ANOTHER DAY------ ANOTHER and Another .....

When nothing works ---  do nothing.

I broke into smile. For this last week- and longer - I've been hitting a brick wall - smashing into the buffers - everything that could go wrong, went wrong. My creativity stifled and the universe is not co-operating. I want to get on and DO, but everywhere I turn I'm met with non-cooperation and stupid, automated, non-human systems, or if there's an actual human lurking behind the system, they're behaving like a stupid automaton just to wind me up. I want to do things with my website - make changes, bring it unto date, add some new art and take away some of the older stuff;

I want to revise my book, Dreaming Worlds Awake, on Lulu - improve the colour quality and proportions of the cover design plus add the dollar price to the UK price. Also I want to include a new illustration to the interior and a new poem. But after going through all the steps, successfully uploading all the revised content and improved cover, when I went in to actually buy a couple of review copies I discover that Lulu have somehow upped my cover price by quite some. It's now priced something like $2.50 higher than the price on my cover -- the price which I entered as I went through the revision procedure -  and the figure which it had been priced at before, the UK £ price, is nowhere to be seen.

The whole reason I decided to give Lulu a try and go Self-Publishing, was so that I could be solely in charge of the procedure. It would give me the freedom as an artist to make these new additions and improvements as and when I felt prompted by my creative urge to do so. And I have to say, until now, I have been very pleased with my Lulu experience. But something has happened. I didn't ask for this hike in cover price - I don't want it. It doesn't match the price stated on the back cover. If someone buys it and sees the cover price they'll wonder who's ripping them off --- and it isn't me.

Is this happening to anyone else? No-one but me seems to have noticed. Or if they have no-one has brought it up on Lulu's system. It's a system where you don't get answers easily. You're given all those FAQs to look at, and a list of virtual 'experts' who, it turns out, shower you with a load more of other poor  b******s unsatisfactorily answered questions, plus an email help, which again no-one ever responds to -- or was that just my experience?

I went back through the 'revision' process and tried again -- and again - to get it to accept the dollar price I wanted. Made sure I'd entered UK and not US as my country of residence and entered my UK cover price as priority. Still nothing changed. Then eventually I managed to do an online chat in which I was told that because production costs in the US are higher than in England, that would probably account for the hike in price. YET, and tell me if I'm wrong -- when my revised copy arrived, it seems to have been printed and despatched from within the UK. Am I being ripped off? It feels like it, and if Lulu's policy has changed, no-one told me. I can't get through this barrier and I can't get any sensible information.

This is just one of the barriers I've crashed into these last few days. My webpage inaccessibility is another. My Amazon Author page another. And there are others I won't go into (including a hellish bout of cramp, my whole body seizing up.)

All of this happening down at the physical level, the real-life in-the-body everyday existence level. But this is not the whole story. This is not the whole ME. My whole reason and purpose -- call it what you will - in living and writing and creating art, is a spiritual one. Whenever I hit brick walls I talk to my 'friends in higher places'. Not only when I crash and dive, of course; I talk to them every day come whatever. I have many such friends. A large family of guides, helpers, healers and advisers  on 'the other side'.  Some of them I have known in this lifetime, others from lifetimes in the past, as well as my Soul-Self, Divine Self. One of these friends, ascended master Kuthumi, last night reminded me of something he'd told me months ago. ' Whenever you're feeling stuck and unable to move forward, things are not always as they seem. A lot is going on beneath the surface. Let go the feeling that your not doing enough and can't move on. It's time for an energetic Time Out with your self. Rest and recuperate, let go.'

And this is why I smiled this morning. I opened a book lying beside my computer, 'Duck Soup for the Soul' by Celestial comedian, Swami Beyondanander who I'd met staring on stage at a Mind and Consciousness conference in Albuquerque some years ago. Top of the page it said, When Nothing Works --- Do Nothing. I'd suddenly seen the double meaning. Nothing Works!

(By the way if anyone is interested in buying my book(s) at cover price plus P&P, they can still be got from my website www.esmeellis.co.uk  or email me at esme.ellis@btinternet.com )

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER CAVE. My blue heaven!

This time I was in Rome - or this is where it started. Back in about 1958/9 after leaving the RCA, (Royal College of Art) I'd applied for a prestigious scholarship, The Prix de Rome. And I'd been accepted as one of 12 post grad. art students and given 6 months to complete a life-sized sculpture with the title, Youth. Hiring a furniture van was the only way to get the finished work to the venue in South Kensington, (Imperial College) where it was to be exhibited and judged. Nail-biting days went by until we were informed who had won. Unlike the several scholarships available to students from the Painting School, there was only one prize for sculpture, and I was bitterly disappointed to find I'd been placed 2nd. (I'll make this short and to the point, but I'd been told this by my tutor who'd been on the judging committee. I'd tied for 1st place with a student from the Salde School of Fine Art, and my tutor had tried his best, arguing for me, but the R.C. had won the year before and the view of the committee was that it was the Slade's turn this year.)

Eventually, though, I'd travelled to Rome with Rose, my friend from the painting school who'd been given an Abbey Major (or Minor, can't remember, anyway a scholarship for one year.) She was later to marry the much older-than-herself, well established painter Roger Hilton. Rose, a fine artist, lived for years in his shadow, although teaching herself at Falmouth College of Art in Cornwall. Roger is now dead and Rose has now blossomed forth in her own right.

Back then and long before Roger came on the scene, she and I shared a flat for some time, right by the Spanish Steps. We lived there together until September when her studio in the British School at Rome became vacant, at which point I would find another flat for myself. I would then try to get a part-time job, and continue with my studies. In the meantime, in what was left of the summer, we decided to adventure, taking several trips hitch-hiking around southern Italy. At a youth hostel in Sorrento, we were picked up by 2 Italian male students from Naples university and asked out for a whole day. They planned to hire a rowing boat and take us down the coast, stopping off mid-day at a beach restaurant, where they would buy us a meal and continue down along the coast. There was something special they wanted to show us.

Sorrento was near Capri, noted for its Blue Grotto, but these two could show us something better and what's more it wouldn't cost us a lira! After leaving the pleasant stretch of beach where we'd stopped for a slap-up lunch, far more luxurious then we could have afford of ourselves, we set off once more rowing southwards along the coast line. This fine, sandy bay left behind, we were soon travelling beneath a stretch of towering, high, very high cliffs with no further landing places or beaches in sight. On and on we went. Beautiful day, blue as blue sea, but where were they taking us? Rock-face, after forbidding rock-face reared up, and no let up. Not a soul in sight. Were we mad to trust them? Oh, my God! If they had something untoward in mind, even if we jumped over board and made a swim for it, there wouldn't be a snowball in Hell's chance of escape.

They stopped rowing. "This is it."

Did they say that, or did we think it out loud? We two girls smiled at each other uneasily. They shipped the oars. "Now what?"

"This is the place,' they said. "our secret. You can both swim, can't you?" they asked. "Just follow us. Swim until you see us disappear, and then dive down. Follow our legs, keep close. OK?"

They dived in -- we followed suit. Swimming fast towards the towering cliff before us, panting hard we tried to keep up. The boys disappeared from sight, and we gulped a big breath and dived down after them. A trail of bubbles in the bluest of blue water, and two pairs of thrashing feet. Breath running out, feet in front getting fainter as they seemed to dissolve into an indigo underwater blur. Follow, follow. Then....

I can see it now. Feel it, sense it. It all comes alive. We're surrounded by the most luminous, ethereal blue. An underwater heaven. A cavern filled with great Breath of sighing, singing Light, and we gulped it, filling our lungs with something indescribably Celestial. We had been taken into a secret Blue Grotto. Our smiling faces a luminous cerulean blue; blue mermaid hair streaming out; we'd become transparent, more areal than solid flesh. We lifted our arms into the air, spread wide out fingers in a gesture of pure rapture.

Dive in in Faith and Trust. Many years later, writing the Fish tale/tail at the end of my book, Dreaming Worlds Awake, the same thing was said to me by the ascended master, Kuthumi."Dive into your creativity. Dive even deeper. Like the fish being released into unknown waters - keep moving because you know your surrounds intimately even though you have never been in them before. There are just more resources and more to explore. The gates are open and you are stepping through. Namaste."

INTERLUDE 2

STILL WITH THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE Theme, of this week's Jubilee, there was a discussion on BBC radio 4 a couple of days ago about our national anthem and should we pack it off to the knackers yard and look for a more appropriate, up-to-date one. One suggestion was that people attending another of our nation institutions went wild every year at the last day of the PROMS, frantically waving union jacks and singing en mass the words of Rule Britannia. Hardly less arcane and Imperial than God Save, I'd have thought. But moderated slightly when we learn the original words were Britannia rule the waves, a maxim, not Britannia rules, an assertion. In spite of its doubtful and un Politically Correct words the gathered multitude, it seems, partakes with gusto in its much catchy, festive tune.  Away with the Old, and on with the er.. slightly less Old?
Yet my mind went back...

Some years ago I went to a concert put on by the Bath Natural Theatre Co. led by the eccentrically talented, cross-dressng Ralph Oswick. We were issued at the door with small Union Jacks, and guessed we were in for a good time. A trio of musicians struck up the famous rollicking overture theme from William Tell -  and we were off....  joining in with whatever make-believe instruments we could fashion. Dum-de-dum-de-drum, drum, drum. The climactic end to the evening was the waving of flags and the audience singing tops of voices, 'Rule Britannia, Britannia Waives the Rules, Britons never, never, never shall be Fools.'

Well, that's good enough for me. I'll vote for that.

INTERLUDE JUNE 6th

Since my last post the Queen's Jubilee has come and gone. I also went and came back again. A few days away for a well deserver break, we found a cottage in the White Peak of Derbyshire. Every village and small town, every front garden, pub, shop front and street we encountered was decked out with red, white and blue bunting. 20,000 miles of bunting sold, so they say. 

Cottage with yours truly peeping out of it.

And a peep at Wolfsdale down deep in the dale with sheep grazing safely beside the River Dove.

Then home again, I watched the flotilla of thousands of boats sailing down the Thames in London, everyone, including Her Maj braving the cold, wind and pouring rain. Then on TV again I saw the last hour or so of that concert in the Mall and gasped with genuine amazed pleasure to see the electronic lazier show transforming Buck Palace into a mundane, but hilariously audacious block of red brick Council flats where every so often virtual windows opened to reveal parties of virtual London revellers dancing and singing inside. What Fun! Truly, this was the best street party I've ever virtually been present at. Tech magic at it best ever yet. And even our dear 'monarch in waiting,' Charles 111, managed to out-do the comics on stage with a bit of warm, wry humour of his own. Almost makes one proud to be British. Anyway - enough of that....

Regretfully, no red, white or blue to illustrate any of the above. It simply didn't occur to me to take a photo of the decked-out streets. Altho' possibly we shall never see their likes quite like it again. Or so they say. England is changing, or has changed irrevocably. In the South, in London, certainly - even here in Conservative Bath I only saw one house with bunting -- but maybe I don't look hard enough. The rural villages up in the north midlands though were an eye-opener. Derbyshire: my own back yard. Though Sheffield born and bred, my city has its toes well and truly in Derbyshire, and in my youth and early 20s as an art student, I spent nearly every week-end climbing, walking and sometimes caving in Derbyshire. The Derbyshire edges in the Black Peak; Froggatt Edge, Burbage, Curbar, left by the receding Ice Age glaciers are of Mill Sone Grit and more appropriately linked with gritty steely Sheffield. These were the nursery edges we practiced on as a warm-up to the mountains of North Wales. Shorter in height, yet, in places, just as demanding in severity of challenge.

Memory. How far to trust it. The mention of caving triggered an urge to recapture one of the admittedly few caving experiences of my life. If I told you it took place in the Giant's Hole there's a good chance that was it. But I know I did some of my underworld delving in other Derbyshire caves - so it could have taken place elsewhere. But let's say Giant's Hole (or as it was known in times less proper, Giant's Arse.) 

Imagine if you will a lot of Black. I don't have a picture to illustrate blackness, but I can safely leave it to you I think to conjure up. We've entered at the mouth of the cave and at this moment it is still normal daylight - but we've come prepared. Prepared as far as amateurs in those far off days of my youth could be. Several other more professional groups were assembled at the cave mouth, but these were clad in proper boots, waterproofs and helmets with safety lamps attached. These people called themselves, Speleologists, and they went in first. I'd never been on such an expedition, so the two male companions who'd tried this cave out before, kind of updated us on what we were in for. At some point, they told us, after following the underground stream for some way, travelling downwards all the time, yet still able to stand upright, the tunnel would begin to narrow and we would be faced with a huge rock-face blocking our way. Standing there in our comparatively primitive gear; basic boots, cut off father's raincoats as anorak, clutching the candles and matches we'd brought with us to light our progress, we sized up then next step. Obviously we weren't meant to turn round and go back. The pros., the speleologists by this time well ahead, had gone under the rock, and we must follow. Their waterproof head lights had shown them the way, but candlelight was all we had, and these life-saving essentials must now be protected. 

We'd equipped ourselves with metal Oxo tins with tight fitting lids. Our candles, now must be extinguished, blown out and placed with our box or matches in the Oxo tin and tightly closed.  Then in utter darkness we must go down into the water, feeling our way with our hands, sensing with our feet the river bed, and prepare to dive under the rock-face which had seemed to block the passage. A deep breath -- and dive in faith and trust, until we bobbed up again on the other side, ready to continue further along the passage of our adventure.

                   _______________________________________________

Since asking you to imagine a lot of black at the beginning, you may be wondering why I've wandered off - and maybe left you and blackness hanging in the air. Candlelight may not be the last word in illumination, but it's not exactly dead of night BLACK. But stick with me. More to come. The passage continues and so did ours. I can't quite remember if among our equipment items I mentioned climbing ropes, but we must have had them with us, for the next stretch of the journey underground necessitated a bit of rock climbing. Leaving the river/stream behind or below, we began to climb up the sides of the underground cave system and onto a narrow ledge, from which a new passage opened onwards. More exploration lay ahead, but soon we began to notice a certain flickering of the light. Checking our supplies, we realised that we were almost out of candles. The boys, determined to carry on as far as possible suggested that we two girls sat it out while they forged on further. Only this meant taking the candles with them. 


Promising not to be too long, and that they'd tell us all about their discoveries on return, we agreed to wait in the dark. Off they went and we sat tight on the very narrow ledge while the light from the boy's candles grew ever fainter. With their disappearance, light and sounds of crawling menfolk fading and dwindling into nothing, the rock-face pressure at our backs and our narrow seat seeming to grow skimpier and less secure by the minute, blackness descended. A blackness like no other I have experienced. Outer blackness even at dead of night and sans moon or stars had never been like this. This was ABSOLUTE.  Absolute black. 


A long time passed; our feet dangling into space, a strange sensation overtook us; we could no longer tell up from down, right from left. Time lost its meaning too in this extraordinary world of sensory deprivation, similar I believe to that experienced by trainee astronaughts before they're allowed to fly weightless into space for the first time. The boys had their experience; we had ours. A bonding of sorts. Two girls on a ledge holding hands, exchanging thoughts, seeing it though together. Rite of Passage? 

SEPTEMBER IN WALES

I'D LIKE TO CALL THIS FIGURES IN A LANDSCAPE, although having to use myself and one shot of Michael as the figures. Past experience has been that trying to add text to pictures is a time-consuming, frustrating business, takes 3-4 times longer that text and uploading pics separately, and I'm hoping to avoid this in some way I haven't devised as yet.

First pic. right, in no chronological order, is me at the far end of the promontory at Little Haven breathing it all in.






What I love about this part of Wales, which we return to again and again, is, the SPACE; the vastness of sky and sea with no-one to be seen. Walking, the two of us, and never a soul in sight - maybe the odd farmer patrolling his land who's glad to nod and exchange a few words, or some other lonely walker.

So this picture, right, is an example of a view from Saint Non's. I pointed the camera just as the sun caught a sliver of yellow green on the distant hill top, but before I could press the button the magical effect had disappeared. Nevertheless, the open sky felt too good to ignore.

The black cow beneath a small mountain is the typical Welsh breed of cattle. We met, presumable it owner, on the way across the fields where we noticed a group of standing stones lying flat, (not shown) in this field of cut hay. At the top of the field we could see the sea on the right and the same sea on the left.

Here I am gazing back at the same mountain.

And in the next picture, seconds later, sitting on same rock, but Michael has moved to take the shot from the front. The sea so bright that the camera can't cope with the dazzle and I seem to be blotted out by a cloud.
Either that or night has descended unexpectedly!

Two more. Facing both ways.
One I took of the sea inlet quay with boats at Porthclais looking inland, and the one below Micheal took looking seawards.

Typical scene in this west coast part of Wales; a plain farmhouse structure, but with windows which suggest it has also been used as a chaple.

Situalted in the same field as the standing stones and the cattle.

Something different. Faint distant view of oil refinery at Pembroke Docks beyond oyster beds near Dale, and looking the other way onto the inland brackish water lake. A flock of wild Brent? geese.

A NEW LOOK.

CODA: THE TALE/TAIL OF THE LION.   MAY 23rd


There I was, book finished, all ready to put to bed, or send to ed i.e. my editor, when I had the most extraordinary Dream. (I capitalise dream only because Dreaming Worlds Awake is the title and the very essence and being of the project I'd thrown myself into. As it says on the back cover, 'the thread which unites the whole is the magic and transformative power of Dreams.') I had finished the last chapter, illustrated it with my fish drawing complete with Fin, celebrated its completion with a nice glass of red wine - feet up  - sigh of relief - when I had this Dream. It had to go in: no question. But how could I get round my Fin, end of tail/tale dilemma?  Sleep on it. I did. And then, like the dream itself, it came to me in the night: Coda; a short passage added at the end of a composition to round it off. A tail. My early musical training had supplied the solution. What a wonderful thing is The Unconscious! and this is the essence and being of Dreams.


The dream which precipitated the Lion Story was the heart of the matter, the drama out of which it arose. I wonder how others experience their own dreams? Have you for instance ever woken in the dead of night, your heart thumping in your chest so loud you fear it may have woken neighbouring sleepers? Fear, raw and existential mortal fear! For some time you sit there in the dark, hands pressed to breast, trying to still that lump of biological matter which leaps and kicks against your ribs, and only slowly coming to the realisation that even if that vital organ itself may be signaling immanent arrest, you, your essential self, are safe. All you need do now is stay calm, sit tight and wait - because you are in your own bed, and there’s nothing in the room with you. At least, nothing that's going to do you harm. 


The power and magic of dreams, did I say? Running for one's life in mortal terror? Yet -- and yet? Facing our greatest fear there within the darkest place it hides, and making the greatest discovery. What is that quote from Rilke? I forget its exact words, but something like; 'Our fears are like dragons guarding our most precious treasures.' Lion or Dragon; Esdragon or Esme, I discover aspects of my self which, coming to consciousness, become part of the greater whole of who I AM.


P.S. By focusing on the 'fear' element of this particular dream is not to suggest that all dreams are nightmares - nor even, that this one was a nightmare: it wasn't. Dream, rather like the word Film, or Drama is a generic term covering a multitude of possibilities. Rather as in Film or Drama themselves, possibilities and potentials are endless, and just as in these other theatres of human expression, dreams are a vehicle for our creativity. Yet unlike these other areas of artistic endeavour, in our dreams, when properly understood, we get to be director, actor, audience and any other character which our unconscious throws up. The only character that doesn't get to play a part is Ego. Mind. That ever-wakeful, intellectual censor which lies and denies and struts the stage pompous and posturing, quailing and wailing, in every-day life.

THE TALE OF A FISH

Tale -  tail? or maybe, in this case Fin. Playing about with words. It was the last tale in the book, or meant to be the last, and the French word for End came into my mind, so I placed the little image of a fish I had drawn, (complete with the word 'Fin' worked into its dorsal  er... fin,)  as illustration for the story, right at the end -- on the last page in the book. Clever me! Too ***** clever as it turned out. -- But that's another story.

I was playing about with words from the start - 'stream of consciousness'. My first paragraph reflected in some way the sort of prose used by the 'Beat Poets', Jack Kerouac et al.  But the story itself stemmed from a dream I'd recently had - a dream which opened up a realisation of an actually experienced shift of reality inside myself -- a consciousness change. And this is why I write about the power and magic of Dreams: They actually have the power to change our reality and the consciousness of the World.
                                As I've said, all comments, thoughts and question gratefully received.


THE INCIDENT OF THE FLYING CAT.  MAY 16th


The second of my stories BLACKBIRD SINGING is also a magical story. I don't mean by that that it is a fantasy or imaginary; it is actual and true, and once again it happened to me - in my garden - at home, this time. Unfortunately I don't have a blackbird picture to hand - I didn't even think of drawing one for my book. After all, I told myself, everyone knows what a blackbird looks like. It's one of the commonest birds in an English garden, (maybe you don't live in England? sorry!) It's also, along with the Thrush and Nightingale, candidate for the most beautiful, sweetest singer. 

The magic is, this time, over several Spring days, Mr Blackbird and myself, had a singing competition, and if I had some recording equipment I might have captured my garden blackbird's song. Unfortunately without that for evidence, you'll have to take my word for this unlikely impromptu concert: Mr highly professional songster Blackbird, and myself, the hopelessly incompetent whistling act. 

The year moved on into nesting season, and the concerts dwindled and ceased. Mr Blackbird's mind turned to his main motive for his outpourings, courtship. This quickly resulted in him attracting a mate. Nest-building then became top priority, soon to be followed by egg-laying and chick-feeding - the two birds taking equal shares in the later. Little time or energy left for music, now. But then there was another  amazing incident. Mr Blackbird got the better of a neighbour's cat who was bent on stealing his chicks. The Incident of the Flying Cat and the Dive-Bombing Bird.

And even more magically, the ascended master, Kuthumi, whose wise, inspirational and humorous words feature strongly in this book, (Dreaming Worlds Awake, as mentioned below,) informed me that in one of his incarnations as St. Francis of Assisi, he had many similar experiences.


                                                                                (Any comments gratefully received.)

ANOTHER NEW DAY,  MAY 12th


Having decided - more or less - that this (below in blue, previous post,) will be the text for my revised back cover for Dreaming Worlds Awake, and having sent it to my editor for his impressions, I've spent a lot of time these last days in discussions with a group of writers on LinkedIn. Almost all are centred around the various social networking sites, Facebook, Twitter, Blogging and LinkedIn itself, and how effective these are at attracting 'customers,' i.e. Readers. People out there who hopefully will want to read our books. One of the main suggestions to strike me has been the importance of giving our potential customers something to look at, listen to, as well as presenting them with 'blocks of text.' At first I was dismayed: Are people these days so childish they have to have the story-book treatment? Are we incapable of reading and enjoying writing for its own sake? However...  on second thoughts, am I being too stuffy and conventional? I certainly dropped a few pictures onto my blog in the past;  too many sometimes I feel when indulging my 'show-off' tendency to post the brilliant exploits of my grandchildren.


As a matter of fact I was just about to add a few images of my own to illustrate my text right now. Every picture tells a story, after all, so they say, and I might get as much fun out of the venture as anyone else who happens to alight on my page. And so...

This little creature features already on the back cover. He is the subject of my first story, ABOUT A TORTOISE, and also as an illustration on P33. This chapter begins as a true story, an incident which actually happened to me while on my very first trip to the African continent, North African Morocco, and my very first encounter with Islam on its home territory. I was in for many surprises, not the least of which was the magnificence of our apartments in the Riad we had chosen for our holiday, nor the wonderful attention and curtesy we received from our hosts during our stay.


It is a magical story and told in part to illustrate another of my themes, Synchronicity. And yes, I'm not going to give it all away here and now: You'll have to read it in full in the book. All I'll say now, is, that this particular Tortoise in my illustration is my interpretation of one in a children's book, which our host, Abdel, brought to my attention at one of our illuminating discussions, but which in some very mysterious way connected with me personally.


A NEW DAY - ANOTHER NEW LOOK. WORK IN PROGRESS. April 27th.

What I came up with a few days ago needs further thought. How difficult can it be to succinctly say what your book is about? Such a slim volume; so much varied content. Yet each chapter, each story, each character appearing within it, however disparate each may seem, connects, links and moves the adventure on, so that it is possible to experience a sense of having taken a journey of Self Awakening. (I'll spare you alternative words like 'Enlightenment' to express the same thing!) How then to define such a book was the question I asked myself. I'm still trying to answer it.

My first sentence  'Present-day science largely dismisses the intuitive, visionary, sensual and feeling-based perspective as no longer relevant; it ignores the language by which Dreams communicate - the irrational, beyond-the-mind perceptions which give access, not only to our higher wisdom but connects us with nature and non-human, intelligent beings.'   that I feel, is OK - so I'll keep it. But I then go on to introduce the concept of Expanded Consciousness. Too much of a jump. And one I suspect which will leave most potential readers scratching their heads. Yet attempting to define it would mean adding a lot more words, and a book blurb has to be short, pithy and to the point.

Expand -  go beyond. In this case, go beyond the mind and connect with your Creative Energy, your Wisdom; letting your mind go free, to go beyond its shackles, connect with that endless, limitless pool of resources that is within you. Some Concept! This is going to scare 'em all off, these potential readers of yours. Better steer clear and keep it simple - most of all, let there be fun. After all, isn't that what Kuthumi, the ascended master, the one who took such a major part in your book, said, right at the start?

Ascended Masters; how will your potential readers react to that? There's quite a market in ascended masters these days, or so I'm told. And having one of your own on tap, so to speak ... can't be all that bad. So that 2nd paragraph could stand as is, perhaps. All I need now is link it with the first para.

DREAMING WORLDS AWAKE celebrates the physical along with science, yet opening its pages is to step through a door into a New World. Consciousness expands; our perceptions become Awakened. We journey through a series of stories about gods and goddesses, beautiful priestesses and wondrous animal beings all drawn from personal experience. We're invited into the studios and minds of the great and renowned, including a master sculptor who died 50 years ago and an ascended master whose last earthly life was in the 19th Century, yet whose humorous and inspirational words come tumbling freshly from the pages today. We discover too if Dreams can actually Awaken us; if visiting the Past could open up vistas into a Future of unlimited potentials and the exciting realisation of who we really are.


Having decided to settle for that, more or less, I'll now add two little reviews which will also go on the back cover.

'What a delightful collection of poems, stories and reflections, all written from the heart. I doubt if  anyone could read this and not be touched or have something awakened in some way. To read this now and feel the beauty you allowed yourself to experience is beyond words for me.'            Marisa Calvi, author


'Thank heavens for humans like you, Esme! It is one thing to choose to open your heart and creativity - but entirely another to share it with the world. This is the mark of a new energy teacher, and I bow to you! and thanks for letting me be a part of it.'                                 Kuthumi Lal Singh, Ascended Master.


                  ----------------------------------------------------------------------

April 24th
I am about to do a new edition of DREAMING WORLDS AWAKE. Or if not exactly a new edition, a new look. The upside of being your own publisher, and the great thing with the independent publisher LULU, is it allows this freedom. (I could go into the downsides later, at some point!) I like freedom!
(link: www.lulu.com/Esme Ellis/Dreaming Worlds Awake)

So, the reason for a new look? 1/ Although I designed my own cover, (another of the upsides; you can be in charge of the whole show,) the first print-run came out nowhere near the colour of my original design; the background was 'pinkish' rather than russety red and it had other small flaws. So we made an adjustment and tried again. The 2nd try was nearer, but this time rather too dull and browny. So we're having another go. Since this has allowed time for a rethink about the blurb on the back, I've also decided to have another look at that.

My first back cover blurb was aimed at a particular audience - I should say, readership, those who I hoped would respond to the spiritual and artistic masters, who because I had met them personally, I had included in the form of stories in my book; the renowned sculptor, Sir Jacob Epstein; the celebrated Ascended Master Kuthumi Lal Singh, for instance. But their appeal I knew would be limited - a niche market. So a year on, and having received some good advice in the meantime from Terry Whalin, who generously offers from time to time, tutorials and chapters from his own books for free, I began to consider who exactly I was aiming my book at in the first place and if I could extend its appeal to a wider readership. Secondly consider how to go about defining it clearly. And a propo of this Terry had suggested, as an editor and publisher himself, that I should write as if I was composing a book proposal for a publisher. Quite an exercise in itself, and needing quite a lot of thought. 

This is what I have come up with: -- Present-day science largely dismisses the intuitive, the visionary, sensual and feeling-based perspective as no longer relevant to our needs; it ignores the language by which Dreams communicate - the irrational, beyond-the-mind perceptions which give access, not only to our higher wisdom but connect us with nature and non-human, intelligent beings. How then to define a book which introduces the concept of Expanded Consciousness?

Opening the pages of DREAMING WORLDS AWAKE is like stepping through a door into a New World. Our perceptions become Awakened as we journey through a series of stories, drawn from personal experience, to meet some amazing real-life characters along with gods and goddesses and wondrous animal beings.

Encounter within it a master sculptor who died 50 years ago; dialogue with an ascended master whose last earthly life was in the 19th Century, yet whose humorous and inspirational words come tumbling freshly from the pages today. Discover if Dreams can actually Awaken us; if visiting the Past could open up vistas into a Future of unlimited potentials and the exciting realisation of who we really are.


www.esmeellis.co.uk

ART GALLERY

This is the first of a series - abandoning all my previous approaches and techniques - ways of painting I'd erstwhile employed, I attempted to get myself out of the way,let go control and mind-centered, learned experience, and simply allow 'the spirit' to work through my hand. Without expectation, without plan, I allowed my Creator Self to flow.

This first picture began as I took up a piece of charcoal and proceeded to mark the white paper with an energetic curved line. Taking up a brush I mixed and spontaneously applied washes of acrylic paint. The result I called, A Lighter Earth.

Next came a painting of a Water Dragon, (not shown) The Water Dragon which was inspired by the Celadon bowls, somehow begat this Fire Dragon, also an 'out-of-my mind, letting my hand move as it will across the page', sort of painting.




This in turn was followed by something rather different;
I called it
Birthing Joy.

This then inspired my next painting, a lion.

LION Rampant


This came out of my last chapter in Dreaming Worlds Awake and was inspired by Kuthumi's comments on that story.

APRIL: EXPLORING NEW WAYS OF PAINTING

Painters of old -- the Old Masters -- didn't just paint; they were energy workers. They mixed substances such as healing herbs and ground up crystals, gold, frankincense myrrh, the intense magical blue of lapis lazuli into their paints, and created 'masterpieces' which, when you looked at them drew you into their energy. You felt awed, spiritually uplifted and enlightened just by standing in their presence.

Since life's circumstances caused me to give up sculpture some time back, I turned to writing maybe 15 years ago and during that time I have written four books. But recently I felt the urge to take myself back to art and do a bit of painting. No Old Master I - far from it! but I wanted to explore painting in a new way. My latest book DREAMING WORLDS AWAKE proclaims, New Consciousness, New Energy, New Writing, and the definition of that as far as I understand it is that in our quest for an expansion of consciousness, or putting it another way, (several other ways) i.e. following our path to enlightenment, to ascension - the journey towards becoming our own Ascended Master, claiming the I AM - we travel beyond the 'normal' way of perceiving the world, the mental, compartmentalising and ordering, the intellectual and scientific ways of perceiving, and begin to comprehend without trying to control. Call it, going beyond the mind'.

I just wanted to see what would happen if I painted from this place, or state, just 'letting my hand move as it will.' It wasn't easy! Maybe you'd expect it to be easy - letting go and letting it happen - but it wasn't. But nevertheless something did come out of it. Just as 'letting go the mind and control, and letting it happen,' was a trifle scary, so is sharing the results.

NOW IT'S A NEW YEAR!

From Feb. 9th 2012
No more Celadon bowls and dragons. I really am moving on.
Something completely different!

In these last few days two names have been in the news; a BBC radio semi-doc last week featured the psychologists, Freud and C G Jung in a broadcast which purported to present a portrait of these old Viennese mind-docs in an scientifically unbiased way. However hard the presenter tried - sorry I've forgotten her name - her inclinations towards Freud being the 'genuine product' the real makoy, in contrast to Jung's more 'flaky' credentials, showed. And this has been the case in all the talks, films and dramas I have seen over the years. Now it seems there is to be the release of a new film - reviewed twice on BBC radio already - and its title is The Dangerous Method.

What's interesting to me about this new release is the third character, a female patient, once sexually disturbed and highly neurotic, but who after the two boys had carried out a very unconventional and experimental counselling treatment, went on to train and then practise successfully as a psychotherapist herself.

But the reason I'm bringing this up now, much as I'd like to go on about her unique influence on the two men - she introduced some valuable psychological insights of her own - my bringing this in is to make a point. In my latest book, Dreaming Worlds Awake, the first chapter is mainly given over to Jung and his fractious/creative relationship with Freud and the fact that, to quote, 'the rift between the two pioneer psychoanalysts had come about not only in the way each of them regarded dreams, but over the publication of a book.' Given the title on my own book, I feel myself to be something of an 'expert' on DREAMS. I dream a lot! and find the language of dreams not only fascinating and creative, but essential to self understanding and the expansion of consciousness.

My own perspective on the difference between the two men stems, I believe, from the creative artist in me. Art v. science: intellectual reasoning v. intuition. This particular view of the world grows stronger the longer .... A lifetime's experience tells me that there is a wisdom in the human being which transcends the reasoning of the brain - and leads, if we are open to exploring it, to a creative power which will be seen (very soon,) to bring us the solutions to the most challenging issues facing mankind.


Well, OK, another thing, then.

Can't seem to tear myself away from these celadon bowls. It's January 10th today and I've started a new project - another spontaneous, out-of-my mind, painting.
Inspired by all these dragons and by another few lines in Victoria's book, I opened up my paintbox, spread out a sheet of paper and began ---

The inspiration that fired me was; 'What can I make for you?' the potter asked. The Emperor replied with a line of poetry: 'When the storm has passed, the blue sky peeps through a break in the clouds.' (Clearly referring to the minute cracks which appear in the dull, blue-green glaze after its cooling to reveal a chink of unbelievably blue body.) I allowed my hand to move rapidly, curling and curving, striking out with straight sword sweeps here and there, then I squeezed a range of brilliant colours; cerulean and ultramarine, flame red, vibrant golden yellows, oranges. Black and white. Mixing, melding, scrubbing in a sort of passionate delight mingled with 'first-night tension,' I finally stopped to view what I'd created. I saw a turbulent murky sea with a monster wave curving up and over. Glimpsed, in the lighter space between, the red-gold blinding sun.
I slept on it, and woke with some lines of poetry of my own which illustrate as near as I can without showing the painting, (which I can't because it's too big to scan.)

With one last flick of tail
Water Dragon dive;
Slips down, disappears into Depths.
Fire Dragon rise --
Opens Eye.
Storm Passes.

Water Dragon works with Moon energy: Fire Dragon with Sun energy.

JAN. 7th
Just one more thing before moving on from GREEN.
(And strangely but neatly getting away from the linearity of blogging by completing a circle, a return to those lovable rogues, Robin Hood and his Merry Men who I wrote about in my previous post, Summer Pudding.)

A nugget of information I've now discovered in Victoria Finlay's book, is that Lincoln Green, the colour with which they're famously associated, far from helping them to merge into the background of the leafy Sherwood forest, as previously thought, it actually made them stand out. Disporting themselves in the latest fashion item, the Pride of Lincoln, a green dyed cloth which only the rich and noble of that city could afford, they proclaimed to all and sundry how they had robbed the rich of their finery so they could show it off to the local yokels of Not's County.

Achieving a reliable green dye took, not centuries, but millennia, but this new green was perfected in Lincoln. First dipped into a bath of woad, (the same blue colour with which our Ancient Brits painted their bodies, and presumably their faces , to scare their enemies,) then a second dipping into a bath of weld, a strong yellow, produced a cloth of gaudy, show-off green.


JAN. 4th
Ahh! that elusive, illusive Dragon - the dragon which the porcelain artists in Tang dynasty, from that mysterious land 'South of the Qi mountains, North of the Wei river,' imperceptibly etched under that secret non-colour mi-se glaze, has it made an appearance after all? Has it decided to manifest in this portentous 2012 NewYear, because by chance it also heralds the 4,709 th year in the Chinese lunar calender? January 23rd 2012, a New Moon day, is the first day of the Chinese year of the Water Dragon. How apt!

So, although he's rather more Fire than Water, this dragon, Fire and Water are all part of the potter's alchemy - along with Earth and Air. All completely necessary in bringing into being a perfect- imperfect pot. Harmony and Balance. So, again let's wash away the Old Year and Celebrate the NEW.
And thank you Robyn for supplying the pics and for your very useful comments and info.


JANUARY 1st 2012

After all this time I'm still trying to understand this Blog thing. A log - a journal - usually reads chronologically. Today's entry follows yesterday's, and there's a time for sleep in between. Yes? This blog thing works backwards. Today doesn't follow yesterday; it comes before. In 'time as we know it,' Today's insights rise out of the seeds planted yesterday i.e. what I saw - or more important, didn't see yesterday, I begin to see today, as if they'd sprouted overnight. Yesterday I declared, This will be the year of the Paintbox and concluded with a celebration of GREEN.

The year of the Paintbox had begun for me as I randomly opened Victoria Finlay's book at the first page of the chapter Green. The quote which caught my eye then, and which is still reverberating strongly, is superseded today by the second quote, vis 'It's not easy bein' green.' KERMIT the frog, speaking about identity. Overnight it came to me that 2012 will be the year of Green. It came to me that it will be the year of Rejuvenation, Growth and Spring. And it won't be easy bein' GREEN. This will be a Hell of a year! The year that the ancient prophesies declared The End of the World, yet the year which today's prophets tell us will be the year when humans as a collective begin the steady climb - the assent towards a New Earth.

Which brings me back to yesterday's quote and the musings around the secret and mysterious colours in the celadon range; the dragons, the phoenixes, the mists and dreams and ghostly smoky non-colours, which only royalty could possess, and the insight I had on this last night.

I wish I had a picture to put in here. How wonderful if I had a Chinese dragon illustration, especially since I chose Esdragon as my blog name. I don't have one to hand. But what did occur to me was that I did have, what I hope will be the firt of a series of spontaneneous paintings for the year ahead, one which I have already called, 'A Lighter Earth.'


Spontaneity. Maybe this also will be a key word for 2012 - for me anyway, along with Growth and Flow. A year for 'getting out of my mind' - going beyond -- into that mysterious hinterland inhabited only by those who seek out non-coloured porcelain bowls. Bowls of such preciousness and imperfection, that, as the academic consultant at Christie's, Rosemary Scott said of the skills of the craftsmen who made them, 'You can't (afford to) get it too wrong: but you have to get it wrong enough.' How scary is that! But Spontaneity is even scarier - or maybe easier. It requires 'radical trust' to leap into the unknown and fall flat on your face -- or fly. Or maybe crash into mediocrity somewhere in the middle.

Where am I going with this? Let's come back to the dragons and phoenixes and the misty, dreamy vistas, and my last-night's insights. It's as hard to recapture a last-night's insight as it is to catch a Chinese dragon. But those smoky, storm-green, sea-green colours swirled through my mind and took me to something I'd written about in my latest book, Dreaming Worlds Awake, (C p 88) where, in a dream, I'd found myself travelling out into a landscape I described as vague and characterised as dull, empty; a study in mid-grays; clouds, smoke, fog. Then Jacob Epstein asked me, 'Disappointing? Is that it?' And this is exactly what Victoria Finlay says when she finally tracks down, at the far side of a courtyard, behind an unassuming door, heavily guarded by khaki-clad Chinese security men, the few, and recently uncovered, mi-se bowls in existence. Dull, and disappointing! after journeying to the far reaches of the empire to find them.

So what is their appeal? Why so highly prized that only royalty (with their assumed refinement and sensibilities,) could see them and use them? Listen to Victoria as their secret begins to dawn on her. And my own 'far-out- beyond-consciousness' dream experience. (And also, if anyone has read Doris Lessing's The Marriage Between Zones Three, Four and Five, her glimpse of that misty region she couldn't quite reach.) Is it that this zone, or edge-of-consciousness landscape with its foggy, misty hues is where we may be taken and returned (for the most part sans memory,) but return with something in ourselves changed for the better and for good?

31st DECEMBER 2011

WITH a degree of horror, I see that half a year has gone by since I last posted anything on my blog. Summer Pudding has morphed into Eve's Pudding; New Year's Eve, 31st December, and it is my father's birthday. He would have been 110 today: I shall light a candle for him.

I've decided; this year will be the year of the paint box -- or palette -- or more precisely the new tubes of acrylic paint - a Christmas gift from Michael - and the cracked kitchen plate I use for mixing colours. In the wee small hours when I awoke this morning - it's getting to be a habit, this waking for a wee half way through the night - I opened one of my bedside books, COLOUR; Travels Through the Paintbox, at the page GREEN. My artist friend Pat Panton lent it me - it's more of a tome than a book - 494 pages - something you have to dip into rather than read cover to cover. But it's absolutely fabulous (to borrow a phrase). Fascinating. The page I opened began with a quote; "Carving the light from the Moon to dye the mountain stream." by XU YIN, the Five Dynasties poet talking about mi se, pronounced 'mee ser' meaning mysterious colour.

The book's author, Victoria Finlay, tells us; There was once in China a secret colour. It was so secret that only royalty could use it. She then goes on to speak about 'Celadon' the generic name for such mysterious grey-green colours - underglaze colours found in porcelain - the mysterious non-colours; misty, dreamy, ghostly, pale, foggy - colours of dragons, phoenixes, lotuses. Colours prized beyond measure because of their flaws. A piece of porcelain, a tiny bowl, became 'prefect' precisely because of it 'imperfections', such as the spider's-web like flaws in the glaze, or the 'crackle' - extremely difficult to achieve. You had to get the kiln temperature dead right; too hot or too cold, too fast or slow in its cooling and you had to bin it - disaster!

So, this will be The Year of Colour for me. Perhaps the year of the phoenix, the dragon and the lotus. And a day today, to celebrate GREEN.

SUMMER PUDDING

NOW we're well and truly into Summer, a change of tack. My friend Skip, aka Robert Palmer, poet and editor of my latest book, 'Dreaming World Awake,' gave me a book yesterday, one he'd found in some 2nd hand bookstore; Highways and Byways in : Yorkshire. I can't take my head out of it. He gave it me knowing I was a Yorkshire Lass born and bred, tho' strangely my thoughts had already been turning back to my heritage these last few weeks. Making summer pudding I can't help looking to my grandmother, now long dead, but seeking in memory for her cookery tips. She was a professional cook, but retired towards the end of the last war. But that's another story. This story is remembering that she'd lived as a small child on the outskirts of Sheffield and, all the time I knew her, she'd spend long summer hours gathering free food out in the wilds and moorlands where mushrooms, bilberries and blackberries grew. Her summer puds were the stuff of legend and fairey tale; once tasted, they became the standard of all that was delicious and luxurious --and all for FREE!

She'd lived along with 7 other children (back in 18' something-or-other) in a tiny cottage near Loxely Hall. Robin of Loxely. Tales of Robin Hood abounded here in South Yorkshire. Just across the border, down in Derbyshire, there was the grave of Little John in Hathersedge Churchyard. He must have been 7 or 8ft tall to judge by the size of it. As a child myself, we often made the trip in my father's old Ford car to Sherwood Forest in the county of Nottingham, but until reading this book today, I didn't realise that Sherwood had stretched, not only as far as Sheffield, but way up into the north of Yorkshire. This is going back into the mists of recorded history, of course, but it is well known that Britain was once covered in wild and dangerous forest. What I'm discovering now is how the Robin Hood legend persists across wide stretch of the Midlands and Yorkshire.

The authors of this book discuss this in an early chapter. Here I quote; The argument (of these scholars) is, I understand, that Robin was no more that "a faint western echo of the heroes of solar mythology" ; indeed, no better than Poor William of Cloudesley," that good yeoman," who modern wisdom has also relegated to the land of shadows, and who has been identified by some bearded professor with "the Nibelungs, the heroes of Cloudland." It is not now for the first time that I notice what a short and easy way there seems to be from the studies of professors into Cloudland. But let the professors e'ne go there if they will. Cloudland is a long way off; and it is moreover full of clever people, who are always a nuisance to their neighbours. We will stay upon the green earth, and watch the shadows sweeping by across the trees, and smell the fresh scents of the spring grass, and catch what we can of the lustiness of that strong, simple life among the downs and woodlands of which the old ballad writers said in such incomparable language.
"In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in feyre Foreste
To here the fowlys song
To se the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hilles bee.
And shadow hem in the leves grene
Under the grenewode tree."

DECEMBER INTO SPRING 11

AT EASTER WHEN MICHAEL AND I WERE

celebrating on top of the pass above Crickhowel, the family were taking a break in Turkey.

THE WHOLE OF THIS SECTION (Turkish pictures)  HAS BEEN DELETED BECAUSE OF ABUSE. SOMEONE STOLE A PERSONALITY FROM ONE OF MY PICTURES IN ODER TO ABUSE AND BULLY ANOTHER CHILD AT SCHOOL. THE MATTER IS NOW IN THE HANDS OF THE POLICE.

On top of the pass with the industrial Methyr Tydfel some miles down the valley to one side, and beautiful Crick Howell (I'll abandon trying the Welsh spelling,) nestling between the green hills far down the other side, I'm listening to sheep calling lambs, and a pair of ravens, watching them flying in and out of their nest in the dark granity-like rock escarpment above.




Where I sit, here under this old thorn tree it feels like I'm on top of the World. Today, Easter Day, my new book was published on Lulu.








Flat out now. Has it all been too much, all this excitement? Michael set off and climbed up into the Kingdom of the Eagles - at least he joined the ravens up there, and on his downward path, took this unauthorised view of Esme, the author, Out to the World.




Michael, back from the raven's tops, resting under the old thorn tree. We both look, as our friend Skip said, like a pair of old hippies. I prefer to think he looks like the wise old man. Maybe the shaman. I'm sure it's a magical tree. Certainly a magical day for us both.

UP AND DOWN THE PRIMROSE PATH

FIRST; A Silly Song for Spring!

Spring is springing,

Birds are singing.

Sun's beams abound

But the warmer it grows,

My fingers and toes,

Plus the tip of my nose,

All remain unaccountably froze.

Three in a bed

practising Telemann

Family relaxing. Oldies exhausted.

Sickening, isn't it. I'm going to have to break the universal law again, No sooner did I swear I'd never swank about my grandchildren's achievements after *** musical genius results last December, than her youngest sister ****arrived yesterday shyly whispering her news. 'Look at my tee-shirt grandma. I've been playing in a tournament at school, and they've made me captain of the rugby team. I'm the only girl in a team of boys, but we won the tournament. Best out of 6 games, all really difficult, but we won, and they gave me this tee-shirt and a lot of games equipment for the school.' So I just had to ask her to pose for her photo in the corner of the room. Didn't I!

This is *** playing another sort of

game. This time with Dad-dad

**** In another corner.

CHRISTMAS DAY AT DRUIDSTONE A rare sight. Our hotel, The Druidstone, poised above icicles on the cliffs above the beach. I was kicking myself at not packing my camera at the last moment, but this picture was taken by Chris Segar. A photographer who knows what

he's doing, Chris and his wife were also a guests at the hotel, and he generously gave me some of the shots he had on his camera. Later in the day he also took several stunning views of the Christmas Day sunset over the sea. After the cold start, the day itself was crisply perfect. Blue skies and calm blue sea, with people taking a walks on the long, golden beaches all the way from Broadhaven to the south to Newgale to the north along the coast until sunset. The sunset colours that Chris captured were amazing; pearly violets, blazing oranges and golds, and I'm hoping to find a way to download a few to add a very different aspect to this unusual but monotone view above.

AND NOW, BREAKING ALL RULES
that say one doesn't praise one's own offspring in public.... I learned last night that Ellis, my middle granddaughter, age 12 had taken her music exam at the Guildhall School of Music with a pass mark of 98% This qualifies her for playing in an adult symphony orchestra. Her instrument is the double bass, the choice of which came about when at the age of 6 she went with her father Mark, one Saturday morning to buy a quarter-sized cello and returned with a half-sized double bass. The 98% mark is the highest ever given and is beyond 'distinction' grade.

Fond parents are aburst with pride - Grandparents Michael and Esme are bereft of words. This is the girl, who a years ago was taken to the Royal Observatory at Greenwich and asked a bearded chief astronomer if she could press the button which opens the great telescope lens. He asked he what she wanted to be when she grew up, and got the reply, 'an astronaut.' 'Go for it , girl' he told her. ' I wish my own granddaughter was as adventurous and brave as you.'

WITH GREAT SADNESS I return to my sprig of Glastonbury Thorn pictured in our garden a few weeks ago --- before the arctic winter befell with a vengeance. I used this image and some accompanying text for my this year's Christmas card. No sooner were they collected from the printer than I heard on TV news that some fool in a fit of mindless violence had taken a chain saw to the original tree which stands below the Torr and cut it to the ground.
So in honor of that 2000 year old parent tree one of who's offspring shoots, (so it's said) is now rooted in our garden, here's the picture again. (Unfortunately and mysteriously it somehow got deleted.)

AND, BABY, IT'S COLD OUTSIDE. WOW! Better stay in. What a shock it was after that glorious November -- all those colours; trees bedecked in gold, amber and russet, blue skies and sunshine for weeks, that we're suddenly into Arctic weather. Temperatures soaring ? --there must be a word for an unbelievably rapid fall, but can't wait for it to emerge -- as I need to look out some extra clothing quick. Back to double underwear and porridge for breakfast long before the anticipated date. Winter Wonderland, if you want to see it that way from inside your house, but a bit of a pain if you're having to dig out your car from a snow drift before venturing out to forage for food.