Sunday, 17 May 2015
"The seal-people dance to music unheard' George Mackay Brown
Hoot of the owl
of the wolf
eyes in the night -
We are those who inhabit,
the almost-edges of your senses -
dwell in the spaces,
the imagined places
between perception and reality
like a skin,
from your grasp
where the sky silver-meets
Sunday, 10 May 2015
"Why should I want to leave my comfort zone? It's called that for a reason!"
I'm with the inimitable Sheldon Cooper on this one, but I was called to account recently. Though it was said in jest that I was in need of being dragged from my comfort zone, I was unaccountably rattled - and wondered why.
I might appear self-confident and sociable (probably irritatingly so), but it's no secret that I prefer to sleep in my own bed. Indeed I admit that after any social occasion I am exhausted and seriously in need of space and silence. Why?
I've given it considerable thought - or what passes for thought - over the next weeks... I mentioned the matter to the dog, who looked suitably inscrutable. I gave it more thought..
In the night came a revelation and it has helped a lot - it came to me that everything I have done in recent times has been a step, or sometimes a stumble out of my comfort zone: the events leading to our move here are well-known and need no repetition - but events they were and each was a leap in the dark. The move here was, as many moves are to a vaguely-known town and a house seen twice.
And everything I have done since has been a step out of my comfort zone; every new venture I have tried - some successfully, some less - has been an often terrifying leap into the unknown. After a foray into yet another roomful of strangers who all seem to know one another, it's no wonder, I think that I crave a retreat to the silence of my little stone house and my only familiar relationships..
So please cut me a little slack, as I intend to do for myself - I may be sparky and bright, I may be silent and evasive...give me time
Friday, 8 May 2015
One dismal November day in 1997 my Dad collected sprigs of various shrubs from his garden for my Mum's coffin.. 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance'...
Years later I cut a branch from the same bush, though it had been moved to a dryer side of the garden, the bleak January day my sister and I locked up the house for the last time and took the key to the estate agent.
The rosemary survived a couple of cold days in the car; I cut sprigs and rooted them in pots of water in Cambridge. A few survived my indifferent potting-up skills, that chaotic spring and summer and one survived the move to the west coast...
... and survived drought, westerly salt winds and neglect... I'm proud and not a little amazed, to see growth and flowers on the little shrub this week.
And, in the early hours, I reflect - rosemary is a tenacious little shrub I muse, and will survive the worst that the salt winds can chuck at us. Remembrance will survive the worst life will throw our way - outlast loss and loss of memories and life itself ..