Savour the Seasons
  • BLOG
  • About
    • About me
    • Why savour the seasons?
  • Shop
  • CONTACT

Early Spring

20/9/2022

1 Comment

 
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
Hope is early spring 
the bee and the daffodil 
herald light and warming //
1 Comment

Coming Home, space making, Waiting and other lessons from quitting instagram

9/2/2022

4 Comments

 
Picture
“The screen is the empty mirror where the simulated shadows of things relentlessly replace each other. In our craven fear of being forgotten, we remain glued to the empty window” 
​
- John O'Donohue


A year ago I decided to quit instagram and facebook. To delete my six year history of posts and catalogue of carefully curated squares of lovely and hard life: things baked, clothes made, babies birthed, eggs cleaned, poems penned, plants tended to. I wrote a blog about the decision to quit here. 

Thirteen months has given me room to ponder what it was I needed in that decision. 

First and foremost it gave me a sense of agency to let go, and in actually letting go, I noticed how good it felt to make a decision for myself that other people wouldn't necessarily want or accept or even need for themselves. A friend said leaving instagram was like "coming home to herself" and I couldn't agree more.

I also needed the gift of space it afforded me. What happened in the space freed from spending hours every day on instagram and facebook? It was simply absorbed in the day (and night) as little pockets of moments between the chores and doing and going - to simply be: to pause, to take more care or a deeper breath. These pockets, like the best placed, generous pockets of a beloved dress or coat, are warm and homely. They are essential to being comfortable, safe even, in the middle of the mess and clamour and unpredictability of life. I am sure there are ways to carve out digital pockets that are relaxing and constructive, and perhaps writing and reading blog posts and long-format news pieces is mine, but it still pales in comparisons to the real life sun-on-your-face pockets of pause and breath. I wouldn't cut them out now for anything. 

It has also given me a renewed appreciation for waiting, that easily neglected, yet necessary part of being human. I love Marnie Kennedy's reflections on waiting as a kind of prayerfulness:

"Instant knowledge, instant gratification, instant success are the messages of the media. However, waiting is of the essence of creatureliness and is the characteristic of genuine prayer, for it helps to purify the heart of impatience and consumer addiction. Waiting is in itself a deep place of revelation and leads to the unmasking of illusion, prejudice and fear"

I realised I could wait before taking a photograph of something beautiful or sharing something with friends or family. I could also wait before purchasing a new knitting pattern or ordering beautiful fabric to recreate something I'd see someone else make. I could wait before writing something that others would read in my newsletter, for ideas to come and go more gradually.  I could also wait for feedback which didn't come very often and was perfectly alright to keep creating and contemplating without instantaneous feedback and encouragement. I can wait for relationships to simmer and grow in real time. I can wait - and am still waiting - for my body to heal from illness without any guarantee or when or how. I can wait with less instead of impatiently craving and cramming in more. 

I'm sure you've come across these famous lines by Mary Oliver from her poem "Sometimes": 
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it."

But what is she saying here? What does the whole poem speak of? Is it a glittery prompt to document our lived experiences for all to see? To labour over photographs and catchy descriptions on our digital devices? Or is it simply to remind herself - and us the readers - to sit with the present moment, however mundane or extraordinary, and drink it in. To savour the sublime ordinariness of grasshoppers and afternoon light, and the gifts of idleness and solitude, the messiness of faith and relationships. What if telling about it was just bearing witness to our own senses? To the stories and feelings of others in real time?

I used to live a life of squares
beautiful confines to capture
the seasons:

bread still steaming
children in play
flowers opening
kind of thing.

You saw what I saw
but you didn't see me
with my phone
body rigid and fingers
tapping the scene
heart hurting. 

What if paying attention
to my own body is the gift?
That it's enough to feel my senses
 hold the present:

clouds gathering,
jaw loosening, 
wind wavering
imperfect things.

I live a life off-grid now
a beautiful freedom to
​savour the seasons.
4 Comments

When we can see the stars

31/12/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
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.
0 Comments

anchor

31/8/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
Anchor me 
to your lovingkindness
steady my feet on soft grass

Tether me 
to the gentle stream
may I bathe in living water,
drink from your wellspring

Moor me 
at the harbour of your grace 
a place to rest my head
for dreaming

Ground me 
in the hope of new life
where space for stories grow,
compassion and belonging.

Secure me
to the still small voice
that I would hear you
in the clamour and in the silence
0 Comments

Down by the river PT IV

15/6/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
Down by the river
no boys playing,
banks submerged with rain -
everything rushing,
gushing, gurgling,
sodden and soaking,
debris caught and foaming. 

I watch the water
mesmerised,
it's a funny kind of sympathy
she reflecting me:
that spilling out, forcefully, 
an overflow of feelings
days of rain and howling winds bring -
of wondering, half-sleeping,
weeks of lockdown and isolation
familiar paths, unsettling us
again and again.

I'm a mess of worry and relief
we know we're the lucky ones
with animals safe, with house in tact 
that's dry and warm -
spirit within us, hovering,
rest and disturbance. 

Down by the river
I'm a woman lingering, 
listening to the flow -
birds are singing,
darting 
in the trees
and on my face
blessed sun, shining.

Down by the river pt I
Down by the river pt II
Down by the river pt III
0 Comments

There is life in the vine

16/3/2021

0 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
Picture
there is life in the vine 
in each and every season 
our growing and remaining 
a place to dwell in love

in autumn as the leaves fall
when mornings grow darker 
fruit is stored for what will come:
cheer, loss, communion

winter brings frozen things 
ground, breath, tired limbs,
when we are slow and needy
of every clear sky, of warming  

springtime flush of green 
life budding from branch and tree 
and the steady hum of bees,
of children in bare feet

in summer work and play, 
beating heat and flowering,
when days begin to sprawl  
each raindrop brings relief 

there is life in the smallest leaf,
in stretching and growing,
ripening and rotting, 
in pruning and resting, 
refreshing at the roots

each season is necessary 
its own kind of beautiful 
when we remain in love,  
there is life in Him. 
0 Comments

concertina

14/1/2021

1 Comment

 
Above the bookshelf sits an accordion
a birthday gift, she's older than me
but we're alike in dusty ways
leathery, blue, spiny ways,
weathered with sounds
and unspoken ones

for six years I've played a melody
of a painterly, light filled life:
beautiful squares to return to,
contain and be contained,
and stare into

I hold the accordion in my hands
pull out a slow, long wheeze
and contract into myself:
an uncomfortable 
yet necessary thing

I have given birth three times
surged, panged, sore and singing
a song as old as life itself -
three living bodies
emerged from my own

I prepared myself for the labouring
for expanding, expectantly,
but it was afterwards,
with babe at breast
I felt my body do a strange and painful thing:
my womb contracted,
retreated in completion,
shrunk itself

and so I think it is with all creative work
we puff up and shrink, concertina-like,
we make and miss notes, we glimmer with 
goodness, dust and who knows what else:
we grow, birth, contract, rest
again and again and again.
Picture
1 Comment

Down by the river, PT III

3/1/2021

1 Comment

 
Picture
Down by the river
three boys barefoot
looking for fish, frogs,
and yabbie claws

We marvel at the shallows,
green and weedy,
banks covered with reeds
willows flowing with leaves
poplars tall and shimmering,

the littlest boy is
crouching on a rock
watching water bugs
he sees me watching him
and grins,

It’s a mud pie heaven
a place to sit
watch rocks sink,
forgotten fence posts
stick up like rusty thumbs
dragonflies land on them
we notice tiny blue moths,
flies and native bees.

Three boys rivering,
above them galahs flying,
their mother revelling
in watery reflection, thinking,
we seem to come on
the days we most need it.
1 Comment

low days

10/12/2020

0 Comments

 
Picture
Low days 
always creep up 
and surprise me, 

a long overdue 
catch up with my body 
and she tells me 
I’m sore, spent

the world outside 
mirrors feelings,
the cold and unsure ones

clouds smattered 
with sun and rain

It’s enough to watch 
them

to breathe a little deeper
roll hunched shoulders back
sip broth in a nice mug,

to be frazzled 
and drink grace in,
stroke kindness into tired skin.
0 Comments

Early morning landscape

4/11/2020

0 Comments

 
Picture
early morning landscape
unfolds like a concertina
of green leaves and bird song
plantain, clover, magpie and wren -
we breathe it out, breathe it in.
0 Comments
<<Previous
    Picture
    Picture

    ABOUT the author 

    Emily 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...

    Read more here


      Savour the season has a newsletter

    Subscribe to Newsletter
    Read my latest newsletter

    Categories

    All
    Advent
    Atumn
    Autumn
    Blessings
    Celebrations
    Christmas
    Community
    Easter
    EBooks
    Faith
    Family
    Farming
    Flora
    Food
    Forest
    Garden
    Gluten Free
    Home
    Journal
    Landscape
    Lent
    Making
    Memademay
    Motherhood
    Odes
    Places
    Poetry
    Reading
    Recipes
    Savourtheseason
    Savourtheseasons
    Seasons
    Sewing
    Sketches
    Skincare
    Slow
    Soap
    Spring
    Springtime
    Summer
    Winter
    Wintering


    Archives

    December 2022
    November 2022
    October 2022
    September 2022
    August 2022
    July 2022
    June 2022
    May 2022
    April 2022
    March 2022
    February 2022
    January 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    October 2021
    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    June 2021
    May 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    December 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    October 2017
    June 2017
    March 2017
    January 2017
    July 2015
    June 2015
    September 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    August 2013
    November 2011
    October 2009
    September 2009
    August 2009
    July 2009
    June 2009
    May 2009
    January 2009
    September 2008
    July 2008


Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.
  • BLOG
  • About
    • About me
    • Why savour the seasons?
  • Shop
  • CONTACT