No weekend, all weakened.

Toba Beta.  Oh, now I'll have to look him up. WHY can't I just be content to cite names? Curiosity killed the Caroline.

On second thoughts, curiosity actually keeps my brain alive so it's a Good Thing - just rather time-consuming sometimes...

Toba Beta...Indonesian author chappie. Find him here...

Good quote, Toba!

I do love Sundays. My lie-in. Which may be until 8.30ish. I love all the other days, getting up at 6.30 to go to the yard, to be with the horses, but I DO like it on a Sunday at 6.30 - because I inevitably wake up at that time - thinking 'aaaaaah, more time under the duvet.'

I think that people who have what they consider to be 'Real Jobs' - that's to say, of the 9-5 variety, in an office or factory or anywhere that's not at home, possibly involving a frustrating commute - think that the week and the weekend blur into one for people who work from home, like me. For people 'who swan about, pleasing themselves.'

(That quote is an actual quote. Three guesses...)

Actually, the weekends ARE different and I need a break from work routine just as much as anyone else. No clients phone calls or emails (mostly). No guilt feelings if I don't work. A feeling a smug self-righteousness if I DO work...

See, just like a real job.

Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets trying to find you.

Somebody called Squiggle said this. That's to say, his name, written down, looks like a squiggle.

...a squiggle which translates as Khwāja Šams ud-Dīn Muhammad Hāfez-e Šīrāzī. 

Blimey, what a little squiggle for such a very long name! I shall simply call him Squiggle, if it's all the same to you. 

 He's thinking about it.

So here he is: Squiggle, the Persian mystic and poet, born sometime between the years 1310 and 1337.

I DO like the idea of happiness trying to find us rather than us chasing after happiness. 

All we have to do is to slow down, to be aware of what's going on around us and to embrace happiness when it catches up with us!

Yay!

Pleasure is spread through the earth in stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

Thus spake William Wordsworth when he wasn't wandering lonely as a cloud. Or maybe he was.

Scribbleboxbex

Really, it doesn't take much to make me happy. (It also doesn't take much to make me UNhappy, but that's another story. I'm working on it.)

So today - the tiny weeny things that caused my face to break out into a smile and my spirits to soar.

The bluetit on my lawn, pecking at the fluff on a tennis ball. What a comfy yet strangely flourescent nest she will build!

...the silly bee windmill protecting the lettuces in the vegetable patch.

...and the baby rabbits, not at all scared of the silly bee windmill protecting the lettuces in the vegetable patch, biding their time ready to start scoffing when no-one's watching!

Happy days!

That the birds of worry and care fly over your head, this you cannot change,

but that they build nests in your hair, this you can prevent.

From Everyday Gyaan

The birds that fly over me and nest in my hair (and yes, my hair WOULD make a very good bird's nest!) are nocturnal ones. Not as wise as owls though.

Tuesday night, I went to bed - after meditation, mark you - (fail, fail, fail, Caroline) - and those damned birds were positively Hitchcockian. Positively? No - nothing positive about them.

I knew I had two pieces of work to get done the next day - one, a script for a new client, two, a marketing pitch for a big company.

Those birds convinced me that I wouldn't be able to do either job. That I was full of bullshit when I was saying to my clients 'Oh yes, OF COURSE I'll be able do that.' That inspiration would have gone Absent Without Leave. That my reputation would be in tatters...

No amount of telling myself that thinking like this was IDIOTIC...no amount of saying to myself 'You KNOW you get like this sometimes at night and everything will look different in the morning,' served to calm those birds. They didn't only nest in my hair, they laid eggs and the eggs hatched.

Not much sleep was had by Caroline Coxon.

And in the morning, things looked different, the birds had gone but inspiration hadn't, and I rattled off both jobs (I think, very well) in record time.

I have a new anti-bird policy.

The secret self knows the anguish of our attachments...

and assures us that letting go of what we think we must have to be happy is the same as letting go of our unhappiness...says American self-help writer, philosopher, and spiritual teacher, Guy Finley.

I can actually hear your mind working..."Blah, blah, blah...here she goes again. Another one of her up her own bottom posts. Sometimes thinking too much just ain't a good idea." (Or you might say "just isn't a good idea" if you adhere to The Queen's English.)

leannananabz

Yes, when attached to a hot air balloon with your hair on fire, letting go is a Good Idea.

So - my week: Monday nights - Creating Happiness seminar - Landmark Education. Tuesday nights - meditation in the New Kadampa Buddhist tradition, Wednesday nights - yoga in the Pranava tradition. Not surprising I'm up my own bottom, and at least now, with all the stretching, I can reach.

 I think these guys have all been talking to each other because at the moment we're exploring the same thing from three different angles - pragmatic, spiritual and physical, I suppose you could say.


Mindfulness. Being with whatever emotions flit or stagger in an ungainly fashion through our minds. Letting go of attachments.

How sorted will I be, after all this?

Sheffield, I suppose, could justly claim to be called the ugliest town in the Old World.

How very DARE you, George Orwell! Still, at least that was referring to Sheffield in 1937.

Misty evening in Sheffield, 1937

(Misty evening? That's what the photo is entitled, at any rate - but maybe it was smog? Artistic licence.)

Ugly or not, I'll tell you what - Sheffield people are the salt of the earth, kindness personified. My evidence? See below.

This is Alf and Christine, who visited us for tea today, en route for Eastbourne. A Sussex cream tea in our garden.

They keep an eye on Jane, my sister, who lives in sheltered housing Sheffield - she's bi-polar so life can be a bit of a challenge for her sometimes. 'Keeping an eye' is a very measly phrase for what Alf and Christine do - visiting, shopping, giving lifts, taking to Salvation Army events, inviting round for meals, DIY, and soon - Christine will be taking Jane swimming. They care.Their generosity and Christian love is unconditional.

Jane's a long way away from my home - her own choice. I worry about her. My worry is very much less because there's Alf and Christine. So...

About a million times...

Sheffield - where lovely people live.

There was something horribly depressing, she felt, about watching the weather report.

 That life could be planned like the perfect summer picnic drained it of spontaneity...

Galt Niederhoffer, The Romantics

I think we British are worse then ever on Bank Holiday weekends, poring over forecasts as though it mattered a great deal. As though life might come to a standstill because it's raining.

Why SHOULD the weather be sunny on Bank Holidays? It's not a God-given right, is it?

As it happens, this weekend the weather IS pretty good.

Oh, we must dash out immediately and enjoy ourselves by the seaside.

By Muriel Delahaye

We British really know how to have a good time.