Cold Mountain

A few years' ago I read a book called 'Cold Mountain' by Charles Frazier; I believe it was his first novel. It took me a little while to get into his drift of writing, but when I did, I couldn't put it down. Then, shortly after I'd finished reading his novel, I heard that the film was in production. The film was a hit with Nicole Kidman and Jude Law and when I saw it for the first time I cried and cried. The film came out after my lovely man had died and emphasized too, too much the power of love and devastating effects on those left behind. What else can we do, those of us left behind? We struggle on and try to make a life of what's left. In the film, Nicole Kidman says that there were 'clouds and clouds, then there was sunshine.' I'd like to know when my sunshine will come? Perhaps it won't...

As an Optimist am I always deluding myself? Or, am I one of the few fortunate ones that is looking forward instead of backwards? Perhaps my sunshine will come after all...

Holidays

Trying to book a week away for half-term holidays for two daughters, myself and three children is turning out to be a nightmare; it was so much easier back in the 60's when my young brother and I were carted off to a campsite in Cornwall.

I presume too much; how do I know it was easier. Who knows what complicated arrangements my parents had to make in order for me to think it all happened by clockwork. But then again, not everyone was going to Cornwall, unlike now when the world seems to have booked Center Parcs! All accommodation in all four sites are taken for the half-term week. I should have known!

Perhaps we could all go to a campsite in Cornwall instead?

More than Petal-deep

I'm always amazed at the beauty and perfection in a lone flower or petal, whether its shape is misformed, damaged by weather or dying. I have a huge number of photos of all kinds of flowers, berries, plants and leaves which the viewing of, cheers me up on dull days.

As I get older I view people this way too, something I should have done when I was younger, but probably too arrogant, immature and proud to do so.

I am no beauty, as someone pointed out to me a couple of years' ago, when comparing me with a photo of my mother in her twenties. She was indeed a striking woman with high cheekbones, full pouting lips and thick, dark hair; nothing like me at all.

When I look at my four daughters, I see four very striking, beautiful women, who, like my mother, are all much more attractive than me. I must be a throwback to a hard-working, work-weary ancestor; of the tall, fair, plain variety. Nevertheless, I have managed to turn a few heads in my time; probably in disbelief, rather than admiration. And when someone has told me how attractive I am, I just don't believe them. He told me often how lovely and attractive I was, and still I didn't believe him, saying that he was biased.

I now think that we are all like the flowers and plants in my photos; no matter how weather-beaten, stunted, broken, misformed, damaged or dying; we are all beautiful in one way or another.

More than petal-deep.