Simple Faith

Many think of ‘faith’ as the underlying belief in an all-powerful entity, intelligent design or some form of religion.

But what if faith is just  the simple trust in the blessings of life, even (or especially) when it feels like there are none?

Or what of the faith that, in their hearts, our fellow man is doing their best, even if that best doesn’t seem like it; and they unwittingly hurt us in their own painful struggle for survival?

Perhaps we need nothing more than the courage to trust in our own innate kindness and compassion so that we can then see this reflected back in our own lives and existence?

What and how then would the world be if we all realised this?

Maybe then we may reach a place of heavenly peace on earth.

It’s not about religion. It’s about being who we really are, despite everything and despite the pain that the sometimes cursed blessing of our existence bestows upon us.

Then, finally,. we may see ourselves as the angels we all are inside, walking this earth in human form.



This short set of thoughts and words came to me as my residency in Brighton was drawing to a close… for some reason it feels poignant and accurate of my life and home in what now seems a world away.


“We built this city!” cries out of tune in a bar
As half-cut crowds fill my head with poetry.
This city is home, with foundations of rough pebbles,
Smooth talk and crashing drunken waves.
The streets sweat with high heels, overflowing pubs
And cash machines glittering their wares.

The houses dispense tottering girls as live music
Declares they hear a train is a coming.
Coming back uphill I see the wheel and its lights turning
As a city of rock rolls heavily in to the night.
Shouts of excitement slip away into whispers in
Side streets, as my home finds me on top of it all.

July 14, 2013 – Hanover Lofts, Brighton.


My heart goes out to the families and friends of those killed in Paris a few days ago.

Headlines around the world (and my Facebook feed) are filled with the horror of the atrocity. Quite right too: it was a barbaric and ruthless slaying of gentle fellow men who dared to bring a little humour to dark parts of our world.

Whilst their families grieve, it feels that everyone is crying out also in their anguish.

These are cries of anger, outrage. People feel sick at the thought of terror striking deep in the beautiful city of Paris. This is a perfectly human response.

The media and nearly all the people I know are writing and talking of the horrors of Islam; some say that such atrocities done in the name of such a religion (or any religion at all) are a thing to be reviled.

I can see why.

Yet, in the daily news grind we all too easily forget yesterday’s headlines over our morning coffee. Or stop to think what might have seeded the murdering intent of the horrors in Paris this week.

In our outrage today, how many of us care to remember the hundreds of thousands killed in Iraq, at the hands of our countrymen and on the orders of the politicians we allow to lead us?

Our troops may be home, but our weapons are still being used. The killing goes on. Civilians in Iraq are being killed at the rate of four Paris massacres a day – over 350 in the first week of January this year alone.

One in five Iraqis has lost at least one close family member since the Coalition invasion into their country to ‘liberate’ them.

Where are our tears for the mothers and fathers who have lost their children? For the children who have lost their parents?

That’s 3 million children whose lives have been shattered and thousands of others who have died in bombing, shelling or caught in the crossfire of our own weapons of mass destruction used in the name of freedom.

We were not defending ourselves. We started it. And on paper-thin lies in the name of our society’s religion of shopping centres, money and the oil we use to power our everyday lives.

We’ve lost thousands of our own in this inferno of violence. But remember: for every soldier killed on our side, one thousand civilians have died in Iraq. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons…

And we cry out now that Islam is a violent religion? That these people are a threat against us? That we are freeing them from an evil ideology?

Can we really say our way of doing things is better, having wrecked such slaughter in a country that posed no threat to us at all?

For a death toll of so many on the orders of politicians who illegally kidnap, torture and then lie about it? On the orders of our leaders who try to cover up child abuse amongst their own?

We spend billions killing those so far away to make their lives better (we are told) while not having care enough for the poverty and injustice we see in our own streets.

Is this the better way of doing things that we are bringing with our better ideology, our democracy, as we call it? I often struggle to see that we are, let alone that it is worth killing so many to enforce it on others.

I cried last night for the families of those killed in Paris. I then cried for those killed in Iraq and the rest of the Middle East. The tears seemed unending as is their ongoing slaughter. And children are still being killed by US air strikes in a fight against terror that we created in the first place.

Who is the real terrorist here?

I cast my mind to how I would feel if I had lost my mother, or brother or even my daughter in an airstrike on my home. My thoughts were certainly not of peace, not that her death as collateral damage would be the unfortunate cost of my freedom.

In such a dreadful situation, I think all of us would unleash our darkest and deepest anger at such a thing. Some might well swear to avenge the death of their child. Or others would. If you doubt me, perhaps remind yourself about how this country reacts to news stories of paedophiles. It’s not pleasant.

We don’t like to admit it, but we might feel violent rage to those who had done such a thing. We might strike back in any way we could, under any banner, under any excuse to avenge the killing of our children so callously. We might well want to create as much havoc and chaos as possible. We might see all on the other side as valid targets for our vengeance.

Whilst I have a deep faith that love, not white phosphorous, conquers all, it would be sorely tested if my loved ones were killed in such a way.

What if we dare to look away from the tragedy of what has happened in Paris, even briefly, through the eyes of those upon whom we have rained down such terror ourselves?

Might we get a sense of what drives the murderers to such ruthless atrocity?

More open eyes might start to see that it is not at its core about religion, it is not about ideology, it is probably not about cartoons.

It is about anger and about revenge. By any means possible.

To repay the hatred they feel for what we have done and continue to do in the name of a deathly, hollow freedom our violence has bestowed.

In many ways it’s a miracle we can live so peacefully and have not suffered more such attacks in our cities. The fact that so very many have not taken to avenge the deaths of their children, their wives, and their brothers is quite extraordinary.

Maybe we should look at things differently?  Maybe we should look at what hate we created in the almost-religious zeal to secure the oil we all use so freely?  And secured at such human cost to us all.

Sometimes love stands too quietly while evil seemingly triumphs. But love has a twin, in compassion. The ability we have for our hearts to reach out to others we do not know and have never met.

This is the divine in us. Let us leave aside our ideology, our religion (and those of others). Let us quieten our shouts of what is right and wrong for just one moment; and let our hearts go out to all have lost loved ones at the hands of terror in any form, anywhere.

Perhaps, then, the killing might stop.

Until that time, let us freely mourn our fellow man, woman or child. Let us shed tears for them: for those in Paris; for those in Iraq; for those killed around the world, every single day.

Each one is a tragedy. Each is one too many.


My mother warned me never to trust a man who drives a white motorcar or has a beard.

These wise words, from the smoky kitchens of Chelsea mews houses in the days of the John Profumo scandal, seem apposite today as they were then.  As we all know, white cars are driven only by salesmen, criminals and the newly-rich.

If you doubt her advice, just take a look at Alan Sugar.

Such clear-cut regulation can seem to unfairly and irrationally divide. It is no less here in the countryside.

To those who visit, the rules seem many and confusingly the most important ones of all are never spoken of, least of all written down.

Now some, like Second Breakfasts or the fact that the pubs and the few small restaurants that exist in these parts only serve lunch at lunchtime mean that, at worst, an ill-informed visitor might go hungry for a few hours.

Some transgressions can, however, scar you near-permanently as ‘city folk’. It doesn’t matter how muddy your not-white Range Rover is, it will take you years to remove the tarnish of such a reputation.

If you live on one of large farming estates here – or in part of a gothic castle, as I do – the rules multiply quicker than the bushy-tailed thieves of the walnuts from the trees outside my front door.

My weekend guests have often given me blank looks when I’ve told them that they cannot under any circumstances use the West Drive (which actually lies due south), no matter what their TomTom might say otherwise.

Invariably they ignore my detailed map, get lost and arrive very late (up the wrong drive) having rung me two or more hours ago to say “we’re only ten miles away”; at which point I’ve started to mentally prepare cocktails and lay the table for dinner.

I actually sympathise with the horrors of the M4 on a Friday evening that guests might endure. I also have nothing but a kind ear for tales of the hell-hole of Membury Services where they seek a comfort-break. (Note:  Leigh Delamere is much better. Magor is better and cheaper still).

However, please remember your host, who has got up early and visited the butcher, baker, pie-maker and the greengrocer. They are now sat in the kitchen staring at a Number One cut of prize Herefordshire beef and trying not to drink too much, in case they have to drive to meet you after you’ve got lost.

Such delays can bring on zombie-like impatience for dinner and horror of horrors, no time for a proper welcome with a G&T; or a brief of how the heating works. This is the countryside, not Quaglino’s darlings.

Here, we eat at seven. Possibly eight, if you are coming from London or it’s the middle of summer.

Remember, we have to get up at dawn to feed the chickens or make emergency calls to get the boiler refilled with oil so you can have a hot bath over the weekend. So excuse us if we leave you with the gin and show you where to turn the lights off.

We may live in huge houses or gothic towers, but we had to let the staff go when our great grandfather gambled the fortune away on a fail-safe investment in 1929. Thus doing breakfast for guests, whilst we nurse a hangover with only four hours sleep, is Not Much Fun.

Whilst on the subject of hangovers: never, ever finish off the gin in a midnight thirst-rage assuming you can replace it in the morning. We don’t have 24hr off-licenses here. In fact we don’t have off-licenses at all and nowhere is open at all on Sundays. We will silently curse you the rest of the weekend.

Gosh, there are so many rules.

Or manners as my grandmother would call them.

Of course, she believed that if you had to ask what the rules where, you were likely somewhere you shouldn’t be.

However, the first rule of hosting is to make your guest feel comfortable. Thus an error on your part will receive nothing but a smile. Possibly the wave a hand airily and cheery laugh, if it’s something really bad you’ve done, like let your dog chase the sheep in the top field.

This makes the whole business of the countryside complicated for everyone.

But it was on my walk back from church that the simple answer to all this dawned on me.

I was on the forbidden West drive, to which I am granted access only on Sundays for services at the estate church. It’s a ritual I now enjoy much more than the now fading appeal of Downton Abbey. Whilst avoiding the icy potholes in my inappropriate suede footwear (even I can make mistakes), I was idly contemplating the etiquette of coffee after communion services.

In the absence of fellowship of instant coffee and cheap biscuits by the font, country custom dictates reciprocal invitations for decent caffeine at one’s home, with anyone whose first name you can remember.

If you do not know the rules, this can lead to all sorts of trouble.

Of course the correct answer, when invited for coffee at a neighbour’s house depends on the time of the service.

For early services (those that finish before 11 o’clock), then you can say yes, unless either party has weekend guests, in which case the answer is no.

Don’t forget that, if you do go, you should then stay for no less than half an hour and no more than an hour. Too little time chatting over a custard cream is rude, too much is an imposition. Don’t forget to reciprocate the invitation at the earliest opportunity.

For later services, when it may be midday by the time you leave (depending on the sermon), then the unspoken rule is that everyone offers invitations to each other, but no-one accepts. It’s obvious why: we all have Sunday lunch to think about, whether we have visitors in weekend residence or not.

Actually there is a very simple answer to all these situations; even one’s as complex as whether to accept an invitation for coffee: rules are manners and manners themselves are nothing more than organised kindness.

Since returning to live in the countryside my friends worry that I might be lonely. They forget that in the country one is very rarely ever alone. One must beware gossiping with a friend in a remote field about the local ne’er –do-well, for the subject in question is very likely to have materialised unseen behind you.

This brings warmer advantages though. There is never a lack of help here and we all keep a friendly eye out for each other. Oddly, with greater space comes greater community. One often finds assistance before even needing to ask for it.

Here, kindness is all around.

This is why the countryside has so many rules. It’s not about prevention of fun but rather encouragement of friendship and community. Whilst at all times respecting other people’s needs, be that need for sleep or time to make Sunday lunch for weekend guests.

Act with kindness in all your actions and the countryside, if not the world, will be a glorious place. You will find yourself with remarkable people and in remarkable places. And be invited back.

So now you know. We haven’t written the rules down as that would be rude as well as not very British of us.

Please visit. We want to share the joy of where we live. We want to share our local single-estate gin. We want you to have a fabulous experience.

Just remember to be kind. Arrive on time, leave farm gates as you find them and don’t finish off the gin without us.


I love the cold. I love the night sky. I love the stars. I love the way that the longer I look in to the dark, the more I see – just as life is and always will be revealed to us.

I love the owls calling in the still silence. I love the lazy half-moon reclining, throwing it’s weak reflection on The Tower. I love the thick ice touching its beauty and leaving the land sparking with hidden diamonds.

I love coming back in to the warmth of a fine Maderia, sipped from a perfect, if tiny, cut crystal glass.

I love life and I love where I live.


It was one April, striding through Manhattan’s buzzing SoHo streets when I noticed it for the first time: the perfect ice-clear separation from people and the vibrant activity of life as I had known it but hours before.

I was with the editor of a luxury life-style magazine, a PR magnate and a super model. We were being led on an adventure in to the unknown by an ex-Vietnam veteran called Batman, on and in to the streets of New York to discover ourselves and what being homeless really felt like. To bear witness to the experience.

We were to live as hobos, sleeping rough for a week. We had nothing but the clothes on our backs and our wandering, fearful, minds to sustain us as we set out in to the complete unknown amongst unfamiliar damp streets.

The glass wall between us and the rest of life came down suddenly and imperceptibly.  Reality had shifted with the merest of silent flickers.

Now on the outside looking in.  Like CGI characters overlaid on a film, unseen to the human actors who were clinking glasses in bars and chattering; busy and alive with their own evenings.

We walked, unnoticed, with our heads often down looking for treasures of half-smoked fags and silvery change dropped on the sidewalks, in a cloak of invisibility, quite alone and distant from the cinematic projection of the world going on around us.

So it is with my depression.

One moment I am with the throng of life, feeling alive, wonderful and blessed. Then a stumble…

To others, this may look as though this is caused by a trip on one of life’s many obstacles: an unpaid bill, an argument, perhaps the loss of a job or worse.

The imperfect truth is that I cannot say what triggers my own fall from reality.  It is a whispered thought within me, whose words I do not catch fully. In an instant I feel as I did back then in New York: separate and unseen.

These times, however, I am alone.

There is no laughter, no thin bravado of companions and shared treasures of dimes and butt-ends within this place.

It is a total separation from the rest of life. I get up, sometimes can get dressed, and occasionally eat. I see life go on all around me but it does not touch me. I cannot touch it. I am caged without bars but drawn to drink, to find solace in something tangible that will match my contradicting feelings of wanting to numb myself and yet feel alive.

Perhaps this is why depressed people can turn to alcohol, drugs, eating and self-harm disorders: to find some way of both numbing and feeling at the same time. Anything that helps escape the open prison of thoughts and feelings.

I count myself lucky that the worse I do in such periods is to make a large gin at possibly an inappropriate time and  a tendency towards my favourite pyjamas. I also put clean sheets on my bed and exile myself within them.  So I rest, resist the gin (at least until after the sun is past the yard arm), take a bath and wait for life to flicker back again.

More recently, I’ve started recognising these dark episodes as a part of me and embracing them with real love, as a parent would embrace a child who had run away from home and returns fearful and shaken.

Accepting myself more wholly, with kindness equally for my twin brothers of light and dark that drive me, has brought me greater peace and happiness. This easier friendship of my different feelings also means less tangled arguments inside my head over which gets to play with the Action Man tank of life next.

Now these periods of self-imprisonment are far less and at most last a couple of days. I have learned that taking simple care of myself and letting my feelings (or often lack of feelings) flow their course, helps.

But the stumble in to this last period of depression seemed to deepen, no matter my kindness to myself through it.  This fall from grace felt far more serious.

After a full five days, I found myself still falling, freely and with arms outstretched. My stumble has been far worse this time. I had not slipped off that proverbial sidewalk to the gutter, but off a cliff and into a bottomless chasm.

Despite, or rather because of, my fear of heights I have of course taken a free-fall parachute jump. Doing this, I learned that the jolt in the stomach, the feeling of falling that binds us to that fear, lasts but seconds. After that one feels free and as though one is flying, not hurtling downwards.

So too this period: the falling feeling stopped and I felt static, silently free within; I felt neither happy nor sad; everything seemed utterly perfect and yet nothing was real. A dangerous place if one has no rip-cord to pull.

There was only the dull thud of me hitting a bottom lower than I had been before.  Only a few things remained tangible from my life left so far above.

In particular was my obsession with not letting food go to waste: so some rather special Chorizo sausages (semi-cured from pedigree Welsh pigs) that needed to be cooked were made into a pasta sauce that I didn’t have the appetite to eat.

I also had an overwhelming desire to conquer my mountain of laundry, having used the last set of clean sheets a few days before.

It was then my brother rang, urging me to stay with him, after he read my cry for help in an email I forgotten I had written. He even promised to pay for the fuel to get there. It was not the petrol which made me go, though it helped. Rather, I had to do something, anything, to change what was happening to me and where I was.

Or perhaps it was my pile of laundry and knowing he had a washing machine that got me packing and moving from my bed. I am not really sure.

So in the early evening darkness I packed an odd combination of one clean shirt but three types of shoes, my steam iron, a cocktail shaker, some pear liqueur and a sausage roll.

My special sausage sauce was left behind in my sole courageous aim to get myself to where help lay (with my ironing) or at least away from where things were not getting any better.

Tired to the core and my body aching  painfully during the drive, I was not sure whether to check myself in to A&E or the nearest mental ward. I dismissed the latter, if only that I thought they would not quite appreciate the greater importance of my special iron as I did.

Back on those New York streets we took great joy in the smallest of things: a whole unsmoked cigarette, a dollar bill, a bunch of grapes or a toothbrush given to me by someone who had even less than me.

I remember then a simple kindness I gave a huge and frightening chap who was in great pain and anger: a half-smoked cigarette. It was unexpectedly repaid a few days later in a food line with a smile and a nod of thanks to me. We then chatted a little, a hug was exchanged and tears flowed from both our faces. In the first time in over a year he had human touch, my heart was blessed in return by a simple connection. In that small moment both our lives were improved. Mine forever.

So at my brother’s house I unknowingly hoped some small detail of life would act likewise, as a touchstone: perhaps a tear; perhaps a moment of laughter; perhaps just a walk with his dog.

Reality is a delicate perception. Like a dew-kissed spider’s web it can be beautiful, strong and flexible through the worst of life’s winds and storms.

Yet, if a supporting strand is broken the whole web collapses in on itself.

We marvel at the spider’s resolve to rebuild its web, seemingly so perfect and so essential to its survival. It will make the web over and over in the same place. The spider knows instinctively which gap between two walls is just the right size, the right position. It has the patience to wait.

I like to think that eventually the spider will move on from a place where the web is broken daily by human activity, such as a door way or window opening. Or does it stay, with no awareness of its futile actions, until it starves to its own destruction?

As much as we admire the spider’s work, most do not like to see its form: dark, silent, moving too quickly to corners and hidden places for us to love it.

This is how I felt about myself now. In truth, it’s also often my first instinctive reaction to those I have seen go through their own agonising periods of depression.

We shy away from what we do not like to acknowledge within ourselves. It’s a natural feeling. As much as we wish to free the spider in the bath, we do not wish to touch it.

I am not sure what spiders think or feel, but for us, who are both blessed and cursed by consciousness and self, there is always love, always hope.

However, these were two treasures I’d buried and forgotten where they lay; I now scrambled half-blind trying to uncover them.

I could see my friends fervently exhorting where I should look, but I only saw silent words from my bubble below.

They had not seen me slip and sink to where I now lay, but they immediately reached out desperately to help me. I saw their friendship and their care: the deep passionate love they had for me.

But I could not feel it.  Their life rafts of help floated uselessly above.

As much as most serious accidents are caused by a moment of inattention and a little bad luck, my rescue came from the good luck of noticing something at just the right time.

It happened at the kitchen table with my niece and her friend next door. Lunch was a selection of Bath cheeses and expensive farm-shop accessories bought by my brother to cheer me up.

I had brought a lonely sausage roll as well as my laundry from home; so my meagre meat ration was added to the fare.

We tucked in and I offered some of the ‘Shropshire Blue’ sausage roll to both girls. They suspiciously agreed to try a bit.

Now, I am not sure how many sausage rolls girls eat before they reach their fourth birthday, so cannot reliably ascertain the accuracy of their critique.  However, to see unrestrained joy in young eyes as mouths both munched in unison, “This is the best sausage roll in the whole wide world!” did something magical.

It was a simple, innocent, beautiful moment and I smiled.  It was just enough to make me feel again.

There were other moments that came after that. Each giving me help I was now able to receive, pulling me up word by kind word, or just their quiet love that I could now sense.

I am blessed by truly exceptional friends. Everyone, but everyone has reached out to me. We are never alone, as much as we might feel like it or, in my case, wish it.

It is a struggle and I am still some way from the surface, but I am heading upwards to somewhere brighter. Sometimes one really does need to move towards the light.

So through all this, I have borne witness to a week on desolate streets within myself: damp, often dark, cold and self-isolated as I experienced then, in that New York April.

I’ve had to see my reality collapse. I feel I’ve survived only by letting go of my own web, beautiful as it has been, of what I had built before.

I have had to go to a place where nothing is possible, to learn that anything is possible.

I moved to Hay-on-Wye earlier this summer, driven with no plan and no idea what was in store, but a trust that it was absolutely what I must do. My unthinking actions still feel the right choice. This is my home and others see the joy living here has brought me.

What I must trust now is my friends and my heart. To catch the silvery threads of love that float around us but we are too busy to see. It is time to build another beautiful web, this time in a window with a new light shining through it.

This will not be easy. It feels it could be the biggest challenge yet.

For me now, it is not about giving up; it is about giving in. Surrendering to life.

To mirror what a dear friend often says to me: “I’m all in.”

Half Light

The half-light makes the billet walls creep closer.
White: the colour of everything and yet nothing.

This time, grey: mundane, meaningless.  Claustrophobic.
Tighter, like the pain in my heart. Pushing, pressing…

“Escape, run!” cries my mind. My heart pulls me back.
“There is hope in new beginnings”, it shouts, “fight on!”

Like a jilted lover, my heart cries in pain. But it know there is
Hope. There will soon be light and beauty in the chaos.

Another dawn. New light: the hope of something different.
My spirit guides me. But yet, tells me not where we go.

My body is tired of the fight. Too many times over the top.
Beyond what would have destroyed other human forms.

Luck: the arm of a brother lifting me from the mud. Helping,
Loving without question every time I fall and fail in my duty.

I’ve fought with courage. The whistle blowing after the tin cup.
A mug filled with the rum deal of luck that has forsaken me.

Left alone in no man’s land. The wire is broken, like my spirit.
My comrades’ lives too, as they fall. I love them more than me.

I have saved them all, in small ways, lifted up with small kindnesses.
And they too have saved me in return with a simple smile of courage.

There is no them, there is no me. No enemy. We are one. Always
Connected in our heart and spirit, lending love where it is needed.

Love: brothers have shown me shown me its nature, pure in form.
Here angels, unsung and unseen, walk among us as we fall.

Friends and strangers now join and become my spirit. For now,
In this bloody battlefield of life, we are but numbers uncounted.

We are many, so different, disparate, but connected as trees in
a forest. For only those that have fought, know this comradeship.

So where on this now deserted battlefield of life am I now?
The mud is silent, but soon the guns will let loose again.

The shells will rain; each shattering crack breaking my will.
Racked side by side and sent skyward by fear, each kills more.

Bodies rot amongst the shell holes of life. Yet here life persists,
In a much-torn field of lies of others that we accept as truth.

All of us with duty and driven by love fight on in desperate tiredness.
We wait for the summer poppies, blood-red and delicate to flower.

Their petals arise so quickly and fade so fast, dropping easily
In the slightest breeze, or in the touch of heaven’s early dew.

Drops of water that, so small, mirror everything at once: in this
We see all hope and despair. All at once in timeless measure.

So many accusations of what we should have done. The guilt
Of a soul who has fought his best, but whose will is broken.

And so, to life’s great question: “What is this for?”  For duty?
For what, for whom do we soldier on? Our broken nature reveals all.

Here alone amongst endless destruction we see nothing but death,
Though we are dead already. Uniformity gives false idols of faith.

Beyond the orders, the fake news, we love ones we will leave.
Behind the lines, in front of the lines: lost and but not forgotten.

For we have willingly signed up for God and country.
Though, where is he now? Nowhere, but in simple touches.

God is in all of us. Yet we fight him at every outpost. Choosing
To see only the devil in those we never will truly know.

But the devil is the angel in us all, giving up eternal bliss to
Give us the greatest love of all: granting all that we wish for.

And for what do we wish? Love, Kindness and faith in others?
Or a battle to never be won with pain and inhumanity for us all?

We have no enemy but ourselves. For the soldier on the other side
Looks like me: his eyes are mine, his heart beats in mirrored time.

But we fight in different uniforms, with anger stirred by lies.
Yet we know the truth as we fall. Desperate, we cry its despair.

The shouts for the mothers that gave us life; the cries for lives filled
With untruths we believed, that took our humanity and our soul.

Yet our spirit knows no such borders. It walks among us,
Picking up our broken bodies; and together we join again as one.

One army of hope, of love: returning to walk silently among all those
Left behind in pain of lies, deceit; to lend a hand, to lend hope.

The hope of love and faith that, through hell, we will find  a heaven
That is here among us all, on a mountain or stormy coast. Always.

Pain is temporary, yet overwhelming, unbearable hell at times.
But we signed to it willingly and with trumpets and drums and pride.

Rejoice in our fate. For we are all dead until we learn to live!
Seek solace and heaven in the love of the man next to you.

Fight on. Fight the fear. Trust those that stand beside you. Trust that
In the end we are all one, without banner, without uniform.

United in love, we lie in a field of birdsong and poppies knowing
That every death brings a fragile beauty that flowers year after year.

Homemade with Mess

who wants life to be tidy when you can have more fun making a mess??!



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• » Hi there! I’m Amney. A Pαѕѕισηαтє L❤νєя σƒ Lιƒє and in L❤ve with inspirations! I'm not a serious blogger just yet but I cherish the fact of writing nonsense! hehe…. Well except for those who see sense in it, which is well appreciated. Nevertheless, this blog is a direct reflection about my obsession with "My Random Thoughts" & "My Passion for Food" I write and share whenever I feel inspired! I also share other articles about Life, Creativity, Spirituality, Science, Natural Remedies and the list goes on….. All in a (sometimes) Funny, Meaningful, Insightful and Beautiful way. Hope You’ll Stay a While! Enjoy and feel free to share! • »


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A home for the things I think are worthy of sharing. Will largely be photography based.

PR and the Social Web

Digital PR, ePR, PR 2.0, Social Media PR doesn't matter what you call it.


Traditional artisan cured meats.

Annabel Giles

When 140 characters just isn't enough...

The Only Way Is Hay

Martinis, musings and more.


The best longform stories on the web

The Daily Post

The Art and Craft of Blogging

The Blog

The latest news on and the WordPress community.