Mothering Sunday is when people from little village churches gather together in the mother church of the area, usually a cathedral.
Also a day to celebrate mothers. You don’t need a special day for that, do you? When I was a child I liked a story about Peachling, who was found inside a fruit. The peach was floating along in a stream. An elderly couple were walking nearby. They were very contented but often wished they had been able to share their happiness with some children.
They retrieved the beautiful peach from the water and took it home to eat. When they cut it in half they were shocked to discover a tiny human inside. They named him Peachling and cared for him as if they had given birth to him. The old woman sewed clothing for him, the old man made his shoes. They taught him everything they knew. Nobody questioned where the peach tree he’d fallen from might be.
My father laughed when telling this story: “Peachling must have been a spoilt brat!”.
Peachling grew up, eventually it was time for him to go and find his future. I was surprised that he could just leave with a bag tied to the end of a stick, the story didn’t describe his plans or tell where he was going. The old couple were very sad but pleased they’d had the opportunity to help him grow.
Both of my parents were wistful when they said that nobody appreciates their parents until much later…
A drawing from a photo I took in 1995. I scrawled a sketch at the same time but then Firstborn woke up.
Drawing of a cat’s “in or out?” ritual. Watercolour crayons, graphite and carbon on paper.
Nearly 40 years ago I was asked to make a painting of an owl with a recently caught mouse. I’m not keen on animals, neither for eating nor for painting. Maybe that’s why I have delayed this picture for so long, I don’t like painting.
Anyway, this is how far it’s gone. Tinted graphite pencils on paper, 27 x 38cm.
Watercolour in progress. Might be too cluttered, we'll see…
Planting trees, taking life forward, thinking about ancient Britons and their woad.