Pomegranate Endings

"Once upon a time a mother lay dreaming of a pomegranate seed. The seed, dark red and sweet was irresistible and the mother eagerly popped it into her mouth. As soon as the seed touched her tongue it began to wriggle and change shape. The mother's eyes flew open wide in surprise and her hand shot to her lips to keep the pomegranate seed from escaping. When she could hold it no longer she cupped her hands to catch it as it rolled and jiggled and eventually jumped straight out of her mouth. The mother opened her hands to reveal a tiny, perfect baby no bigger than a jelly bean. It rolled onto its back and gazed up at the mother's face with a knowing smile. "
That was my 'Pomegranate Dream'. I used to have it every couple of months. Always the same. The sweet pomegranate, the perfect tiny baby with the flawless skin and laughing eyes. A smile to melt a thousand hearts. I thought perhaps my dream was a message. Maybe the baby was an idea that needed to be brought into fruition. It was this that made me want to write a blog. I read blogs for well over a year before I ever dared to leave a comment. Then it took another year before I finally took the plunge and started my own. But strangely I never wrote about the things I'd intended to write. The things that my pomegranate dreams had inspired me to write. It has been lovely to have my own little space for random thoughts and flights of fancy but I think - in this form at least - my blog has run it's course. I hadn't expected anyone to read my words let alone write to me. That has been the most pleasant of surprises. I've so much enjoyed the connections I've made - some fleeting, others more enduring. I understand now why people love blogging so much.
I've got a few ideas taking shape in the back of my mind so who knows? But for now at least 'Pomegranate Dreams' is going to say goodbye.

The baby and the Mother and all the good fairy bloggers in blogging kingdom all lived happily ever after.

Treasure Hunt

Yesterday on my walk to work I kept spotting little sponges scattered along the grass at the side of the path. The ones you might use for washing the dishes - sponge on one side and the rough green stuff on the other. They were all different colours and looked almost like a trail or treasure hunt of some sort. I laughed to myself imagining it might be a treat for hard working cleaners. Perhaps at the end was a giant mop bucket full of goodies such as handcream and perfumed muscle rub. Made me smile on a grey, rainy, working day anyway.

Waiting

I feel like I am waiting for something. Maybe something good is just around the corner? Or perhaps I am just waiting for the sun to shine with a little more warmth. The wind seems to bite too hard for comfort and I scurry back indoors. My bones are cold and aching. I think I'm coming down with something. Today at least I'll stay home and dream of a hot, still afternoon spent punting. The sun will soothe away the shivers as I lay back and close these hot prickly eyes. I'll drift off to sleep to the sound of water lapping against wood and birdsong. Always birdsong.

Moments in time

Every now and then I look out of my kitchen window and see my girly swinging on her swing in the garden. She's usually singing but sometimes it's clear she's miles away, gazing up at the clouds and daydreaming. I love to just watch her in her own little world. I wonder what she is thinking about as she leans back, hair streaming behind and little face tilted to the sky.

Other times I'll catch a glimpse of my boy strumming on his guitar. He might be humming or lips pressed together in concentration. I love the way he holds his guitar and works his magic to make it sing. I'll take in the curve of his shoulder and his lovely dark curls framing the side of his cheek. I should be happy in these moments but sometimes I'm not. It's as though the first fingers of melancholy and nostalgia are already pressing on my heart. They don't yet have the firm grip of loss yet their touch can still bring tears. In a little while they are gone and I return to the present. I'm happy to watch the children play. Happy to be.

I know I am lucky and that I have no cause to feel this way. But whenever these moments return I am filled once again with yearning. A desperate wish to capture the day forever. I run for my camera knowing that it won't be enough. Apparently this is called 'future nostalgia' and I am guilty of not living enough in the present. I guess by doing this I am cheating myself out of the very moments I'm yearning for. Note to self - stop this at once.

Funny Bone

There's nothing I love more than a really good tummy-aching, eye- watering laugh. My son makes me laugh a lot. He plays the straight man - and he's usually laughing at me - but I still can't help laughing. At times I know I should tell him off for being so cheeky but I can't.

They say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit but sometimes I'm helpless when I'm around someone with a really dry, wicked sense of humour. My weakness is the friend with impeccable comic timing who says something with such a straight face and then leaves me to howl whilst everyone looks at me and not her. Don't you hate it when that happens?

A good sense of humour is the cure for most of what life can throw at us I think. The ability to laugh at the madness going on around you or to see the funny side of a bad situation is priceless. I love sharp satire, black humour and slapstick equally. I love the the clever and the silly. I think I just have a very sensitive funny bone. I still have to guard myself against the unexpected attack of the giggles which once plagued my younger days. The kind that leaves you breathless and comes upon you at the worst possible time. Once I called a friend and got the giggles whilst trying to leave a message on her answerphone. I hung up and composed myself, then rang again to explain and apologise. As soon as I started to talk I just collapsed into fits of laughter again and had to hang up. I did this twice! Fortunately she saw the funny side.

Cooking Class

Girly has been having cookery lessons at school - or rather 'food technology' as they call it. I remember dreading 'Home Economics' day when I was at school. We must have had the most impatient teacher in the world. Combine that with one of the clumsiest children (me) and you have a recipe for disaster. If it could be knocked off the counter, spilt or broken then I would be the one to do it. The teacher used to tut, curse and slap at my hand with a spatula. She'd snatch the bowl away whilst calling out to the class "This is how NOT to do it!" Of course that resulted in even more spillages as I bumbled about and rushed to try to get it right.

One day however I finally got the praise I'd yearned for all year. I beamed with pleasure as the teacher ceremoniously carried my tray of beautiful golden brown scones over to the counter. Multiple burns and dropping of hot trays meant I wasn't allowed to retrieve my own baking from the oven. Unfortunately my happiness and pride was short lived when we all gathered round for the tasting and 'Miss' took a bite. She coughed and spluttered, her face turning crimson as she gurned her way through the mouthful. Apparently I'd misread tablespoon for teaspoon and added waaaaay too much salt.

The Perfect Bag

I wish I could say the the pictured bag is perfect - but it isn't. I also wish I could say I made it myself - but I didn't. Although I had a little smile to myself as if I'd joined the ranks of crafty mums when I uploaded it. It must be so satisfying to show everyone something you've toiled over and are pleased with. But alas this bag is a shop bought one that I liked the pattern of. And I think that's where the trouble starts. When I choose a bag it's usually purely for aesthetic reasons. I zoom in on the colour mix, the cute button fastening or the silky lining and forget about anything else. Then when I try to use it I find it's not the least bit practical.

Here's my problem. My week is split between work and study so I need two lots of stuff to carry around depending on the day. I went through a phase where I'd go to pay for something only to realise I'd left my purse in the other bag. I got myself into some real pickles (no petrol + no money+ no phone = eeek) and decided I really must rethink the bag situation. I came up with idea of having one smaller bag with my keys, purse, phone etc that I would always have with me. Then I could just pick up whichever extra bag I needed and wouldn't have to be swapping things around. Sorted! It kind of is but the bag pictured is my study bag and though it's pretty it just doesn't work for me. The handles are too long so I have to carry it on my shoulder with my other smaller bag. Or I could put one on each shoulder like a donkey. Or I could ditch the smaller bag and throw my purse etc into it.

I always thought that when I became an adult I would automatically develop the skill of being organised. I'd cast aside my dippy image and be prepared for any eventuality. But here I am still searching for my glasses when I'm wearing them and wandering aimlessly through car parks trying to remember where I put the car.