Balls, roses, motivation and procrasti-writing

Why is it always so much easier to motivate others than yourself?

Other than struggling to find the right words to encourage piano practice and homework and bedroom tidying and putting your plates in the dishwasher, I can usually find the right words to motivate others. But although I know what I should be doing, and know what I want to be doing and why, I find it almost impossible to get down to the elusive it that I need to be doing. The self-directed motivational words blur and disappear. Perhaps because I don't believe them. I stray into a life of procrasti-tidying, procrasti-gardening, procrasti-ironing and procrasti-writing. Today was a fine example -

Procrasti-gardening = ball topiary, admiring a wall and pruning climbing roses

My 'balls' - 'very satisfying even if part of me is thinking tennis balls, yellow shorts and goggles: minion topiary ... ?

I'm not sure if Bertie Baggins agrees with the minion idea

The minions/balls sit atop a ruggedly handsome if somewhat decrepit wall

Which is covered in mosses and lichens

Which I procrasti-photographed, of course

Before moving on to a job I didn't do last year - so I had two summers' worth of rose pruning to do

While Bertie Baggins sat and guarded me from ... well, from nothing actually. Unless he counted the pheasant that far from presenting a threat to me, appeared determined to threaten his own survival by landing in a garden patrolled by two pheasant-hating dogs. It survived. But came back later. And survived again. Pheasants have very small heads.

Unfortunately I couldn't finish - fingers full of thorns and secateurs not man enough for the bigger branches. Cue more procrasti-gardening next weekend.

And more guarding. And watching for stupid pheasants.

Procrasti-baking = apricot and white-chocolate bread loaf.
Pretty yummy

Procrasti-writing = well ... obvious really. But what I really need to do is write a list, several lists, relating to several different things that I have to do soon and 'the lists won't get done unless I write them.'

So, I'll be procrasti-listing next.

Comments

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful. Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here - in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast. Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and

Walking The Dog

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