Baby

We prayed you into the world. 
Our love for each other,

And our faith in our Creator

Were the spark of a light

That will now never be extinguished.

That light grows, like you in my womb

More than love – something else…

An awareness that you, little you,

Will change our lives forever.

We will be yours, and you ours.

A knowledge that my heart

Is now indelibly scarred,

With your name. For a while

We will be your world,

Your guiding light, your flame.

 

Hello Ash Wednesday

Excuse the reflective mood. Lent starts today, so it’s got me thinking a bit more about others.

I stumbled across this while flicking through Pinterest this morning:

Isaiah 58-10Very much the theme for my life at the moment, my new job working for ASLAN, putting pen to paper again (ok, tapping on keys) with HJ – it seems a lot is being shuffled into perspective!

What’s wonderful about Lent is that it crosses religion, and even cultures. Ask most people in the street, and they will know that it’s a time when you have to ‘give something up’. But what if you turn it on it’s head and, instead of giving something up, make it a time when you DO something you wouldn’t normally do?

I’ve been openly confronted by some who ask ‘why should I give something up?’ Well, if you don’t want to, don’t! But…you’re missing the point…

The main reasons Christians ‘do’ Lent is to reflect on the time Jesus spent 40 days and nights alone in the desert. It’s the time leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion and subsequent resurrection (Easter) when he gave up food and companionship to pray and be closer to God, his father.

At the heart of Christianity is a hope that we’d help and love the needy, the hungry and the lonely. Sometimes that’s really hard to do. Especially when your initial kindness is rejected or ridiculed by others.

Video: Moved to write by Marcken

 

 

Untitled…

Royal CourtsThey walked slowly out of the building; through its long shadows, down the stark white steps and into the sunshine. It was only then he realised how chilled the stone had been, and how muffled the sound as it’d bounced around the cavernous architecture.

He glanced up at the arch as they came out under it. The building seemed to glow in the sunshine. The sky a blue back-drop. In any other circumstance, he may have paused to appreciate it more.

He was suddenly aware of a group of people clustering around the family who had come out just ahead of them. Men with cameras, a woman holding a microphone. Press.

He guided Geena in the opposite direction, and closer to him, thankful that the family had come out before him..and that they were not interested in them. In the grand scheme of things – they were small fry.

He glanced at Genna as they crossed over the Strand and made their way down Arundel Street, towards Temple Tube Station. Her shoulders shook under his hand every so often as she took another gulp of breath. They hadn’t said a word to each other for hours.

But, what do you say?

His attention was caught by a young black man standing outside a coffee shop. He wore a long black robe that fell to just above his ankles. He was holding a white wig under one arm; his other hand held a thin cigar, which he drew on every so often before it collaborated in making another point to his companion. 

He realised that it was the smell of the cigar that had caught his attention. It took him back to the last time he’d smoked one, thirty odd years ago, when his son had just been born.

With two girls already, he’d really wanted a son. He’d have been happy with either, of course. But, he’d secretly wanted a son. So when he’d arrived at the delivery room, and the nurse presented him with a wriggling bundle in a pink blanket, he was slightly dismayed.

Geena laughed at him. She’d looked blotchy and knakered. Her gown was in disarray, and the top of her breasts were streaked with blood. She was beautiful. 

And then he realised, as the nurse, half smiling too, opened up the blanket.

“We ran out of blue ones today,” She’d said, apologetically. 

Up the hill

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Slick pavements,
Water dappled cars.
Air heavy as the blacked sky.
But, it’s not raining. Yet.
Snippets of swoosh, spish of
Six am traffic,
And Kings of Leon play
In a Cold Desert.
This time, I’m faster, further.
But the hill feels steeper.
Burning lungs, knee twinge,
and embarrassment,
As an old man cycles past me.
Slowly.

New year’s run

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So, after a hiatus: Christmas,
I donned the karrimors.
Wiping sleep from my eyes
to log on to the Marathon App.
My hood up to greet the dark morning:
Rain free, cold, splatterly puddles.
I spotted 20 odd Christmas trees
lying on their sides, like New Year’s party casualties.
Birds sang loud as I raced
(or, rather jogged at a rather nice pace)
down Burntwood Lane to meet the rising sun.
My new favourite sound – the App announcement: “Cool down!”
7km in 50 minutes. I slow to appreciate the cool air,
to ponder why R Kelly is on my playlist,
And look forward to breakfast…

Today’s playlist favourite: Newton Faulkner – I need something

Sponsor me at: http://www.justgiving.com/Sharon-Harriott

Poem: Dorset

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White horses met us on the shore.
We; wind whipped and wide eyed,
Braced to meet their thundering gait.
Not the romantic amble I’d hoped;
The jutting Jurassic coastline stole my gaze,
The violent air took your words away.
And although your hand clutched mine,
Your wonder was at the force of nature,
Which pushed us together
Like a majestic match-maker.

Poem: Heart for you

HeartI dreamed of one with a heart for you
How i prayed, full on, shopping list
Bespoke boxes, ticks, previewed,
I totally. Missed. A point.

You craved for my heart to be for you
Giving first, faithful, loving pure,
Soulful soul mate, fixed, renewed
You eagerly, stressed the point.

Lies have kept me apart from you
Kingdom thirst, losing contentment
Fearful in love, tricked, askewed.
I selfishly pressed my point.

Love paves my way back to you,
Healing hurt, coaxing perspective
Making me trust, it’s you who’d
So readily made the point.

 

1 John 4:10

A First…

Blue butterflyDry umbrella, sniff of summer,
An invasion of butterflies.
The strangest feeling
Planning a meeting
By internet with emoticon smiles.

You were late, our first date.
So, i settle with a glass of wine.
Suppress exclamation,
Quell expectation,
But I text ‘I’m fine’.

I like the buzzing, gentle muzzy
Feel of the trendy gastro bar.
Clinging to my mobile,
I felt a little less solo
Then, looking up, there you are.

Lovely sparkle, like a tickle,
You’re a wait that’s worthwhile.
It’s the nicest feeling,
Knowing we’re meeting
By sunset, with genuine smiles.

Bullies, cowards and empty cupcake sleeves

ImageI don’t normally read the gossip columns, or at least, i don’t normally admit to reading them; but i was moved to post this on my Facebook today:

Was there a woman who saw those awful pictures of Nigella Lawson who didn’t think “If he does this in public what does he do behind closed doors?”

Suzanne Moore’s comment in the Guardian got me thinking – how is it some men think that they can behave in such a way? And why, when Nigella was so evidently being mauled, was someone sitting there taking photos and not asking her if she was ok?

I’m not an expert on domestic abuse by any means, although i have experienced it first hand, and i’m sure there are hundreds of blogs out there commenting on the same thing, but it just makes me wonder: what was Saachi, the photographer, and the fellow diners at that restaurant thinking? From the pictures, Nigella’s thoughts are written across her face…

I obviously don’t know Mr Saachi – but i would have pinned him an eloquent man. But then, some of the most eloquent seem to resort to either childishly sticking their heads under a blanket and hoping a situation will disappear (rather than broach a potentially difficult conversation) or, violence.

Such actions eventually expose them for what they really are: bullies and cowards.