I temporarily abandoned my duvet this week in favour of vintage monogrammed cotton sheets picked up for next to nothing at my favourite junk shop. The sheets are almost as heavy as my duvet, but are such a delight to sleep under these recent warm nights. Imagine waking up this morning wrapped in white sheets with the dawn chorus carolling around my consciousness. Heavenly.
The hordes began arriving for Easter yesterday afternoon, and soon we were laughing and yahooing over cups of tea and endless, endless cakes and treats. No chocolate though, as most of us gave it up for Lent, together with "chocolate-cheese-chips", the usual alcohol, walking the bloody dogs (we screamed with laughter at this one) and "not saying the rosary every night;" to which we all nodded and thought we should have done this too... One had even given up saying the F-word, and as the F-word is merely another adjective for someone born and raised in the North, this was indeed a magnificent achievement worthy of a very large glass of Bush after lunch today.
Flowers are banned from churches during Lent and make a spectacular appearance after the Easter Vigil on Saturday night. It is one of the loveliest parts of Mass on Easter Sunday. I try to operate a similar ban at home, so as soon as it was light this morning I was up and out into the kitchen garden, cup of tea in hand, looking for spring flowers for my Easter feast table. Photos to follow.
And always at Easter my thoughts turn eastwards to my homeland.
To war zones.
"...and that there where I am,
under rain or
my love, I am waiting for you,
I wait for you in the harshest desert
and by the flowering lemon tree,
in every land where life exists,
where spring is born,
my love, I wait for you.
If they say to you: "That man
does not love you," remember
that my feet are alone in this night, and they
search for the sweet, tiny feet I adore...