daisy, daisy

Many years ago, when I was a little girl, I had a giant walking doll. Looking on Google images now, I see that she was probably only two foot tall, so perhaps she wasn’t as giant as I remember. Of course, I was a lot smaller then.

I don’t remember whether the doll talked as well as walked, but that wouldn’t have mattered: I’m pretty sure all my dolls and stuffed animals talked to me. I certainly talked to them.
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summertime blues

Last week I complained that with all the different days that people celebrate, every day has to do multiple duty, meaning that each week has far more than seven days.

But it’s not just the days that fly by apace.
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rumours of spring

My co-author, Lucía, and I are still working on the final pieces for the third of the Modern Pagan Prayers books, which will include pieces for each of the eight festivals of the wheel of the year.

We’re definitely on the home straight, but the last few weeks haven’t been very productive, not least because it’s not particularly easy to write about summer and harvest time in the middle of winter when temperatures are sub-zero or the wind is wuthering and the rain is soldiering down.
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signs of spring

To be frank, despite the post title, I don’t think I’ve seen many signs of spring yet this year. But I did open the kitchen door wide on Friday morning to a bright early morning and think perhaps the air smelt fresher and milder. Then, of course, there was cold rain later on and yesterday brought sleet, although not the heavy snow that had been forecast.

Of course spring, like most of the seasons, is a wonderfully confusing concept: when does it actually begin?
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unseen & unseasonal

So, in the last post – in vino veritas – I was whining and whingeing on about the neverending nothingness and nonoccurrences of the coronavirus lockdown and bemoaning my own lack of life and liberty (never mind the chance to pursue any happiness).

Then I ended up finding a bright sunrise at the bottom of a wineglass. And that got me thinking…
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