a ship, a boy and his dog

Blue Monday, a Gold Moon and Somalia

Monday's are hard. Some Monday's are impossible. You know... you know those Monday's, you wake up your body aching, your head somewhere else, somewhere between that world and this one... and you don't want to see people, you just want to stay in your room all day and stare at the pale ceiling of your prison room and wait for it to pass--- it's all you have, a deep desire for solitude, a feeling of melancholia-and it won't go away, the malaise, you know it so you wake up and get dressed in the same old clothes and you float through the day half alive, just trying to survive...---- there on the grass, the pink cherry blossom falls gently to the ground, the pigeons fly in unison, there alone, with other loners: there alone, wanting nothing more than to go home. Home.  

And in trying to get through, you barely make it, but then you force yourself to go the distance. I travelled up North, ran for miles, swam and swam. I told a stranger I miss Somalia. I miss my Hooyo. Walaahi I miss my Hooyo. I miss the promise of the holy month, I miss the time that faded. I swam, I ran, I waited.... for nothing. I breathed in the twilight, the bright night sky, the full moon so gold, the stars above the ancient cemetery. You and I. And everything makes you feel something, something inexplicable- between sorrow and a dream that will never be realised; for we're all going to die before we come to realise, anything worth realising. And so like the dreadlocks that went down to his knees, like the little Jewish boys and their fathers, dressed in their dignified attire, like the reflections on the water of the pool, the soft zen music, the grumpy old woman who talks to herself.... 

And so I got the bus some place, gym bag weighing me down, key dangling from the zip of my khaki hoody, eyes half open. Still not there.... not nearly there. And then when you get there, to that beautiful mosque in the night, you there alone. Except there's another, an old African woman chanting soft praises to God. But you alone, You alone. You not alone. You've come home. And you throw your bag to the floor and make sujood, tears streaming down your face. I'm home. Lord I'm not alone. You're with me. I give myself to you. 

Nepal in London

Sometimes I love people.... I think I always love Nepalese people.... I went to this gardening session in Abbey Wood the other day and met all these incredible bad-ass Nepalese women. They were so beautiful and fierce, with so much love to share and wisdom to impart. You wouldn't believe how surprised and happy I was when I learnt they understood Hindi and so we spoke and they called me sister and I felt like I was their sister. In their bright clothes and with their golden attitudes- the way they said garme, and bhajee, the way they smiled and laughed in the poly tunnel! To find Nepal in London, to recreate home when home is so far away, that's what Tooku Maya Gurun said, a fiery widow with a cannabis leaf sewn onto her hat. Tooku has a matchless sense of humour. And as they left they said, it was a joy to meet you and they hugged me, one by one... I felt it....

How beautiful to be able to connect with people, to share a language, to share words, to understand....what a great gift- to be able to understand. Hira told me to stay away from baadmaashes, 'scoundrals' that take drugs and disco! She said most men are badmaashes and I agreed. She reminded of my mum and my elders back in Lahore. Lahore... London.... Katmandu... it's a funny ole world...
For more photos: https://www.facebook.com/GroundworkLondon

Abney Park Re-Visited

green and pink

 

  

half-dark

midsummer moon in spring

sunset in cambridge...magic 

 

 

  

the way (prayer)

 

 

Honeywood Museum

Stumbled across this pretty little museum in carshalton the other day... Carshalton's a fascinating village, with an interesting church, lots of beautiful schools, the river wandle and a nature reserve...

 

 

Crayford Marshes

....follow the river, any river will do, watch your soul flutter above you..... with the butterflies, listen to the water run, hear the birdsong and horses neigh.... alone...by the river..consider... the meaning of it....

...but then you find yourself, somehow, in a dangerous place, with big barking industrial dogs, a wasteland, motorbikes going at 100 miles an hour, float on....the unknown, beckons...

 

be (yonder) retro

worst walks in britain

...stumbled across this the other day, such a great book...

Imagining Worlds

my mosque and i

 

 

Car Free Day

Quite strange, Sutton Car Free day coincided with the day air pollution was it a record high! 

Trippy London: Naomi Blake, Gandhi and Andres Bello

“Do stuff. be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration's shove or society's kiss on your forehead. Pay attention. It's all about paying attention. attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. stay eager.” 

― Susan Sontag

I met Jeff from St Ethelburga's Centre for Reconciliation and Peace the other evening. We went to a private view of Naomi Blake's: Retrospective at the Curwen Gallery. It was quite surreal being in a small space filled with immaculately dressed old people. I met a reverend and a map maker and watched Naomi Blake somewhat in awe, ninety years old, so frail yet so gracious and strong, an Auschwitz survivor, a visionary and an artist. The crowd went silent as her son, also quite an otherworldly character, humorous and upright, and daughter talked about her life and her achievements. It was like being at a private party, a close knit family gathering, and to watch as an outsider, to peer in with no knowledge, and little understanding- to peer through the curtains into another world, another time- incredible. Before Jeff and I went in to the small gallery, he relayed to me the story of Naomi Blake, it was one of epic courage and pain but also inspiration and optimism. Naomi's daughter, Anita is currently finishing off her mother's biography. Read here to find out more Naomi's sculptures were really evocative and beautiful....

Afterwards Jeff and I went to the Indian YMCA, which was equally bizarre, it was incredibly fascinating to see Gandhi's pictures everywhere, another visionary, another change maker! The interior, the plaques and indian art, the prayer request box, the strong indian accents and the heat heat... it was quite like being back in Lahore. And so we sat outside in the courtyard amongst the palm trees and reflections on glass talking about near death experiences and life and connections and being and when its hard to be- when you spend so much time 'being' someone else or a small part of yourself, the nights, the early mornings are yours-to get it back, to share, to understand. So after dinner and tea, we walked again...

We went to Bolivar Hall, and passed the place where Andres Bello lived. Inside the hall there was a TV playing Venezuelan news and lots of Venezuelan people and a film had just ended. Strange- three hours, three people, all connected, all within the same area; the night sort of epitomised everything I love about London, culture, diversity, place and people. Didn't take any pictures I liked, so won't post, but check out these places for yourself!

I forget where we were...

pergola view: holes on earth, fragments of time

beautiful solace
everlasting quietude
-----------at an altitude
unknown to the un-living 
beautiful solace
in a winter twilight
a streak of pink 
across the wide sky
empty
but with hope 
in each brush-stroke
perfectitude


beautiful reawakening
life overtaking
death, the mid day sun
winter had become
spring that afternoon
still a shade of maroon
remained, with colours
life emerges
despair submerges
hope floats
in each brush-stroke
perfectitude

hues of spring

they say, blood is thicker

The Pergola and Hill Garden: re-visited

Bite Me

dippy

Secret Sunrise IIII