervision, and instead of bumbling around in the corridor as usual, I spied a door that led outside, and, like Lucy stepping into the wardrobe, I pushed it open and entered a most beautiful world.

There was a bridge cutting through a moss-covered low stone wall, over a still stream. The sun was (I have no better words) kissing me. I tried to write a Villanelle as I sat on the wall, but the sun and the stream and the gentle breeze tugged me away from my work and I just sat, looking round at everything and thinking how wonderful it was to be alive.

After my supervision, I cycled to the market, and bought potatoes from the vegetable stall owner who always calls me 'love'. Then I went into Sainsburys to get a few extra things, before cycling to Downing College to discuss the Food Justice event Just Love is holding tomorrow.

As I cycled for some reason I couldn't help but notice everyone's ears. It started because I noticed a girl who's ears were tucked beneath a scarf under her helmet, to keep them nice and warm as she cycled. Then as I passed other people I noticed how their hair curled over their ears, or how the backs of their ears were red with cold. One man had a phone pressed to his ear - how marvellous that he was hearing a voice at the end of the line, a conversation I passed just a metre from but was miles away from hearing. Another man's ears were grey. I became intensely aware of how much sound enters me, the roar of an aeroplane overhead, the hum of cars, the sound of shoes and smoke and voices. I tune so much of it out, and when I do pay attention to it all it is a symphony that is strangely disorienting even though it should be so familiar.

Today's patchwork

I'm so distracted.

How I feel productive when writing an essay: Typing really loudly by tapping really hard on the keyboard.

I choose rain sounds over ocean sounds when there are wild wind sounds outside my room.

Playing with my hair to harmonise it with my hoodie.

Just realised I was working with my kitchen knife an inch away from my elbow.

I have the worst case of wanderlust right now.

Best thing I bought last year was probably a jar of coconut oil, which I've only used about a quarter of, and it smells incredible.

I just realised a girl in my ballet class looks like Anne Frank, if Anne Frank was a ginger.

Washing can wait till tomorrow.

A bird just flew by the window and I flinched because I was so sure it would come in.

I'm contracting a very bad habit of pressing the capslock button rather than the shift button to capitalise. Or is this normal? Has my habit of pressing the shift button all my life been an aberration?

All things considered (and when I say all things considered I mean considering all the things that I have been distracted by) this is turning out to be not-so-bad an essay after all.

I can't get the Disney love medley out of my head:

Come stop your crying
It will be alright
Just take my hand
Hold it tight

I will protect you
From all around you
I will be here
Don't you cry

Wearing stripes on stripes makes me feel like I could conquer the world. (Mentally adding it to my list of 'Things that make me feel better' which include wearing a new set of pajamas, washing my hair, lying on the floor, having someone brush/style/play with my hair, putting things at right angles and sunshine)

My hair smells like whatever I cook in the oven. My hair smells like rice and lentil patties. 

Hopefully tomorrow it will smell like plum and apple crumble.

sleep thoughts

When my alarm clock woke me up today it scooped me out of sleep but left me with my last dream thought. I wish I could say it was something inspiring or knowledgeable like

'We only regret the choices we didn't take'

or

'It takes 22,700 bees to make a single jar of honey'

But instead I was left with the imprinted image of the label of a can of soup and the baffling thought, 'Why is it tomato OR vegetable?'

I went back to bed.

Line room dark eyelash see sky

Last night I wrote out the sestina Leo asked for, and it felt like I'd had all these words inside me already waiting to come out. They didn't tumble out easily, I had to tug at them, like coaxing a thread through the eye of a needle, but they were dormant, sleeping and last night they all woke up.

Sestina

Four walls and a chair make a room
And a light, don’t forget, things creep in the dark.
From your window (if you’re calm) you can see
An aeroplane trace a white cloud across the sky
Improper fractions, big and small separated by a line
A few millimetres thicker than your eyelashes.

My mother would give me butterfly kisses, her eyelashes
Tickling my cheeks as the coconut tree creaks outside my room.
The louvres in the door let in the light line by line,
golden soldiers in a regiment against the dark
And if you step out onto the balcony, the sun rises from the sky
Behind you, and the sweat of thirty degrees trickles into your eyes so you can’t see.

Look at the globe, look at the maps, can’t you see?
One kilometre is less than the width of an eyelash
Hannah gives you a notebook sheet with a poem of bird and sky
And you tack, stick, pin it to the board in your new room
next to a different Hannah, and the sky goes dark
earlier later in time, nothing is in a straight line.

On that last telephone call you held the line
As long as you could though I could see
She was gone before it was dark
And the hands brushed her eyelashes
Knowing there would be a room
For her soul somewhere beyond earth and sky

There are different kinds of leaving, to different sorts of sky
And different paths, though we patiently wait in the same line.
I wanted to tell you the room
was ready but then you said you imagined her walking out to sea.
A tear trembled on an eyelash.
All I could do was sit with you until it was dark.

I see the light regiments marching towards me through the dark.
And when the lightness is too much to bear I look at the sky,
Puzzling out the sun through a forest of eyelashes
Eyes almost closed, creased into a line.
Every day it gets easier to see
I am no longer in my old room

Where the dark was kept behind its battle line
And the sky was never too far away to see.
Even the fall of an eyelash causes an earthquake tremor in this room.