Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Some daunting is experienced at this point. It is balanced by an increased ability to 'look fresh' at my surroundings. These verses cover, roughly, 0030 to 0050 hours. 20. An apple drops from its tree Hits the ground with a cartoon thwack Rolls and comes to rest  At the foot of the tall grass 21. Leaves fidget, urging air into motion  They unbudded on this branch  With flowers that have swollen  Into the ripe and falling fruit 22. In the room where the lamp is left on The dog rolls over, sleeping Four paws stretched out and her Head rests on a cushion 23. Doors on the wood-burner closed Damped flames burnt down to  Beads of heat, timber structures are  Residual shapes of ash 24. Next to the lamplit room, a row Of barrels sing, this is blackberry Wine fermentation, the happy Song of the airlocks 25. The oven clock light is green There’s a flicker in the kitchen When the numbers change The shadows jum...

miracle = ordinary moment viewed with fresh eyes, made extraordinary  This has taken the form of a poem, which gives meaning to what would otherwise only be a list. I have paid no attention at all to format beyond keeping each verse to 4 lines. Ideally they should be read one by one anyway. One a day should suffice but there are 19 here because this is just a first attempt, I'm mostly playing with the idea. If 41.66 miracles per hour equates to 1,000 miracles over 24 hours, these 19 are about half an hour of a day. I have started at midnight.     At the zero hour it seems nothing exists But the deep breathing of sleep And the heaving of wind in darkness Bowing trees as though dragons fly here   Down the wall a spider walks Unseen, the whisper of eight feet Unheard on the wallpaper, this is A secret world, a spider’s world   Uncounted leaves stream, pulling On thin stems, twisting loose, one leaf Takes hold of ...

Furthering my quest to appreciate life, to actually be bothered to find the extraordinary in the ordinary detail of life, I have set myself this task. I use the word miracle to describe the act of seeing the moments where something wonderful is happening (if you are looking at it correctly.) I think I need about 41.66 per hour to cover 24 hours. Further miracle reports to follow.

‘In so far as you may be aware, you have this one life. It is an exceptionally precious gift, though I say so myself, and I stayed awake for six consecutive days and nights, knocking back enough espresso to kill a minor deity, creating the earth and heavens so that these freely given lives could be played out under the wide sky, under the variations of sun, cloud, mist, moon, stars, eclipses, meteor showers, rainbows and weather systems that give each day, each season, each year its own particular feel, to make each life specifically different. Don’t just look up; the terrain under your feet, the horizon around you, the subterranean rock textures, the leaves on trees, the light configurations in a block of high-rise flats are just as variable. Don’t just look; use every sense you have. Hear it, taste it feel it: every moment you have is unique. But are you paying any attention? Have you looked at the sky in the last 24 hours; have you noted the clouds, or the breeze or the fineness...

These pictures were taken on a winter's day when instead of tidying the house as planned we wedged bodyboards in our armpits and trekked out to hurtle ourselves down a bumpy snowy field. Then we came home with cold wet limbs, dramatising our bruises into near death experiences while the espresso pot bubbled on a dirty hob. There was an element of pride at the mess the house was in, with some simultaneous revulsion. It's a lively mess, because we are always busy. I like it as long as it's lively. When it gets stagnant then I get cranky and start to tidy up. There needs to be a process, so we can keep seeing that this is a reflection of how we have chosen to live, this is what the mess represents.  These are not great photos, but they represent something important to me, something specific to me; the splendid dirty funny dance of my only life.  Living is the most important creative process.

It's a real soup. It's also a state of mind, which, if by cure we mean 'make better,' does cure everything.  To explain, here's a brief autobiographical tale. Once upon a time there was a wonky cottage with two tiny open fires and an impressive collection of cold damp draughts. There was no telephone, no internet, TV reception depended on the weather, and whether they could afford the electric bill. Living in the cottage was a growing family with a shrinking budget. When the gas bottle ran out they cooked on the fire. It was impossibly picturesque, so don't feel sorry for them, and most weeks they could buy a chicken from the supermarket. It was one of those value chickens; kept in crowded filth for a short miserable life and its bedraggled body injected with water to give an impression of plump health under glossy cellophane. Not the happiest purchase available, just the cheapest. In death, the sad straggly bird was greatly appreciated. Roasted wit...