Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Since I was struck, visually, by the vividness of a green double-decker bus as it rounded a corner of road, coinciding with the sun splitting through heavy cloud cover and consequently sparking the idea to find one thousand such understated significant moments in one literary day, the ability to see these moments has sharpened. I like to think that I would anticipate the bus experience should the circumstances repeat. This is my miracle mindset, this is where the Wishbone Soup attitude has lead me. It doesn’t prevent sadness or pay bills, it just makes me feel centred. I say ‘just’ because the concept is simple, it’s the practice that fouls most people up. Like realistic diet goals, it’s more about developing a healthy habit than denial or blame or any negative reaction.  It has taken effort, I do practice at this, and the 1,000 Miracles In One Day project is part of this. I’ve had the advantage of being rather poor (by Western European standards) and the luck to be inclined to

I think most people relish that little quiet bit of time, when you are still all your own person, just before the work persona gets switched on. I remember being like that before going to school too, or even before going out to a party. Incidentally, the verse about the bus popped into my head, as a bus drove past, logically, and sparked the whole idea of finding 1,000 such ordinary marvellous moments and writing them all down in a chronological imaginary 24 hour period: One Thousand Miracles In One Day. 380 catalogued so far, and it's about 9.10am. There is a strong belief (in my head) that saucer shaped clouds are the origin of alien visitation stories, it's the kind of thought I have before work. 371 Feet on pavement, eyes lifted The air is getting heavier Clouds arrive in fleets Take over the sky 372 Lumps of gunmetal grey Solidify the sky; cloudlocked In the strip of free air beneath My boots tap the pavement 373 Shop door keys turn, unlock

The lane is a problem. It looks lovely, it wrecks cars and shoes. We need to be a bit richer to live here, we could get a machine to level out the pot holes. We bought a pick axe but it's a long slow job... However, watching people get fouled by the double roundabout usually restores any lost sense of humour.   361 Another petit-repetition, as I collect My sparsely previously packed bag, my coat My list, kiss Mr on the back of his distracted Head, push my feet into rubber boots 362 Find the mist trimmed to a Decorative edge, an embellishment Rather than landscape disguise. Pheasants Parade their colours to disinterested sheep 363 Several shapes of leaf bridge Overhead, I look up, an oak branch Is cracked, action will be necessary Before accident or obstruction occurs 364 Drag my boot-soles up the lane terrain Bumped and pot holed and unpopular Despite the picturesque nature, but this Is the view that distracts, that balances

Specially dedicated to everyone who has washed their clothes by hand, not by choice. Especially if you have had a sick baby. I would love a dry toilet, I barely clean my house, my carbon footprint is petite, but life without a washing machine? That would take some convincing.  351 Somewhere a woman is dreaming Of the dance, where she feels Most awake, most herself, most alive But when the dream is done, don’t ask 352 Clothes curl foetal in the shushing Sluicing machine, my most loved appliance Daily, to my rescue; I have laboured Over bathfuls of fabric, enough, enough 353 Somewhere another family wakes, perplexed By unfamiliar walls and ceilings and curtains drawn Having slept soundly in their new home; happiness Settles swiftly, after the months of waiting 354 Without a machine for laundering garments Stamping on the grubby stuff in soap-scum Is the congenial stage. The sodden wretched Back aching task is rinsing out, wringing out  

If you ever do get stuck in a menu rut, try picking a weekly theme. We initially thought we would do this for a year, but it lasted about two weeks- Mexican and Renaissance. Tequila slammers is not a balanced meal, in spite of the healthy lemon wedges.  341 Boy steps carefully, eyes to ground Mist disperses into temperate air Follows his footprints up the lane Lingering, hovering 342 Ground mist leaves grudgingly Forms nostalgic clouds, inclined to Reunite with the solid earth Incomplete, suspended 343 Mr inspects his list of doing things Weighs up weather, deliberates winter And the firewood situation, he knows how Many logs in the shed, calculates nights of fires 344 My list is immediate. Without parsnips The roast is not what we have envisioned Details make a life, meal by meal Layers of flavour assemble 345 I will walk into town, in my town clothes Not too muddy. Also raincoat and rubber Boots; I have noted the pen

The outside table is made out of an old pallet. It has a rustic charm, especially with a tablecloth. By night, candle lit, it is one of the most beautiful places on earth, as voted by me, Mr & Boy. We love the space we're in.   331 This morning we are written Cursively across the ground floor Comments scroll the length of Joined up lines of liking 332 Breakfast can squash us in at the tiny table We are pleased to share cramped proximity When it sprawls out, the fundamental cohesion Persists, and elbows can relax 333 Convention is considered, on merit, sometimes Respected, often, almost inattentively, pushed Into something workable, and it works, like art Because of the strength of the basic structure 334 Boy regards the sky, eyebrow raised Rain is a possibility but he will be ok To walk to school up the lane which Becomes a small river when wet 335 Cheap shoes and adventure, I wish they Were a more agreeable mix. A

The way we have breakfast does vary. We don't have to share a table, because we share living here, in our lovely, ridiculous swamp, and that means we have to be a team, or there is no fire, no jam, no cider, no comfort and no fun. Laughing is still more important than wishes!  321 Pour porridge oats, the texture Yielding and rough, mix to taste, Mine is a thick paste, undercooked And flavoured with jam 322 This morning I choose quince From the jam scrap jars massing In the fridge, dump a spoonful Into the chipped bowl of hot oats 323 By western standards we are Not wealthy, nevertheless Five kinds of jam can be found Here in our refrigeration device 324 Boy likes supermarket generic Hoops and milk, he holds the bowl With 2 equidistant flaws, while he Heckles the stats of the M1 Grant tank 325 Mr, after walking twice through The house, spectacle hunting, settles For hoops and milk, sat at his laptop Folds it out like

Boy (what we call him, not his real name) is always going outside just to see what's about. Ice is a particular fascination. He has a natural scientific curious exploratory type of mind. We found some human bones once, but we were exploring an abandoned church crypt.  311 Signs of this family rousing From sleep; Footsteps Toilet flushes, mumbling Retraced steps for things forgotten 312 Cereal bowls take their Morning journey, cups swoop From hooks, kettle flies To tap and back, spoon tray clatters 313 Dog stares it is her Jedi mind Trick to get breakfast Every morning her bowl is Replenished, clever mind trick 314 Washing machine jaw opens On a side hinge, dirty clothes Stuffed in to rumble Through the belly drum 315 Second coffee. Around this Percolated calm, problems arise But the lost trousers will be Inevitably, in the airing cupboard 316 Other lost items materialise, such as shoes Drying on the hear

When in doubt, celebrate- one of my favourite life rules. It is more cheerful than sensible.  This was not factory farmed pig, incidentally, which is why we had to wait for a bargain before we could indulge. Overall, we aim for responsible freedom, which is cheerful, sensible and affordable on a limited income. And string does make a good drawer handle, although after some years of heavy use the one on the cutlery drawer has frayed and needs replacing.  301 Easing back to tired, sitting On a rickety chair, eyes shut The sun rises, later than me Bathes this weary face in light 302 Quiet time, before the Post arrives, before I vex Over what disturbances may Slap down on the doormat 303 If just a little bit more arrives Than departs, my guarded   Jubilant budget will dissipate Exasperating material frets 304 Necessity has mothered some Invention and adopted some Attitude. We have replaced the Broken drawer handles with string 3

291 The man who drank to forget Wakes up. He shakes as he moves from Bed to bathroom, his world is shattered This is the ice-cold start to living alone 292 He has reached out his hand To the other side of the bed, pressed His palm on flat blankets, across the Slight hollow in the mattress 293 In loss, an imprint exists, it is No less transient than the life Of the memory that holds it Nor any less unique or precious 294 The whole solar system has a shelf life Making perspective simple from intellectual Angles. Life is more than cerebral for people Stars have life cycles not funeral rites 295 Ketchup has been left with the lid off Sticky and vulnerable like a tracheotomy It’s mostly sachets in cafes these days Split open heart-pods lying on side plates 296 She wakes naked with achy feet, parched Skin, echoing head, seeks comfort in Pulsation of water, the congruous Drum of indoor plumbing 297 Oh the be