{"id":1494,"date":"2018-11-20T11:33:48","date_gmt":"2018-11-20T00:33:48","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/?p=1494"},"modified":"2018-11-20T14:22:44","modified_gmt":"2018-11-20T03:22:44","slug":"181120-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/181120-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Diane’s Newsletter 20th November 2018"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\n\"\"The letter I<\/b> is the ninth letter of the English alphabet, and according to numerology it indicates selflessness and generosity. People whose names begin with I<\/b> are often idealistic, generous, sympathetic, creative and intense, with very deep feelings.<\/p>\n

As a letter it was used interchangeably with J<\/b> until around the sixteenth century. The dot over the lower-case variant is known as a tittle (a kind of diacritic). The difference between the diacritic and the tittle is that the diacritic indicates pronunciation or stress while the tittle is simply a small, insignificant mark that does nothing in particular but is still part of the letter.<\/p>\n

I<\/b> is not only a letter it is also a word in English – the first person singular pronoun – and from this point view it may be interesting to consider some of the attributes listed above. Perhaps generous<\/i> and sympathetic<\/i> should describe all of us (at least, as long as we speak English. . .). <\/p>\n

For those who may be interested, the colours connected to I<\/b> are all colours.
\n <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/a>
\n

GUEST POST<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n
Ingrid,  Sverige<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n
BLOMMORNA<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n 
\n\"\" 
\nHon var en svensk kvinna och hon var f\u00f6dd till dv\u00e4rg.
\nF\u00f6r det mesta satt hon hemma i sitt kalla land, i sin lilla l\u00e4genhet och l\u00e4ste b\u00f6cker. En g\u00e5ng fick hon tag i en skildring av Paris. Vilken stad! Ett l\u00e4ngtans fr\u00f6 sm\u00f6g sig in i hennes hj\u00e4rta, grodde och blev allt st\u00f6rre. S\u00e5 stor, att hon tog mod till sig, l\u00e4mnade det lilla, s\u00e4kra hemmet och reste till denna k\u00e4rlekens stad.<\/p>\n

Begeistrat s\u00f6kte hon upp de st\u00e4llen hon hade l\u00e4st om i boken. Men ack – s\u00e5 lite hennes \u00f6gon n\u00e5dde. Precis som ett barn hade ocks\u00e5 hon ett v\u00e4ldigt begr\u00e4nsat synf\u00e4lt, om hon inte kunde st\u00e4lla sig p\u00e5 stolar eller pallar. Hon hade h\u00f6rt, att det fanns hallar vid floden Seine, fylld av de vackraste blommor. Tusentals olika exemplar. Dit ville hon g\u00e5.<\/p>\n

Det fanns mycket folk d\u00e4r, n\u00e4r hon kom in. Hon s\u00e5g bara byxben och kjolar, handv\u00e4skor som sladdrade kring hennes \u00f6ron och handskar som snodde vid hennes lilla ansikte. Besvikelsens och maktl\u00f6shetens t\u00e5rar br\u00e4nde bakom hennes \u00f6gonlock, tr\u00e4ngde fram och rullade nedf\u00f6r hennes runda kinder. Hon ville v\u00e4nda om f\u00f6r att smita ur benlabyrinten. D\u00e5 h\u00f6rde hon ovanf\u00f6r sig en m\u00f6rk, sjungande r\u00f6st lugnt men best\u00e4mt s\u00e4ga: ” Attention, mes dames, messieurs: Allez \u00e0 cot\u00e9 ! ”   <\/p>\n

\"\"
\nTv\u00e5 kraftiga, m\u00f6rka armar d\u00f6k upp och banade v\u00e4g. De tillh\u00f6rde en f\u00e4rgad man, som tycktes fr\u00e5n hennes niv\u00e5 sett, l\u00e5ng som ett tr\u00e4d. Framf\u00f6r den lilla damen bildades en smal gata. Mannen b\u00f6jde sig ner till henne och sa v\u00e4nligt: ” Passez mademoiselle, s\u00b4il vouz plait. ”<\/p>\n

Hon ilade, s\u00e5 fort hennes sm\u00e5 f\u00f6tter bar henne. Medan hon med sin klockst\u00e4mma trallade: ” merci, merci beaucoup, ” torkade hon bort t\u00e5rarna. Nu s\u00e5g hon blommorna, hon k\u00e4nde deras doft ocks\u00e5. Upphetsad st\u00e4llde hon sig p\u00e5 t\u00e5rna. Hon ville sk\u00e5da alla. H\u00e4r fanns de framf\u00f6r henne, sammetslikt och skimrande, som en enda stor orientaliskt matta. Men – hon var f\u00f6r liten f\u00f6r att se hela konstverket. Igen h\u00f6rde hon den mjuka r\u00f6sten bakom sig: ” Pardon, mademoiselle! ” <\/p>\n

Den l\u00e5nge, m\u00f6rke mannen tog f\u00f6rsiktigt om hennes midja och lyfte upp henne, h\u00f6gt upp. D\u00e5 s\u00e5g hon alla de underbara f\u00e4rger och hon nj\u00f6t. Mannen hade j\u00e4rnarmar som inte ville bli tr\u00f6tta. Hon fick titta l\u00e4nge. Efter en stund st\u00e4llde han henne varsamt p\u00e5 marken, tog hennes hand och skred tigande mot de bakomst\u00e5ende m\u00e4nniskorna. \u00c5terigen \u00f6ppnades en smal gata f\u00f6r dem. Vidare gick han nerf\u00f6r v\u00e4gen, alltj\u00e4mt med hennes lilla hand i sin j\u00e4tten\u00e4ve.  Vid ett gatucaf\u00e9 tvekade han och blickade s\u00f6kande omkring sig. Ivrigt bad hon honom att f\u00e5 bjuda p\u00e5 en flaska vin och br\u00f6d. Han log och nickade. <\/p>\n

De slog sig ner vid ett vitt, runt bord. F\u00f6rst nu, n\u00e4r han satt mittemot henne, kunde hon betrakta hans ansikte. Hennes \u00f6gon lyste lyckligt, medan hon talade till honom. Visst hade hon f\u00e5tt se blommorna i hallarna i Paris. Hon \u00e4lskade blommor. Men denne man hade visat henne mer. Han hade gett henne den finaste, vackraste blomman som fanns: V\u00e4nskap, \u00f6mhet f\u00f6r den svage. Detta gav henne v\u00e4rdighet. Aldrig skulle hon gl\u00f6mma honom.<\/p>\n

Solen bl\u00e4nkte till i det gyllene vinet, i hans lite sorgsna \u00f6gon och i k\u00e4rlekens stad.  <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

 
\nBilderna: TripAdvisor och Charlotte Hoather. M\u00e5lningen: Luigi Paulini<\/span>
\n <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

INDIGO<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n 
\n\"\"When I began thinking about topics that fitted in with this month’s Newsletter, the word Indigo<\/b><\/span> kept jumping up and down, wanting me to include it. Everyone knows that indigo is a colour, and I could not see any reason to include it, but it eventually got the better of me.
\n<\/a>
\nWhen we think of indigo we usually think of a colour somewhere between blue and violet, yet the indigo plant from which natural indigo dye is sourced is actually blue (think of jeans and other cottons). The plant – indigofera tictoria – is a bush that grows in Asia and Africa and can reach heights of two metres. The flowers are pink, which might be a little surprising, but the dye itself does not come from the flowers but from fermenting the leaves. Nowadays the natural dye has been mostly replaced by synthetic dyes. In 2011, 50,000 tons of synthetic indigo dye were produced worldwide.
\n 
\n\"\"<\/p>\n

One of the oldest dyes, it was used for thousands of years in South America, Asia (India and Japan), Africa, and parts of the Middle East. It was India that began to supply Europe with the dye way back in ancient times, which led to the Greeks calling it indik\u00f3n – Indian dye. This was later latinized to indicum and finally anglicized to indigo (late thirteenth century). Once the dye reached Europe it was considered a luxury item.<\/p>\n

It is said that ripe bananas glow indigo under a black light and that certain insects, bats and birds, able to see into the ultraviolet, can use this phenomenon to know when to eat the bananas.<\/p>\n

Indigo is considered to be a spiritual colour<\/p>\n

The image of the indigo plant is from etsy.com<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 
\n<\/a>
\n

The Inca Trail<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"There are not many hikes that start with I<\/b>, but perhaps that does not really matter when there is the Inca Trail<\/b>. The trail, in Peru, is around 88 kilometres (but can be shorter) and most hikers take about 5 days to complete the walk. I say ‘walk’, but my understanding is that there is a lot of serious climbing – although the trail starts at around 3,000 metres, the highest point is 4,200 metres and, besides sore legs, some hikers also suffer from altitude sickness.
\n 
\n\"\"<\/p>\n

Despite these slight drawbacks, the trail runs through some amazing scenery – mountains, cloud forests, valleys, Inca ruins, lakes, rivers and man-made staircases and even a tunnel. Because of the scenery and the challenges it is a very popular walk, and, over the past decades, the number of hikers using the trail began to cause a lot of environmental damage. Some camping areas have now been closed because of the damage caused.
\n 
\n\"\" <\/p>\n

At the turn of the century the Peruvian government brought in a quota system whereby ‘only’ 500 people are allowed on the trail each day. The 500 includes 200 actual hikers plus guides and porters. Every hiker must be accompanied by a guide. Permits are issued in January each year and it is a case of ‘first in, first served’. The trail is closed every February for cleaning.
\n 
\n\"\"<\/p>\n

I feel that it would have been wonderful to have hiked this trail before it became popular, but I suppose that that is a case with many popular walks – once something is no longer a secret, everyone wants to be part of it.
\n 
\n\"\"<\/p>\n

For anyone interested in learning more about the trail, click here<\/a>.
\n 
\nImages from wikipedia and pixabay<\/span>
\n <\/p>\n

 
\n
\n

GUEST POST<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n
Ingrid, Sweden<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n
<\/a>THE FLOWERS<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n 
\n\"\" 
\nShe was Swedish, and she was also a dwarf. Most of the time she sat at home in her cold country, in a tiny flat, and read books. Once, she read a book about Paris. What a city! she thought, and a seed of longing crept into her heart, germinated and grew. It became so big that she took courage, left her tiny, secure home and travelled to the city of love.<\/p>\n

Enthusiastically she searched for the places she had read about in her book. But, alas, her eyes could not see very far. Like a child, her field of vision was limited unless she could stand on a chair or a stool. But she had heard that there were markets along the river Seine that were filled with the most beautiful flowers – thousands of different kinds – and she decided to go there.<\/p>\n

When she arrived, there were many people in the pavilion, but she was only able to see trouser legs and skirts, handbags that chatted around her ears and gloves that swiped against her face. Tears of disappointment and helplessness built up behind her eyelids, then welled over and rolled down her round cheeks.<\/p>\n

She wanted to turn around and escape from the labyrinth of legs, when suddenly, from somewhere above her, she heard a deep, lilting voice say, calmly but firmly:
\n“Attention, mes dames, messieurs: Allez \u00e0 cot\u00e9!”   <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Two strong, dark arms appeared and cleared a path. They belonged to a coloured man who, from her perspective, seemed as tall as a tree. As a narrow path opened up in front of her, the man bent down and said in a friendly voice: “Passez mademoiselle, s\u00b4il vouz plait.”<\/p>\n

She hurried, as quickly as her small feet could carry her, and while she sang in her bell-like voice, “Merci, merci beaucoup,” she dried her eyes. Now she could actually see the flowers; she could even smell their perfume. Excited she stood on her toes. She wanted to see everything. The flowers were in front of her, luxurious and resplendent like one enormous Oriental rug. But she was too little to see the whole work of art. Then once again, she heard the gentle voice behind her: “Pardon, mademoiselle!” <\/p>\n

The tall, dark man carefully put his hands around her waist and lifted her up. Now she could see all the wonderful colours, and she was filled with delight. The man had arms of iron and did not seem to tire, and she was able to look around her for a long time. Eventually the man lifted her carefully back down to the ground, took her by the hand and strode silently towards the people behind them. Once again a narrow path opened for them, and he continued towards the street still holding her little hand in his very large hand. When they reached a street caf\u00e9 he stopped for a moment and looked around him.<\/p>\n

Eagerly she asked if she could invite him to share a bottle of wine and some bread. He smiled and nodded, and they sat down at one of the round, white tables. It was only now, when he was seated opposite her, that she was able to see his face. Her eyes shone with happiness while she spoke to him.<\/p>\n

It was true that she had seen the flowers in the Paris market, and she loved flowers, but this man had shown her much more. He had given her the finest, most beautiful flower of all – friendship and tenderness for those weaker than himself. This gave her dignity. She knew that she would never forget him.<\/p>\n

The sun glistened on the golden wine and the man’s melancholy eyes in the city of love.   <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Images from TripAdvisor and Charlotte Hoather. Market Painting by Luigi Paulini<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

INDIAN ICE CREAM<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n <\/p>\n

\"\"
\n 
\nThe ‘Indian’ refers to the mango and the yoghurt, but it is not really an Indian<\/i> Ice Cream recipe. The first time I made it I followed an Indian recipe (using mangoes, mango juice, yoghurt and no sugar). Although the resulting ice cream tasted great it tended to freeze to the consistency of granite after a day in the freezer. After a bit of research I discovered that sugar, alcohol and fat do not freeze, so I set about devising my own recipe. I hope you enjoy it.
\n<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nIngredients<\/b>
\n1\/2 cup ripe mango chunks (1 medium mango)
\n2 bananas
\n1 small tin coconut cream (270 g)
\n1 cup plain yoghurt
\n1\/2 cup sugar
\n1 tspn fresh lemon juice
\nPinch ground cinnamon or cardamom
\n 
\n\"\"
\nDirections<\/b>
\nPlace the mango chunks, bananas, yoghurt, lemon juice, cinnamon (or cardamom) and coconut cream into a food processor or mixer and process until smooth and well combined. Transfer the mixture into the frozen insert of a commercial ice cream maker (if you are lucky enough to own one) and churn according to manufacturer’s instructions, OR, alternately, put the mixture into an airtight container and freeze for several hours until ‘set’. Serve the ice cream in small bowls, garnished (if you so wish) with diced mango, strawberries, chopped bananas and\/or nuts. <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 
\n<\/a><\/p>\n

CANVAS PRINTS<\/b><\/span><\/center>
\n 
\nAn amazing present for yourself or for someone else, each of these four prints are completely unique.<\/p>\n

I took the photographs on Iceland in 2017 and had them placed on canvas professionally. The company, Brilliant Prints<\/a>, introduces itself with the following philosophy:
\n 
\nEvery day we are bombarded with low quality, low-cost products that break down after a few months. We had a washing machine that lasted 24 years without a hiccup. The latest one we have bought has already broken down 6 times in 3 years.<\/p>\n

We also live in the time of the digital camera, when almost no-one prints copies of their photos. In generations to come, the pleasure of pouring over photos of families and times gone past will be lost.<\/p>\n

Good old fashion service has been replaced by phone queues, companies that restrict their staff\u2019s authority so much that you can never get a problem resolved, and organizations who make everything so complicated that even the most basic interaction becomes a nightmare.<\/p>\n

This is why I started BrilliantPrints. I wanted to demonstrate that it was possible to create a company that produced a quality product, at a competitive price and made the process as fun and easy as possible. Our product lasts 75+ years and will be enjoyed by generations to come. You will simply not find a better gift idea that is so personalized, yet so long-lasting.<\/i>
\n 
\nThe above extract should give you some idea of the work ethic on which the company is based. From my own experience, their work is perfection on all levels.<\/p>\n

Each print measures 30×40 cm and is beautifully finished. For only AUD 130 (plus postage)<\/b> any one of the prints can be yours. Please contact me<\/a> with your choice and, depending on where you live, I will advise you of the postage costs (if any). If you are interested, don’t delay – there are only<\/b> four prints remaining.
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"

Gullfors<\/center>
\n 
\n\"\"
Oxararfoss I<\/center>
\n 
\n\"\"
Oxararfoss II<\/center>
\n 
\n\"\"
Thingvellir<\/center>
\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u2026 if you knock down an argument that threatens privilege and power, you always face the prospect of the argument being refined and returning to vex you. But if you utterly destroy the person who is bold or foolish enough to open their mouths and question you in the first place, you dramatically reduce the chances of anything like that happening again.
\nJohn Birmingham<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1548,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1494"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1494"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1494\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1548"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1494"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1494"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/diane.eklund.abolins.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1494"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}