Monthly Archives: August 2013

bees on flowers

Wow – look at this!

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Arthopodic discussion

So much lovely yellow to be had 🙂

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Curl

Someone else’s beautiful yellow moment – lovely

Beyond Purgatory

Curl

Curl

90mm    f8 @ 1/8s    ISO   100

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Moments of yellow – 7/363 – single yellow boat

spotted in Bembridge harbour.  We’re walking the 14 miles from Shanklin to Ryde.  This is about half-way and usually my least favourite part.  It’s a long trudge on pavement around the harbour inlet – so it takes a long time to get not very far as the crow flies.

Today it doesn’t seem as bad.  Maybe that’s because the coastal path is closed immediately before the harbour and it’s pleasant to escape the housing estate diversion.

Still thinking about the moment.  If I’d not anxiously anticipated the tiresome harbour trudge (which did not materialise that way), would I have found more joy in the beginning of the walk?

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Moments of yellow – 6/363 – Common catsear

(Hypochaens radicata) – yellow flower knowledge increases thanks to the internet and to Robin who, now trained to photograph anything yellow, captured this as I sprinted ahead up Culver Down.  Edible, and often mistaken for a dandelion apparently.

I’m too busy thinking about the eternal now (smell that irony) and mourning the loss of so much coastal path to erosion.

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Moments of yellow – 5/363 – bird’s foot trefoil

otherwise known as lotus corniculatus (thank you internet).  Sprinkled across Tennyson Down on a glorious sunny walk, mostly looking at a wonderful wide expanse of sea and thinking about balance.  Apparently yellow is the most common colour for flowers. thinking this is a good excuse to improve my knowledge.

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Thanks to Robin, who’s good at carrying his camera and getting used to me pointing at yellow stuff and saying ‘photograph that’

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Moments of yellow – 4/363 – bruises

Some hurts are slow to heal.  Is it tuberculosis where the body walls up the bacteria in scar tissue?

Today in yoga we’re considering joy. Suddenly this involves shouting at each other. For me being shouted out is just a breath away from something that leads to bruises. Not for a long time now, yet still.

And I’m angry at my yoga teacher for including this. And I’m angry at others for finding it funny. And I’m angry at myself for being unable to let go of past hurt. But I’m not really angry at all. I’m afraid. Because I’m reminded that all those feelings of joy and safety are illusory. Underneath it all we remain, always and at any moment, hurtable.

 

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