We have the sky in common
when we can see the stars, a place to gaze in union. Yet bent down, flung afar we worry about our futures, we have the sky in common. There's a world above us, further and closer, a diadem mother - a place to gaze in union. What wisdom sits in wonder: forgotten maps and visions are. We have the sky in common. Woven webs of golden scars our nighttime reservoir, a place to gaze in union. Our faces bright like lovers when we can see the stars, we have the sky in common: a place to gaze in union.
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the year of the mask
of wild unkempt hair and curls returning of compliance and co-operation, collectively safeguarding, preparing, hoping. I've sewn more masks that I can count for my parents, sister, husband, friends, children, self and I've washed them too over and over and over and over again to see the world's faces awash with masks is now familiar, however strange - people covering their faces is nothing new. I remember when I was eighteen and in my first year of university I chose to study Arabic and Arab, Islamic culture and history for my major - I'll never forget having lunch with a girl called Fatima who told me her hijab was liberating it was personal she said, her religious conviction, but it was political too - it was a social statement she wore wore gladly around her head and neck and was radiant. Our bodies are personal, they are inherently worthy of love and respect of care, compassion, of tenderness - they our ours; not something to simply adorn cover, or undress for others - and yet our bodies and our garments do affect each other. A mask can be uncomfortable and comfortable, it can be right and still feel distancing, it can contain a virus and share solitary, a symbol for an unjust disease, a symbol for common good it's been a year of masks, and I have worn them gladly. Oh the slow, lazy, hazy days that fall between Christmas and the dawn of the new year. How they lengthen with summer sunshine and books and leftovers. I recently made a second sleeveless hinterland dress in a beautiful fabric made from undyed hemp and linen fibers. There is something about it's earthy, neutral hue that soothes me. Like the sway of lavender blooming outside, sips from a warm mug of coffee, thumbing the pages of a new book...
Christmas was a day of blessing, of excitement and sunshine, quiet and calm, candlelight. It was perhaps the simplest and gentlest one we've had as a family (in part owning to my being so weary and recovering from recent illness), and yet it was a day overflowing with love, and mugs of warm tea, good food and company, hearty thankfulness.
May all God wants to bless you with come to be, and may your inner mangers, fresh with hope, hold wonders of His love, and splendors of His world, and wisdoms of His word May peace surround you, behind and before you, your words and work, your hearth and kin, and all the friends you haven't seen, in your heart speak: the prince of peace And as the trees of the field clap their hands, may you sing joy - marvel in the clouds bees and sprouting seeds full plates and grubby chins, jolly abandon it all begins with love. December is a blur of endings and illness and sunshine and the garden bursting with colour and growth, the flap of birds and the buzz of bees. We pick spent poppy heads for the door wreath and eat the last of the snow peas and shell the first of the broad beans (which the boys call "exploding rocket beans!"). Our dwelling, Fiddler's Cottage, undergoes much needed repairs to the wood cladding and is also given a lick of fresh paint which is glorious to behold.. We observe the four weeks of advent with our calendar of boxes filled with love notes and sweets, we read storybooks and Christmas fables and scriptures and poems, on Sundays we light the candles on our wreath and reflect on the gifts of hope, peace, joy and love Jesus brings...
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ABOUT the authorEmily Clare Sims is a farmer and mama to three young boys. Each day she looks for ways to notice beauty, contemplate her faith and savour the seasons... Categories
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March 2023
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