Happy Place

Reading has become precious to me. Books are where I go to unwind, absorb, even disappear for a time. It doesn't matter where I am, but if I can steal a few minutes inside a paperback then I will. I always carry a book around on the off-chance, hence my preference for rucksacks over handbags.

The prospect of a new book group starting at church was like a gift. I glowed with excitement and had the first scheduled books ordered within a few days. But as we neared the first meeting I felt nervous. It had been almost eight years since I'd been involved in a group discussion about a book. And reading a book critically is something I have a degree in. The point of a book group is to have a discussion. My main concern was that I would come and find that I had nothing to say. 

The new year saw a slow start to my reading. I only read one book in January, but February was more prosperous, as were the months that followed. The book group gave me a new incentive to read whenever I could.

And I loved it. From the very first meeting I flourished, joining in as much as anyone else present. I am there at every meeting and was recently encouraged to write an article about the group for the church magazine. My happy place will always consist of the written word. And now, at last, I've found some people locally to share this with.

Message in a Bottle

Life has been busy, time sparing, and progress slow. But mysteries have gradually unfurled themselves from the unyielding walls, and a message in a bottle seemed as good a reason as any to post an update. This is the second discovery I've made behind the walls, the first a bookcase built into the chimney breast, concealed by a piece of plasterboard in what is to be Moth's bedroom. 

More recently we've been working on the living room, stripping the old plaster back to the scratch coat and brushing a bond coat across the surface in the hope that someone will then come and replaster the walls for us. When I had finished my tasks for the evening, I decided to pry back the panel of plasterboard, stuck to the left of the fireplace that has always looked grotesquely out of place. We felt sure there must be something in behind because whenever we tapped it, there came a distinctly hollow echo.

The plasterboard came away without protest, as though it knew it didn't really belong there, to reveal a decorative alcove. But the biggest surprise lay within the alcove: an empty bottle of non-alcoholic fizz, distinctly labelled: "Message in a bottle". My heart was beating with anticipation as I called Sewel through to share my find. Our suspense increased as we paused to photograph our excavation before investigating further. Finally, I slipped out the scroll of paper concealed within the bottle and read. 

We had in our hands, not a clue to hidden gold alas, but words of greeting and encouragement from the previous owner, perhaps an even greater treasure. I shared the details of my discovery on Facebook and piqued the excitement and intrigue of a great many friends, who were delighted to hear a real-life account of something we only tend to read about in storybooks. But for me it's a comfort to know that our predecessor will approve of our renovation work as we transform the house into our family home. And it's a wonder to think that we will become a part of the history of this building, and somehow leave our mark on the place.

At the Stroke of Midnight

The world is waiting, watching the minutes slip by as we revolve into another new year. I am straining to fill these minutes with words but they do not come. So I sit here peacefully, contemplating the future, not so far away now. 

How different this New Year's Eve is to the last. I don't recall anything about it beyond the heady sense of anticipation that hung in the air and the fireworks launched from the nearby quay at midnight. We have hopes and dreams for the coming year also, but not the expectation of uprooting our lives again. 

Now we are here. And here we will be at the stroke of midnight. Waiting to see what the new year will bring. But always grateful for all that 2017 has meant to us and those we hold dear.

Light and Wonder

Christmas here is blustery and wet, our walls still await replastering and the clutter of family life tends to spill over. But nothing can spoil the anticipation and excitement that fill the air like magic.

We welcome again the saviour of the world, retelling the story of the first Christmas, and try to pass on the good news.

Christmas brings hope and joy, light and wonder into our homes and hearts. This, our first Christmas in Scotland and the first to ourselves, will be one to remember.

A Blogger's Nostalgia

You should know by now that this is the season that holds the most nostalgia for me. This is the time that I find myself thinking of the friends long absent, but not yet forgotten. And the people standing on the edge of my memory. One day they will slip beyond, but for now they hold on, and I find myself thinking of them from time to time. 

I can't help but remember fondly the early years of blogging. How different it was back then. There were so many bloggers that captivated me with their words, and although I never had many readers, there was a real community spirit to be found amongst those who came my way. I found myself involved with a travelling notebook, and even attended a virtual ball. I can't tell you how much those times meant to me.

Nowadays, blogs seem to be more focused on commercialisation. I appreciate the need to monetise when the opportunity is available, but product reviews and guest posts make for dull reading. Despite my expansive reading list, it's not often that I read on. All of my old blogging friends have moved on, their original blogs abandoned, much like my own, but not quite forgotten.

There is one friend who remains with me, a friend who was there from the beginning.Her blog is the only one that I read without fail, and she is the sole reader of mine. And if her eyes are the only ones that read these words of mine, then I couldn't be more glad. If I don't blog for myself, then I blog for her.

Walk Out to Winter

"It's cold enough for snow," I heard a woman utter as we walked home from church earlier that day. The snow hasn't come yet. I wonder when it will. I don't relish the prospect of driving in it, but that doesn't lessen the excitement I feel at the thought of a proper snowfall soon.

We walk out to winter, treading grit into the pavement with each footstep. Moth grinds it beneath his feet, sliding with every step. He is unnerved by the thin sheet of ice that has formed across the surface of the puddles. He wasn't expecting them to break when he jumped in them. 

I woke one night to a commotion outside my bedroom window, and looked out to see festive lights had been fastened to the lamposts. Shortly afterwards, a huge Christmas tree took centre stage in the community garden, much to the delight of the children. Next weekend we will serenade the streets with carols and watch the neighbourhood glow with festive illuminations.

Suddenly

It takes only an eight letter word to signify the rapid decline of a situation. We saw her just a month ago, on our return visit, and she seemed the picture of health. I didn't think for a moment that it would be the last time I would see her. 

Perhaps that's why yesterday's news came as such a shock, even though we heard, just over a week before, that she had received an unexpected diagnosis, the severity of which had not been established at the time. 

No further news came to us until yesterday. I was halfway through writing her a letter, one that I was confident there would be time to finish later, and maybe others still. That letter will never be sent now.  

The geographical distance makes it hard to take in her absence. Her face, with its radiant smile, surrounded by a wave of frizzy grey hair, comes to mind so easily, an image that I fear will be more difficult to summon with the passage of time. 

We only knew her for five years, but we saw her at least once a week in that period. Being part of a small church congregation was like having an extended family, and she was like a favourite aunt. She came to mean a lot to us.

As worship leaders, we would sometimes arrange services together. I remember fondly the autumn afternoons spent in her kitchen, helping to clean up bric-a-brac for the church bazaar. And several of us joining together in her sitting room for afternoon fellowship.

The last time I saw her, she was standing in the doorway with her husband, waving us off after our visit. That was only a month ago. 

And suddenly, she went away from us. 

I take comfort in my faith that I will see her again. But that doesn't lessen the sense of loss I feel now.