This being human is a guest house...

"This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond."

Rumi. Circa 1240(?)

Valentines Day

© Rob Lee

Ragnheidur Bjorgvinsdottir Lee arrived in the UK on Valentine's Day in 1947

Extreme Weather

The very rare giant blue poppy — only flowers during extreme weather conditions...

Snowflakes

Two snowflakes land side by side on the ledge of a Manhattan skyscraper. In the streets far below the pavements are crowded with people, tiny black shapes moving about like ants.

“Incredible isn't it,” said one snowflake to the other, “from up here they all look the same, but did you know that each one is unique?”

The snow continued to fall, becoming heavier all the time, swirling past the ledge into the void below. For a moment it seemed that the white flakes falling through space, and the black dots on the pavements, were part of the same strange design.

“Yes, I know,” said the second snowflake, “and they are just as fragile as we are.”

iRemember

I remember so well this time of year, when the fields have returned to dark brown earth once more, the furrows polished smooth by the plough blades, and the golden fields of corn, shimmering in late summer breezes, are already a distant memory. The sun rises lazily though hazy mists, which hover over meadows and mingles with the breath of cows, and the cobwebs on the withering blackberries are heavy with dew. 

The sweet chestnut candle flowers, so recently dancing in the sunlight, are now drooping heavy with smooth brown conkers, which fall and remain scattered around the tree trunk, waiting for the little boys who no longer come to pick them up. 

The landscape changes from light to dark and the sky is strangely quiet, until you realise the swifts and swallows have left without saying goodbye, and are probably already chirruping and screaming through the skies over African villages and towns. 

And so the days gradually get shorter, the long descent into the cold and monochrome world of winter. It's time to remember where the sloe trees are.

Oh I do Like to be Beside the Seaside...

© Rob Lee 2016

All this (and much more) was gathered in the space of about fifteen minutes from a small beach in Crete, including a four-pronged 'trident.' 

A note about the title of this blog

'The murmur of ancient geraniums' is a line from 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which I had always liked, and stored away in my mind thinking that it would come in handy one day, perhaps for an artwork. 
But when I was setting off to South America it seemed an appropriate title for my blog.

The banner image is plundered from a Greek cigarette brand 'Santé', which I came upon on my first visit to Greece in 1998. I was not even a smoker anymore by then, but I was drawn to the stylish packet, and the girl with her head tilted back, and bought a packet. I remember smoking some of them, but not inhaling of course. I think my son finished the rest years later, when they must have been dry as a bone.

For years smokers wondered who the woman was, some presumed it was the lover of the painter who did the artwork, others that it was a prominent Athenian woman. Finally became known that it was the actress and dancer Zozo Dalmas.

Being back in Greece, I have just discovered that after 85 years of production the brand is now been discontinued.

An earlier version of the packaging: