Roman de la Rose

I got a little job a few weeks ago which involved doing some research into medieval poetry, and that's when I discovered this, which I am using as an illustration for the following story. It's a grey and rainy evening here in Sydney, and there was an exquisitely powerful thunderstorm about an hour ago which made me jump with fright. So I put a bit of thunder and lightning into the poem as well.

THE GARDEN

"A garden
Is better
As a secret,"
The knight was told
That fateful day,
When his lovely smiling lady
Disappeared with naught to say.
He knocked on one large wrought-iron gate,
Then he tried to scale the walls,
But all he heard were footsteps
And melodious blackbird calls.

He slept outside the mystery,
And as the sun then rose
He felt the dew that stained the grass
And saw the night-time close.
He stood beside the gate that day
And many days to come,
But to his soft entreaties
Lady strong
Did not succumb.

Until one night,
At deepest midnight,
He did wake
With quite a fright,
And he saw the scent of blossoms
And he smelled the pale moonlight.
The garden wall before him was
Now covered in a vine,
And when he pulled it all away
A letter he did find.

The words writ on that wall
Did tell
Of many years now past,
Of brambles,
Thorns,
And fading leaves,
Of seedlings growing fast.
He read the many stories
And he memorised the lines,
Then with them
Built a ladder
Used to scale that wall of vines.

Now balances he,
That bravest
Knight,
Upon those solid bricks,
Now peers he down,
And strains to see,
Beneath green canopies.
For the garden,
Now an orchard,
Is a hiding place divine
And his darling lovely lady
Calls out
"You may look,
But 'tis all mine."

"A garden
Is better
As a secret,"
The knight remembered well,
And he knew
That by his looking
Something died
And someone fell.
Strongest tree began to tumble
There before the knight's own eyes,
And the fruiting
Stung with lightning
And the green leaf's
Thunder cried.

Fell the knight
From bricks and mortar
Of that castle of the earth,
Of the water
And the sunshine
And the bright green early growth.
Fell the knight
And there beneath him
Softest landing did he find,
For his lady,
Patient,
Waiting,
Caught him with
Her poem's next line.

It's the pie! It's the pie!

It all started with BabelBabe's post about the book "Daddy-Long-Legs." I still have my worn copy of the book, dating back to when I was 11 years old, and as I take it down from the shelf I am overwhelmed with happiness and surprise - it's so familiar and yet so foreign. I suppose that's the beauty of having a happy childhood, plus a mother who saves everything...just in case Eleanor may want to look at it again one day. I suppose that's also the beauty of blogging - coming across a post written by someone you have never met who feels exactly the way you do about a book from your (and her) childhood.

BabelBabe wrote in her post about how many of her favourite childhood books involved orphans, and that's what reminded me of that film. Yes. That film which is still my all-time favourite film just because I was exactly the right age, and exactly the right girl to love exactly that film at that exact time. I am putting this out there on the off chance that any one of you might have also watched and loved "International Velvet". Not "National Velvet" with Elizabeth Taylor...NO.... but INternational velvet with Tatum O'Neal, Christopher Plummer, Anthony Hopkins and Nanette Newmann. You see...Tatum is "Sarah" whose parents are killed in a plane accident (an orphan!), so she must travel from Arizona to England to live with her Aunt and Uncle. They have a beautiful home in Devon (I think), near the beach and near green fields and beautiful rolling hills, and her Aunt is Velvet from "National Velvet" who still has her beloved horse "The Pie."

Um...ok...I'll stop now...suffice to say Anthony Hopkins comes into the picture and trains Sarah to win an Olympic Gold on "Arizona Pie." I watched that movie so many times, and I cried so many many tears that EVEN TODAY whenever my mother serves pie for dessert my entire family yells out "It's the pie!! It's the pie!!" and then they pretend to cry into their serviettes. No respect.

So here is a clip which I discovered on youtube, just in case any of you out there are still reading this post....

Splitsing

I am sure that you have all already been here to check up on what Alice's meeting with Eurolush was like. I have been thinking quite a bit this week about what happens when bloggers meet in real life, and this made me think of friendships and the surprising ways in which one can find new friends. That thought then led to a memory of a film I watched many years ago - "The World of Henry Orient." The film was actually made several years before I was born and my mother adored it for many years, waiting patiently until I was old enough to watch it with her...I adored it too...and still love it. The two girls' friendship (set in New York) with their crazy mad hysterically funny obsession with Peter Sellers' character, is captivating. The soundtrack to the movie plays a huge part in the success of the film, and once I hear it I simply cannot stop humming it.

Which is all a very roundabout way of saying that I think that.......

If I were to set up the perfect activity for two bloggers who are meeting for the first time, it would be this one:

A good teacher

Have you read Alice C's latest post concerning her planned meeting today with Eurolush?

I almost wet pants from laughing so hard, but then...once the laughing stopped...well....I began to feel strangely sad and lonely. Here I sit, in my little home in Australia, so very far away from the exciting meeting of these two fabulous women, hmph. I must be patient and wait.... I am at the mercy of their future posts...I am paralysed....PARALYSED. So I cheer myself up by talking about something that neither Alice C nor Eurolush will experience today. Oh, they may well be skipping around London while holding hands, sipping tea, shopping at Marks & Spencer's, riding on double-decker buses, admiring each other's coats, gushing over each other's children, but I can be fairly certain that neither one will be swimming, and here at Commentbox headquarters it's all about swimming.

So there.

Now, where was I? Oh yes. Today I swam laps at this incredible pool. Did you notice the wave-like ceiling? The entire building is filled with light and is quiet and peaceful, the water is sweet and heated to a perfect temperature, the "slow" lane was filled with pensioners doing the breaststroke which made me feel incredibly fast in comparison. I am an extremely slow swimmer (I barely move forward at all), but my technique is perfect because I taught myself how to swim freestyle from a video which I borrowed from the library, and it is a genius method. Genius.

Three years ago I decided that I really wanted to learn how to swim freestyle so that I could join in that great Aussie pastime of swimming laps. Having moved from country to country throughout my childhood years, I never learned how to swim properly. Oh sure, I could stay afloat and my breast-stroke was almost decent, but that was the limit of my ability. Now, I am a firm believer that one can learn anything from the library. Given enough enthusiasm and a jolly good search for the right teacher's book anyone can learn anything. So I went to the library and discovered a video instead, well...it's almost a book.

I watched the video and made meticulous notes, I read the notes several times, and then I made my way to the pool of my dreams - the pool in which I yearned to swim laps. I started in the kiddie pool, and was so embarrassed that my cheeks actually blushed hot as I practiced, but I was driven. I'm telling you - driven. After several weeks of heartbreakingly slow practice I finally made my debut in the slowest lane of the Olympic-size pool, and I actually swam an entire lap without stopping. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. I breathed on the side facing the massive panels which had been painted by Wendy Sharpe, and they are truly at their best when viewed while swimming.

That blessed summer I swam laps in some of the most beautiful pools in the world (none of which can be found in London, hehehehe). In this outdoor pool, the water is salty and slightly heated, when breathing on the right I can see the harbour and the yachts, on the left are the towering fig-trees of the Botanical Gardens. After my swim I can stroll up the road to visit the Art Gallery of NSW, what could be more delightful?

In this pool, the ocean water is clear and crisp, and when the tide comes in white-frothed waves wash over me. I swim laps while looking down at the tiny schools of fish, starfish and anemones. After my laps I order a latte and a slice of banana bread and I sit and look out at the horizon.

Before I go to this pool, I usually like to visit the library and find the perfect book, because you see....this pool is literally next door to the most beautiful old library. Yes, I couldn't have created a more perfect place in my wildest dreams. You see the big white house to the left of the harbour pool? That's the library!! There is the most magnificent garden leading from the library to the pool.

This library talk now brings me back to that little video which I found in my local library and which started it all. The swimming programme which I followed was created by John Konrads. One day, a good year after I had first discovered Mr. Konrad's wonderful swimming method, I was swimming laps at that first, original pool of my dreams, and who should I see as I was walking towards the lockers but Mr. Konrads himself!! I had watched him so many times as he described his technique to me over and over again on the library's well-worn video that I felt a jolt of electricity run through my body. Naturally, I did the only thing any self-respecting lap-swimmer could do, I approached him, introduced myself, and thanked him for changing my life. My gushing words of adoration took him by surprise at first, but he recovered quite quickly and in the true spirit of the greatest of all swim teachers he said "So, you're remembering to relax the kick? You're pivoting your body? Remembering to relax your body and look straight ahead?" Yes, yes and yes, I nodded enthusiastically and stared at him adoringly, there is nothing in the whole world as good as a good teacher! Nothing!

That was all a few years ago, my daily routine soon changed and my life became much more hectic. Swimming became a chore...a hassle involving getting wet, changing clothes and chlorine-coloured hair. But today I returned to the water, and like a duck to water I swam laps once again. As I swam up and down, up and down, up and down, taking in the light and the sound and the feel, I thought to myself "I must share this experience with my blogging friends," and here I am, doing just that.

So, good night to you all, and thanks for swimming alongside me this afternoon.

Today's commentbox, with a window

Cease-fire declared - November 18, 2008

You may have noticed that I have been participating in an intense and deadly athletic competition with one Lady Croissant. I realise that you have all been anxiously following the race, and I know that some of you have even taken sides (without naming names Coffeelady). But today is not a day for fighting words, because today is BIGGER than me, and BIGGER than us, today is The Most Important Day Of The Year. Yes, that's right, today is:







EUROLUSH'S BIRTHDAY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!







So, please, ladies, raise your champagne glasses and join me in toasting the Gorgeous Germanic Goddess, the Sexy Suburban Superspy, the Fabulously Photogenic Photographer, the Cool and Capable Craftycat, the Remarkable Writer of the Rhineland, the Crazy Queen of Comedy.....







Our Precious Purveyor of Perfect Pastries....







The one.....







The only....







Eurolush!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




And now, this day wouldn't be complete without a.........

birthday poem!

So, without further ado, here is Eurolush's birthday poem...and please note...that Eleanorfromthecommentbox has NO COMMENT BOX today. Yes, because today is Eurolush's day and her comment box must be packed to the brim with birthday wishes from us all. So go on............off you go...........go to Eurolush.....LET'S PARTY!!!



EUROLUSH'S BIRTHDAY POEM


Once upon a time,
In the nineteenth
Century,
Two brothers
By the name of Grimm
Dictated this
To me.

They claimed
They heard it
And rewrote it
In a forest
Deep and dark,
But since I learned it
And adored it,
It now resides
Deep in
My heart.

The tale begins
With longest journey,
Strong-loved family,
Girls abound,
Then stops briefly
In new Germany,
Forest fantasy
All snow-bound.

Next,
A blackbird
Comes aflying,
Bringing with it
Laughter,
Friends,
Little boxes
Filled with chatter,
Sugared pastries,
Quilted beds.

The tale transforms
With page,
With picture,
Glowing white
Of lovely creature.
Here’s the castle,
Here’s the moat,
Here’s a tower
And a boat.

On this boat
The women stand,
White sails flying,
Hand in hand.
With gusts of wind,
Electric storms,
The boat now moves
Towards the shores,
And hands awaving
To their queen,
They bridge the waves
Which lie between.

“How we love your little dog,
Village musings,
Captured fog.
How we wish
To hear your laughter,
And your happily
Ever after.”
This the women shout
Together,
With a joy
Beyond all measure,
Then they bow,
And dare to say:
“Dearest Eurolush –


HAPPY BIRTHDAY.”

Sista challenge

Hello dear reader,

Eleanor from the comment box has been nice and friendly for far too long.

It's time to stir things up.

It's time for Eleanor to show her true colours.

No longer will Eleanor quietly and calmly continue to post only fairytales and poetry, noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo....... for a challenge has been set by one Eurolush of the Glan, and this has tempted "dear and lovely" Eleanor to show her other side, her fiercely competitive side, which she has kept hidden from view, deep within her soul, until she could no longer contain the evil, and thus.....

Watch Eleanor as she shows you how we run in Australia, among the gum-trees in the heat of mid-November:




Watch Eleanor as she is about to get booked by the park ranger for speeding. "I'm sorry miss," he says sternly, "your running speed is presenting a danger to your fellow joggers, I insist that you slow down."




And just when you thought she couldn't run any faster, any further....why, that's when Eleanor releases her super-secret Aussie weapon:

"Release the hound," she cries out in triumph and delight:

The photographer requested that Eleanor and her hound slow down to normal human pace so that he could get this shot. Had Eleanor and her hound continued at their superhuman speed the camera would have been unable to capture their movement.

BRING IT ON SISTA!!!!!!

The story of the lovely creatures in the carriage, and the lovely lady who joined them on the long journey to the big city

All credit for this part of "The Lady of the Ring" must really go to esti, whose "Magical Forests" series is so very fascinating, beautiful and inspiring. The illustration for this chapter is esti's post "Circling". Without esti's artwork, this chapter would not exist.



The lovely lady and the lovely creatures went bumpity bump bump on the hard wooden benches as the carriage made its way along the rough dirt road. Halfway to the city, the carriage driver stopped his horses beside a small tavern and proclaimed it a rest stop. The group of travel-weary women slowly made their way out of the carriage, squinting at the bright sunlight and surveying this new place. This new place was the place between where they had come from and where they were going, and it was strangely beautiful. The sun was warm, the air was crisp, the grass was green, and in the distance were forests and mountains and clouds. Instead of entering the tavern they walked in a long straight line, as if in a trance, towards the greenest part of the small meadow. The women stopped there, formed a perfect circle, and rested.

The lovely lady sat down on the grass, crossed her long and elegant legs, rested her graceful ringless hands on her knees, and watched them. Directly opposite her stood a woman in a long black dress whose right arm was raised towards the centre of the circle as if to say “I hereby request my ring”. To the left of this ringless woman stood the youngest of the women, almost a girl really, with long blonde hair and eyes closed and refusing to look, and hands clasped behind her back in solitary independence. Immediately beside the lovely lady stood a couple of women attached to each other in an intimate embrace of secrets and truths. One of these women was listening with wide-eyed surprise while the other pressed her lips to her ear as if to say “Listen, quick, this is my story, quick, before we get to the city.” The lovely lady noticed all of this, but what she noticed most of all was that the story-telling woman’s hand was tightly tucked into a deep, padded pocket. The lovely lady smiled to herself a little sadly and thought “Ah, yes, indeed.”

Turning her head to the other side, the lovely lady saw a woman who was wearing a light, flowing dress of the finest cotton. She was the tallest of the group by far, with her back held straight, her hair grown long, and a water-pot perfectly balanced above her long, angular face. She was looking into the far distance and seemed preoccupied. “Perhaps she is looking for her well,” thought the lovely lady. She then tried to catch this well-seeking woman’s eye, so that she could show her another lady, a lady who was so much more fascinating than mere water. This fascinating creature was in constant motion, and the breeze seemed to touch no other woman, only her. The breeze touched only her shawl, only her hair, only her walk. She was walking, and then running, with a silly simplicity and a grinning frivolity, and she made the lovely lady smile and laugh.

There were sounds in this circle as well as sights, and the most haunting sound by far was neither the breeze nor the bees nor the birds, no, it was the hesitant strumming of a woman’s guitar, a woman whose back was turned towards the lovely lady. For you see, dear reader, the musician of the group is actually staring right at YOU, right now, yes she is, and she is singing your song while looking at you and waiting to see your reaction.

It is a very lucky thing that the musician has chosen to look at you and not to her right, for the woman to her right is completely oblivious to the quivering notes of the song. This woman is exhausted. Yes, this woman has laid her body down on the long soft grass and circled the back of her head with her arms like a makeshift pillow. Standing beside this sleeping woman is a worrying woman who is holding her hands together anxiously and bending forward in prayer to an invisible goddess. The lovely lady can almost hear this worrying woman as she chants her silent prayers of hope and strength, and this makes the lovely lady realise that she is no longer alone and that her little world is perhaps not quite so little after all.





[And, dear reader, if you do happen to recognise any of these rare and wonderful women, rest assured, it is no accident.]

KMKAT's poem

I am pleased to reveal KMKAT's poem, fresh off the press. I spent a lot of time thinking about KMKAT and she certainly set me a challenge with her theme of "Blue October...and a bit of orange too please."

I ended up writing this at a pavement table at an inner city cafe, a place I go to when I am totally and completely stuck and cannot write a word. It's a teeny tiny bakery with very good croissant and coffee (ummm...croissant....eurolush.....chocolate croissant....) and every single person there, I swear to you, every person - baker, counter assistant, customer, is arty-looking. Every single person looks like they have been up all night writing novels and screenplays or practicing for an audition or designing an award-winning fashion collection. So...where was I?...oh yes, so I was sitting there trying to write this poem for dear dear KMKAT when suddenly the guy sitting next to me starts to talk to me. He was very attractive and young and was intrigued by what I was doing. Hehehehe....hey Kmkat....I really owe you one....it was terribly good for my ego you know. Ahem...of course, Mr. Commentbox is my one and only true love, of course, ahem, but still, awfully flattering don't you think? So...um...yeah....who knew that blogging would lead me to writing poetry in public places.

So, here is the poem which is dedicated with much love to blogger and commenter extraordinaire: KMKAT.




BLUE OCTOBER

That month's added numbers
May well write of
Equality,
And that mother of men
May well dream of
Eternity.

But I have seen
All her books,
Arithmetically labelled,
And to me they did
Colour-talk,
Blue, red,
White and
Yellow.

Primarily blue
Told a tale of
A whiteness,
Of fiberglass mouldings
And chairwheeling fantasies.

Then red
Itself knitted
A man for all seasons,
And a wife
For good measure
And the very best reasons.

But the yellow
Spoke harshly
Of numbers
Of lifetimes,
Of death
And destruction
In her desert imaginings.

So I took out
My paintbrush
And my dirty old palette,
And started to mix it,
Out of love,
And some madness.

I married the red
Of her son’s future bride,
To the yellow of climates
Of warring disguise.
The ending I coloured
With hope, thought and courage,
And her sunset soon flourished
In glorious orange.

This post is a comment box

Hello people!

This is not an official post. What has happened is that for some reason my "comments" line in my previous post is missing (but sometimes not...but then when I check...it's missing again), even though I have clicked on the appropriate thingmejigg, anyway, I am really annoyed because I am nothing without comment boxes. NOTHING. So I will try to make THIS comment box work, and then you can leave any comments about the Road Trip post HERE.

Love, Eleanor.

P.S. Has this happened to any of you before?

ROAD TRIP

The commentbox girls went on a road trip yesterday. Yeehaaa, roooooad triiiiip!!!!

Where did we go today? Hmmm....I wonder.

This is what we listened to as we left the big smoke to go to the wide blue yonder (because here in blogland we don't really know each other, do we? Is Eleanor really my name?).



Of course, we were running a little bit late. I wonder why we were running late? Could it be that one of us couldn't decide what to wear, and therefore changed outfits for a good 30 minutes until she finally put on what she was wearing at the beginning? Could it be that one of us was...well...maybe a tad over-excited and anxious about making a good first impression on whoever we might meet there?

Here we are in the car:

I wore my retro cherry dress with red sandals, and I even applied a little lipstick. Miss Commentbox couldn't believe that I even owned lipstick. She said "I'm going to tell Mary that you must really like her because you put on lipstick for her." She didn't have to do that because I commenced my gushing the minute I saw Mary, and continued for the rest of the morning. I was a big mess of soppy blog-love. But Mary was cool with that.

Mary and her family welcomed us into their beautiful mountain home, and I tried really really hard not to stare and touch things. For example, I stopped myself from staring at Mary's computer and whispering "So THIS is where the magical garden photos are sent off around the world," and I didn't stare at her special striped chair (which Margot is known to sneak onto occasionally) and say "Oh...look...it's the famous chair....I love that chair....can I sit in that chair?" Nope. I did not do these things. I smiled casually and flipped my hair a bit and didn't even try to hug or kiss anyone. Not one person. Ok, maybe I did say "Am I dreaming? Quick Miss Commentbox, pinch me...", but that's not so bad, is it?


We then hopped into Mary's car and she drove us past Cherrydell. Cherrydell's owner happened to be working there that morning, so we were able to ask his permission to have a look around. Miss Commentbox and I followed Mary as she walked down the garden paths. I'm really annoyed with myself that I didn't photograph that, but you know.....I was walking in a trance...and the trance continued for the rest of the morning. It was very very quiet, with the occasional earthy movement from the owner as he dug and weeded, and a little bird-song. Mary, who is tall and graceful with a deep and melodious voice (like a cello, only better!), was chanting in front of us "So I usually walk this way first, then I like to stop here, then I turn in here....I usually like to go in the same direction...oh look, look up, over there....look at that colour..." and there we were, the two of us following Mary, hypnotised...and one of us might have been close to tears. The exuberance of spring has, as you probably know from Mary's beautiful, poetic descriptions in the blog, given way to a pondering summer green. Mary pointed at now-empty garden beds and chanted "Here there were tulips, the daffs simply filled this area, the colours were crazy, and there were baby tulips here, and those were the blossoming trees," and as she pointed with her hand, she painted in the colours for us and I sighed and Miss Commentbox whispered to me "This is amazing" and then we heard a movement along another path and we looked up to see the owner walking by and gazing at us. He was wearing shorts and his knees were caked in moist, wet mud, and I thought "Oh, I do believe he has been digging for jewels...I really wish I could introduce him to the mother in my little "Jewel Thief" story," which is of course ridiculous, but that's what happens at the garden's end, where everything is both familiar and foreign, filled with alternating light and shade and light and shade.


We tumbled back into Mary's car, and I think we talked about something, or maybe not, I don't know, I was in shock from all of the beauty we had just seen. But Mary knew what I needed, coffee, strong mountain coffee drunk at a little table in the fresh air. Hey guys...Mary drinks double shot latte....I know you all will need to know that if you ever get together with her....these details are important. The waiter was a young bleached-hair, pierced-lip guy, and Mary greeted him warmly by name and enquired about his exams. Then, we got down to business, yep, that's right, we gossipped shamelessly about each and every one of you. We named you one by one and listed all of the reasons we adore each and every one of you, and then we carefully skirted around the issue of blackbird's real name...does she have one? Is she officially blackbird on her birth certificate? Does her mother call her "Birdy"? Maybe her best friends call her "B"? I know, I'm telling you....so much to talk about, so little time! Next stop...Trisha's garden.

How can I best describe Trish's garden? Magical realism. But I recommend you reread Mary's words in the very first post about Trisha's garden, because Mary has a way with words (as well as photographs) and I do think she truly captured the very first impression which the garden makes on a visitor.

This garden is very different from Cherrydell. While Cherrydell has a feeling of expansive space, Rose Briar is a series of small intimate spaces which are interlinked by curving paths and spilling steps. Following Mary through this garden is akin to pushing yourself on a swing in a children's playground, there's a sloping down, and then a pause, and then a climbing up, and a circular wander, followed by a pause, and one more, and then a delightful wooshing down, and then a flat wander. The sun seems to have been created with the sole purpose of reaching every single plant in this magical garden, and it felt so good on my face and neck. When I reached a small flat carpet of grass I took my sandals off and the lawn was a soft patch of pure velvet under my toes.

Trisha welcomed us with great joy and many stories. Her long grey plait swung as she spoke, and her crisp blue eyes took my breath away, and her art made me wonder if this was, perhaps, after all, really and truly a dream. I felt Miss Commentbox, who was standing beside me the entire time, grow suddenly very very still as she watched and listened to this new world we had walked into. Then, as if on cue, five (or maybe six? seven?) dachshunds of varying sizes came tumbling out of a dark room whose door Mary had opened. They raced past the studio with a clickety-clack cluttering and then tumbled down the garden steps, the last of them being a wise old soul, with a face greyed with age and a slow arthritic walk, who took a terrible tumble down those same stairs as we three watched helplessly. But he picked himself up, seemed to shrug and nod in our general direction, and followed the crowd down down down to where Trisha was now holding court with some new garden visitors.

Miss Commentbox and I would like to thank both Trisha and "Mr. Cherrydell" for welcoming us into these two gardens with such generosity and warmth. We'd also like to thank Mary and her wonderful husband and beautiful children for welcoming us to their beautiful Mountain home.

It was the best day.

And the poem goes to......

Congratulations kmkat! I shall spend the next few days thinking about you and trying to write a poem about a blue October (with orange in it).

Thanks to everyone who sent me such kind wishes via my commentbox. I'm having so much fun!!

One hundred and ten

I have just noticed that I have 110 posts on my blog. I'm amazed at myself! You have no idea how much courage I need every time I hit the "publish" button.....why...I actually still cringe slightly every time I do so. I am so very grateful to the person who invented blogging (is there one such person? I wonder) because it has allowed me to tap into a community of such different, interesting, talented and generous women from around the world. I am so grateful that I have readers! In fact, I feel that I have quite a personal connection to my readers, and I do hope that other bloggers also feel that way towards me when I frequent their comment boxes.

I think about you all the time, dear readers. I really do. Yes, I mean YOU!! I think about things you have written and photos you have taken, I think about your artwork and craftwork and gardenwork, I think about your children and your pets and your jobs and your clothes and, of course, I think about the shoes you wear and the food you eat. Those of you who blog anonymously-I imagine what you look like and am convinced that I'm correct, and those of you who are only a name in my comment box with no blog attached...why...I think you may actually be my favourites (hi Laura :-), after all, that's how I got my blog name. I'll never forget that crazy day when I spotted Kim from allconsuming at the Growers' Market, the way she turned her face to me when I introduced myself and flashed her wide and gorgeous grin and said "You're Eleanor from my comment box?!!"

Now. It has come to my attention that many bloggers offer up a little prize to be raffled off to one lucky commenter, in celebration of a blogging anniversary. I have therefore decided to offer (as a lucky comment-box-door-prize) this beautiful knitted pair of socks I whipped up yesterday:













Hahaha. If you fell for that one then you are obviously a very new reader. I cannot knit, nor can I sew (at all!), nor patchwork.

Oh, really? What did you say? Oh, yes, well...that's true.....I do occasionally write a little poem.....yes.....I admit it....what? You say that maybe I might make a poetic offering to one lucky commenter? A poem on demand. I like the sound of that, and yes, I know it is a good idea because it makes me very nervous and self-conscious - that is a sign that I am on the right track here.

So, without further ado (because the lady of the ring MUST continue on her horse-drawn carriage of a journey asap) I proclaim that one of you will have your name drawn out of a hat (Miss Commentbox's hat which I bought her from Etsy for her birthday and which she adores and which I would never have found if I had not been blogging) if you leave a comment below. You comment below should also state the SUBJECT of said poem!!

Good luck and may I not regret this decision tomorrow.