About three days a week I bake a tidbit for my grandson's supper. He gets fed plenty at school but getting home at 9pm he needs a snack and his poor mum is running two businesses so has less than no time for cooking. These feta, olive and sun dried tomato scones Look very knobbly because of all the bits but are my personal favourite (obviously I also benefit from this baking) The recipe is one of Delia's. She's fail-safe. Almost.

I though I would have a lot tp say about my experiences at a Qi Gong workshop this weekend but now I have the pad in front of me I'm finding it hard to put into words so, in brief, it was good and I feel a lot better for it.

It didn't come as easily as yoga. When I first started yoga classes, an awesome 40 years ago, I felt as if I knew it already and some of the asanas I did as a child, instinctively, without knowing they had been given names. Qi Gong feels new and awkward, but my body seems to approve!

I love dragons and if I sewed I would make as many dragon wall hangings as chillside makes fat ladies! I very much regret a clay dragon I made long ago that had its tail broken so I threw it away. I could have glued it back.

The last two Cinema Sundays have been dedicated to an Italian director, Gianni Di Gregorio. I've decided I like his style. He was compared somewhere to Woody Allen but that doesn't really do him justice. In both these films he takes the protagonist's role. In the first, 'Mid-August Lunch' he surrounded himself with elderly Italian ladies who had never acted before and, from what I could gather, he gave them very little in the way of dialogue so they were as much themselves as possible. The ' leading lady', the oldest, plays his mother who is a startling nonagenarian with grossly over-sunned skin, large grave marks, creases you could fall into and be lost for days, veins the size of the Urals , and a glamorous blonde wig. She should be appalling, but she is gracious, elegant, feisty and she is dressed in chic Italian couture. I vowed to buy myself some more long gloves after watching this though because hands as we get old - mine anyway - can be quite grotesque.

This redoubtable woman appears as his mother in the next film, 'Salt of Life', even more elegant as this time she is meant to have money, with a different set of card-playing cronies. In both she runs her son ragged as he tries his best to please her because he is obviously fond of her. The theme of the second piece is the middle aged man's despair at the onset of old age. He tries to hold it off by courting, hopelessly, ( his eyes drooping with melancholy, like a particularly loose-skinned Basset Hound) young vibrant women.. He sees his contemporaries doing this, and even older men, but it doesn't work for him. He joins the ranks of the old buffers sitting outside under the lime trees smoking and making comments on passers by. He thinks of topping himself. But it ends in a resigned sort of OKness.

This week I have mainly eaten Tapas!

Wednesday there was the Scottish tapas: haggis in tempura batter, fish in ditto but no chips, Aberdeen Angus sausage stew - and that was about the limit of the pub's imagination, the other dishes were more predictable.

Yesterday it was Chinese; easy for the restaurant really. They had had some Chinese ladies teaching them how to cook authentic dishes for the week-long New Year celebrations, so just served small portions for the tapas: Wonton soup, (always my favourite) Dim Sum, and, requested by my friend, beef in black bean sauce, which wasn't such a success because they had sliced the beef all wrong, too thick and not along the grain so it was really tough.

Predictably, at both venues, there was always the dish that was far too salty. I suppose the traditional taste for sweet things in this part of the world has to be balanced by saltier savoury dishes. (Just my theory.) I'm always grumbling about the amount of salt in everything up here. Sometimes it's all I can taste, but when i complain (politely) the waitresses/chefs look bemused and say no-one else has complained.

Sigh.

The Dim Sum were very very nice though.

No photos. Sorry. I always forget my camera...

My reading jag has included the three Tana French (new Irish crime writer) I bought last year. I'm waiting for the next. She really is very good. Each novel has been written in the first person, so far she's voiced two men and one woman and seems equally comfortable with either sex. The protagonists are liked by their job - in the Irish Guard, detectives, one often under cover, one the senior of the other two. This is satisfying as it gives different views of the same characters. I'm going to quote a bit here from 'Faithful Place' the last so far, which has more humour than the other two.

 "You're looking very well,'Carmel informed me, predictably. If the Risen Lord appeared to Carmel one morning, she'd tell him he was looking very well. Her arse was in fact pretty high-impact, and she had developed a genteel meet-my-sinuses accent that didn't surprise me one bit. Things round here were much more like they used to be than they had ever been.'

 So, apart from reading a lot, last night I went to a talk on Daoism given by my acupuncturist, an amazing lady.I've read (tried to read) the Tao Te Ching and I've use the I Ching a lot but I have never arrived at any useful understanding of what Daoism is other than the belief that all is interconnected. Last night I finally got a glimpse,and really like it. It certainly must be the oldest philosophy in the world because there are signs of its presence way back in prehistory. It preceded writing and believes that the true Dao is beyond words. Difficult for westerners. Bisong also made her audience (a mixed bag of Scots, Germans, English, Ductc, Austrians, Australians - and that was just the ones I knew) laugh by saying that westerners can't follow Chinese conversations because they jump around from one subject to another like children. She puts this down to Daoist thought which permeates all Chinese society.

 All in all it was an interesting evening and I was impressed with myself for going!!

 Lunchtime today I'm celebrating Robert Burns with a friend who, like me, doesn't get out in the evening much. This means 2 pints of real ale for him, a whisky for me and - wait for it - haggis tapas!

Kung Hei Fat Choi!

The Year of the Dragon welcomed in.
I missed the 'Waking the Lion' because the hall was full, but it's available on YouTube. Wish I'd been there.

A friend sent me this:

 
        O What complicated webs we weave.

 
                        

THE RECORD OF THE LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF WU-MING
Compiled by Master Tung-Wang
Abbott of Han-hsin monastery in the
Thirteenth year of the Earth Dragon period (898)
My dear friend, the most reverend master Tung-Wang,
Old and ill, I lay here knowing that writing this note will be my last act upon this earth and that by the time you read it I will be gone from this life.
Though we have not seen each other in the many years since we studied together under our most venerable Master, I have often thought of you, his most worthy successor. Monks from throughout China say that you are a true lion of the Buddha Dharma; one whose eye is a shooting star, whose hands snatch lightning, and whose voice booms like thunder. It is said that your every action shakes heaven and earth and causes the elephants and dragons of delusion to scatter helplessly. I am told that your monastery is unrivalled in severity, and that under your exacting guidance hundreds of monks pursue their training with utmost zeal and vigour. I've also heard that in the enlightened successor department your luck has not been so good. Which brings me to the point of this letter.
I ask that you now draw your attention to the young man to whom this note is attached. As he stands before you, no doubt smiling stupidly as he stuffs himself with pickled cucumbers, you may be wondering if he is as complete a fool as he appears, and if so, what prompted me to send him to you. In answer to the first question, I assure you that Wu-Ming's foolishness is far more complete than mere appearance would lead you to believe. As for the second question, I can only say that despite so benumbed a condition, or perhaps because of it, still more likely, despite of and because of it, Wu-Ming seems to unwittingly and accidentally serve the function of a great Bodhisattva. Perhaps he can be of service to you.
Allow him sixteen hours of sleep daily and provide him with lots of pickled cucumbers and Wu-Ming will always be happy. Expect nothing of him and you will be happy.
Respectfully, Chin-Mang
After Chin-mang's funeral, the supporters of his temple arranged for Wu-Ming's journey to Han-hsin monastery, where I resided, then, as now, as Abbott. A monk found Wu-ming at the monastery gate and seeing a note bearing my name pinned to his robe, led him to my quarters.
Customarily, when first presenting himself to the Abbott, a newly arrived monk will prostrate himself three times and ask respectfully to be accepted as a student. And so I was taken somewhat by surprise when Wu-ming walked into the room, took a pickled cucumber from the jar under his arm, stuffed it whole into his mouth, and happily munching away, broke into the toothless imbecilic grin that would one day become legendary. Taking a casual glance around the room, he smacked his lips loudly and said, "What's for lunch?"
After reading dear old Chin Mang's note, I called in the head monk and asked that he show my new student to the monk's quarters. When they had gone I reflected on chin-mang's words. Han-hsin was indeed a most severe place of training: winters were bitterly cold and in summer the sun blazed. The monks slept no more than three hours each night and ate one simple meal each day. For the remainder of the day they worked hard around the monastery and practised hard in the meditation hall. But, alas, Chin-mang had heard correctly, Among all my disciples there was none whom I felt confident to be a worthy vessel to receive the untransmittable transmitted Dharma. I was beginning to despair that I would one day, bereft of even one successor, fail to fulfil my obligation of seeing my teacher's Dharma-linage continued.
The monks could hardly be faulted for complacency or indolence. Their sincere aspiration and disciplined effort were admirable indeed, and many had attained great clarity of wisdom. But they were preoccupied with their capacity for harsh discipline and proud of their insight. They squabbled with one another for positions of prestige and power and vied amongst themselves for recognition. Jealousy, rivalry and ambition seemed to hang like a dark cloud over Han-shin monastery, sucking even the most wise and sincere into its obscuring haze. Holding Chin-mang's note before me, I hoped and prayed that this Wu-ming, this "accidental Bodhisattva" might be the yeast my recipe seemed so much in need of.
To my astonished pleasure, Wu-ming took to life at Han-shin like a duck to water. At my request, he was assigned a job in the kitchen pickling vegetables. This he pursued tirelessly, and with a cheerful earnestness he gathered and mixed ingredients, lifted heavy barrels, drew and carried water, and, of course, freely sampled his workmanship. He was delighted!
When the monks assembled in the meditation hall, they would invariably find Wu-ming seated in utter stillness, apparently in deep and profound samadhi. No one even guessed that the only thing profound about Wu-ming's meditation was the profound unlikelihood that he might find the meditation posture, legs folded into the lotus position, back erect and centred, to be so wonderfully conducive to the long hours of sleep he so enjoyed.
Day after day and month after month, as the monks struggled to meet the physical and spiritual demands of monastery life, Wu-ming, with a grin and a whistle, sailed through it all effortlessly. Even though, if the truth be told, Wu-ming's Zen practice was without the slightest merit, by way of outward appearance he was judged by all to be a monk of great accomplishment and perfect discipline. Of course . I could have dispelled this misconception easily enough, but I sensed that Wu-ming's unique brand of magic was taking effect and I was not about to throw away this most absurdly skilful of means.
By turns the monks were jealous, perplexed, hostile, humbled and inspired by what they presumed to be Wu-ming's great attainment. Of course it never occurred to Wu-ming that his or anyone else's behaviour required such judgements, for they are the workings of a far more sophisticated nature than his own mind was capable. Indeed, everything about him was so obvious and simple that others thought him unfathomably subtle.
Wu-ming's inscrutable presence had a tremendously unsettling effect on the lives of the monks, and undercut the web of rationalizations that so often accompanies such upset. His utter obviousness rendered him unintelligible and immune to the social pretensions of others. Attempts of flattery and invectives alike were met with the same uncomprehending grin, a grin the monks felt to be the very cutting edge of the sword of Perfect Wisdom. Finding no relief or diversion in such interchange, they were forced to seek out the source and resolution of their anguish each within his own mind. More importantly, and absurdly, Wu-ming caused to arise in the monks the unconquerable determination to fully penetrate the teaching "The Great Way is without difficulty" which they felt he embodied.
Though in the course of my lifetime I have encountered many of the most venerable progenitors of the Tathagata's teaching, never have I met one so skilled at awakening others to their intrinsic Buddhahood as this wonderful fool Wu-ming. His spiritual non-sequiturs were as sparks, lighting the flame of illuminating wisdom in the minds of many who engaged him in dialogue.
Once a monk approached Wu-ming and asked in all earnestness, "In the whole universe, what is it that is most wonderful?" Without hesitation Wu-ming stuck a cucumber before the monks face and exclaimed, "There is nothing more wonderful than this!" At that the monk crashed through the dualism of subject and object, "The whole universe is pickled cucumber; a pickled cucumber is the whole universe!" Wu-ming simply chuckled and said, "Stop talking nonsense. A cucumber is a cucumber; the whole universe is the whole universe. What could be more obvious?" The monk, penetrating the perfect phenomenal manifestation of Absolute Truth, clapped his hands and laughed, saying, "Throughout infinite space, everything is deliciously sour!"
On another occasion a monk asked Wu-ming, "The Third Patriarch said, "The Great Way is without difficulty, just cease having preferences." How can you then delight in eating cucumbers, yet refuse to even take one bit of a carrot?" Wu-ming said, "I love cucumbers; I hate carrots!" The monk lurched back as though struck by a thunderbolt. Then laughing and sobbing and dancing about he exclaimed, "Liking cucumbers and hating carrots is without difficulty, just cease preferring the Great Way!"
Within three years of his arrival, the stories of the "Great Bodhisattva of Han-hsin monastery" had made their way throughout the provinces of China. Knowing of Wu-ming's fame I was not entirely surprised when a messenger from the Emperor appeared summoning Wu-ming to the Imperial Palace immediately.
From throughout the Empire exponents of the Three Teachings of Buddhism, Confucianism and Taoism were being called to the Capitol, there the Emperor would proclaim one to be the true religion to be practised and preached in all lands under his rule. The idea of such competition for Imperial favour is not to my approval and the likelihood that a religious persecution might follow troubled me greatly. But an order from the Emperor is not to be ignored, so Wu-ming and I set out the next day.
Inside the Great Hall were gathered the more than one hundred priests and scholars who were to debate one another. They were surrounded by the most powerful lords in all China, along with innumerable advisors, of the Son of Heaven. All at once trumpets blared, cymbals crashed, and clouds of incense billowed up everywhere. The Emperor, borne on by a retinue of guards, was carried to the throne. After due formalities were observed the Emperor signalled for the debate to begin.
Several hours passed as one after another priests and scholars came forward presenting their doctrines and responding to questions. Through it all Wu-ming sat obliviously content as he stuffed himself with his favourite food. When his supply was finished, he happily crossed his legs, straightened his back and closed his eyes. But the noise and commotion were too great and, unable to sleep, he grew more restless and irritable by the minute. As I clasped him firmly by the back of the neck in an effort to restrain him, the Emperor gestured to Wu-ming to approach the Throne.
When Wu-ming had come before him, the Emperor said, "Throughout the land you are praised as a Bodhisattva whose mind is like the Great Void itself, yet you have not had a word to offer this assembly. Therefore I say to you now, teach me the True Way that all under heaven must follow." Wu-ming said nothing. After a few moments the Emperor, with a note of impatience, spoke again, "Perhaps you do not hear well so I shall repeat myself! Teach me the True Way that all under heaven must follow!" Still Wu-ming said nothing, and silence rippled through the crowd as all strained forward to witness this monk who dared behave in so bold a fashion in the Emperor's presence.
Wu-ming heard nothing the Emperor said, nor did he notice the tension that vibrated through the hall. All that concerned him was his wish to find a nice quiet place where he could sleep undisturbed. The Emperor spoke again, his voice shaking with fury, his face flushed with anger: "You have been summoned to this council to speak on behalf of the Buddhist teaching. Your disrespect will not be tolerated much longer. I shall ask one more time, and should you fail to answer, I assure you the consequence shall be most grave. Teach me the True Way that all under heaven must follow!" Without a word Wu-ming turned and, as all looked on in dumbfounded silence, he made his way down the aisle and out of the door. There was a hush of stunned disbelief before the crowd erupted into an uproar of confusion. Some were applauding Wu-ming's brilliant demonstration of religious insight, while others rushed about in an indignant rage, hurling threats and abuses at the doorway he had just passed through. Not knowing whether to praise Wu-ming or to have him beheaded, the Emperor turned to his advisers, but they were none the wiser. Finally, looking out at the frantic anarchy to which his grand debate had been reduced, the Emperor must surely have realized that no matter what Wu-ming's intentions might have been, there was now only one way to avoid the debate becoming a most serious embarrassment.
"The great sage of Han-hsin monastery has skilfully demonstrated that the great Tao cannot be confined by doctrines, but is best expounded through harmonious action. Let us profit by the wisdom he has so compassionately shared, and each endeavour to make our every step one that unites heaven and earth in accord with the profound and subtle Tao."
Having thus spoken the Son of Heaven concluded the Great Debate.
I immediately ran out to find Wu-ming, but he had disappeared in the crowded streets of the capitol.
Ten years have since passed, and I have seen nothing of him. However, on occasion a wandering monk will stop at Han-hsin with some bit of news. I am told that Wu-ming has been wandering about the countryside this past decade, trying unsuccessfully to find his way home. Because of his fame he is greeted and cared for in all quarters with generous kindness; however, those wishing to help him on his journey usually find that they have been helped on their own.
One young monk told of an encounter in which Wu-ming asked him, "Can you tell me where my home is?" Confused as to the spirit of the question. The monk replied, "Is the home you speak of to be found in the relative world of time and place, or do you mean the Original Home of all pervading Buddha nature?"
After pausing a moment to consider the question, Wu-ming looked up and, grinning as only he is capable, said, "Yes."

"Without an adequate diet, medicine is useless; with an adequate diet, medicine is not necessary" - Ancient Ayurvedic Proverb. I've always thought that to be true whilst being forced to resort to what the drug companies churn out. My own health is systematically undermined by medicines I have to take to keep breathing - something an adequate diet doesn't seem to be able to help me with. What the NHS failed to explain to me was that asthma-alieviating drugs deplete my body of Co-Enzyme Q10 which is vital heart nutrient that naturally prevents heart attacks and strokes. It also stops cholesterol from blocking arteries, helps lower blood pressure and rejuvenates heart cells.. If I had been told this years ago the chances are I wouldn't be having problems with high BP. To add insult to injury they try to insist I take statins which ALSO deplete Co-Enzyme Q10, among their other adverse side effects. I only tumbled to the COQ10 in November but the moment I started taking it I felt better. My energy levels have increased, my mind is a lot sharper and I am more cheerful. As I'm a hard-nosed cynic about all things medicinal this isn't a placebo effect. I'm not normally a conspiracy theorist but when my ex, who has no cholesterol problem whatsoever, was told he should be on a statin - well, you can't help wondering who is scratching whose back. PS to chillside: oat bran is more effective at lowering cholesterol than oat meal and you only need eat 60gms a day

It was a good lecture at NADFAS yesterday - best yet. The title was slightly misleading, ‘Who says? Can we trust the experts on good and bad in art.’ J and I had a lively discussion in the car on the way to this about good and bad art and we interpreted the meaning. J’s opinion is that ‘good’ art refines people’s way of looking at their world. I hope I’m paraphrasing correctly. Both of us agreed it’s subjective but that there is ‘dead’ soulless art around that does nothing for anyone, even if it isn’t actually ‘bad’. It just doesn’t have the vital spark. The lecture when it got going proved to be mostly about the authentication of art and of the several famous works that can never quite be given the stamp by experts, for instance ‘The Skating Minister’ thought to be by Henry Raeburn until 2005 when a curator of the Scottish National Gallery suggested it was by Henri-Pierre Danloux. Now the label in the gallery acknowledges this claim. Van Gogh is, we heard, one of the hardest artist to verify because of the way his paintings were stored during his life-time and distributed after his death. There was a funny story about Maggie Thatcher who at a low in Scottish Tory Party fortunes deceided to go along to their annual gathering at the Burrell collection to cheer them up. Her visit had t be kept secret from everyone because of the Irish threat so noen of the invited knew of it and as they were indeed demoralised they didn’t turn up - no-one did. Maggie was incandescent and not much soothed by a guided tour around the collection. She declared the stained glass to be pretty but ‘you get more colour for your money in ceramics. I myself am a collector of ceramics.’ She went on to mention the recent furore over a work that had come up for auction ‘by that man who paints chrysanthemums.’ When it was tactfully suggested she might mean Van Gogh’s Sunflowers there was a long silence. Suddenly she said: “Van Gogh! That's the

man. He paints VERY poor chrysanthemums.’

Eat Art

There was Op Art and Pop Art. Now there is Eat Art - or Scoff Art perhaps - as initiated by Theo who prefers to be creative with his food instead of eating it.

Is this what's wrong with America?

Someone gave some of us a pack of Hershey bars. We all agreed it's the very worst chocolate we have ever tasted. Even my son, who will eat just about anything, spat it out. I understand now why Brits living in the States write home for chocolate! Stuff like this could bring down a proud nation.

This is me browsing through my Grimoire. I truth I have come to work without my specs. Awkward. I'm still at the off-the-peg stage with eye support so have cheap old pairs lying about everywhere at home, but not here. I've managed the crossword and other Inde puzzles but can't get on with writing the two stories a friend found in a local history book to add to my Folk Tales of the North collection. Frustrating.

The stories are rather good ones in that the source is from a century much closer to the events than I usually find, but they are about witch trials at an 'Ordeal Pot', a deep water hole near the cathedral and upsetting rather than quirky which makes me like them less. I'm not aiming for historical realism in my collection thank you, just entertainment.

This morning I laid out all my writing projects across my bed (where I mostly write now I have the laptop) and tried to decide which one of the five to concentrate on. I've put my faith in that angel of Purpose to see I get on with something, get it finished finished and do something with it at last. ( It isn't necessary to believe in angelic beings to use the energy generated by picking a particular quality from a pack of cards. As it happens I DO believe in over- lighting beings. If anyone out there has read the Seth channelings they'll see how it could work, if not put it down to wooly, pick'n'mix thinking.)

The autobiography project is accruing a small group of ladies who are interested in doing the same thing. Not sure how useful a group is to a writer, It can be a distraction rather than a help, but as I've written about my life before ( and lost the results) it's a bit dull ploughing the same furrow so the socialising might regenerate some spontaneity.

Talking to my half- brother over Christmas revealed the startling news that he also writes in hope of being published. His genre is crime, for
which he has a solid advantage as he was in the police force all his working life and the CID for many years. I, on the other hand, have first
hand knowledge of very little and am not at all observant of real life organisational details, only of people and whatever makes them tick.

I definitely feel better when I get into writing mode.

If I could get beyond the first chapter or turn some false starts into stories it would help. Focus!

Happy 70th birthday Stephen Hawking!

Sandy was given a web cam.

IT'S BEHIND YOU!

I never remember pantos being as noisy as that one was. Maybe my ears are getting frail. The loudest yeller was my middle g'son who alarmed the people on all side of him. He really has a VERY good pair of lungs. Number One g'son laughed convulsively at the slapstick to my surprise, I thought it all might be beneath a thirteen year old. Number three wanted the white mice back again, not the least interested in the horses they changed into. All enjoyed the ice-cream interval. Another tradition observed.

Happy New Year everyone! My Angel ( chosen at the Solstice Spiral ) is Purpose. Maybe I said that already. Yes, I did. Oh well - better get used to listening to me say everything six times. Time marches on. So far my only purpose has been to set the house to rights and return the earth inside to the outside (amazing how it clings to small wellies.) Any more weighty purpose will have to stand in line.

It was a good holiday, if exhausting, great to see my son, his wife and the Terrible Two. I miss them now, whilst glorying in getting my bed back. Each time they come up their resolution to move north gets a little firmer. Cornwall has many benefits, including employment, surf beaches and warmer temperatures but I am confident Scotland will win in the end!

No time or headspace for reading has left me a bit crazy, so lots of that going on between the mucking out sessions. Howl's Moving Castle is next on my list as I was given it for Christmas. It was a favourite of the children when I was still reading to them and Chloe christened her wood burning stove Calcifer recently, reminding me to ask Santa for a copy. Diana Wynne Jones was the best children's author of the pre-
Potter era IMO. Best for magic anyway. I loathe writers like Michael Molpurgo whose books are so harsh and ' real' and darkening.

Unnecessary to darken children's minds with horrors of war. They need respite. Cynically i suspect a novelist's or publishere's cany eye has
been caste toward the schools who want starters for history lessons and discussions.

My morning has just been cheered by our window cleaner, a very likeable good- hearted ex- Foreign Legion guy who always has adventures to relate. He spent Christmas Eve and Day in a cell because he inadvertently overstepped the exclusion zone set by a certain woman who is out to get him. Personally I think the polis enjoy having him inside. He kept the other prisoner's spirits up by loudly demanding paper and pencil to write a love letter, because he thinks he's in love (with another fair damsel needless to say,) yelled at the young first- timers who were weeping a bit because it was Christmas and all they got was mince an'tatties when they should have been at home by their own hearths etc.etc. He told them it was nae sae bad, mince and tatties were his favourite anyway and he'd buy them all a whisky on Boxing
Day.

One way to have fun is no' to let'm get you down in his opinion.

Getting back to work seems to have finished off the frivolity in me for the time being. I will return when I have refound my frivol!