Back at the beginning, brimful of grace and simplicity. Have a cup of tea, consider.
Here comes the polish of puberty: potential unfulfilled.
See the song lines imprint in the patina of crackling glaze marked with tannins. Follow the fault lines to their conclusion.
Step forth bravely, trespass, travel. Shed your reptilian skin and find chameleon promise, embrace fluctuations of colour and tone. You are a giant among men. Skip stones across new horizons, hurl boulders into ancient wells and listen to the resonance of the resulting 'gallolop'.
Learn. The door to knowledge is ever open but you must choose to continue your quest. Become a student of the universe if not universities. Remain open to the rhyme and meter of nature of planets, stars, galaxies.
Look also within. Plough the furrows of your imagination to the ferny darkness of its corners, bathe in creativity.
Follow your compass heading from Cancer to Capricorn. Explore the latitudes of ancient civilisations. Shamen will instruct you, medicine men, spirits summoned from the forest. Enrich your memories with mountains and oceans, Islands and currents for the time will come when you are washed up, shipwrecked.
You will sit at the end of your time in The Red Lion and rejoice that the forgotten road was one that you travelled. It will nourish you to the end. Others may see you drinking tea from a cracked teacup, but you will know the value of each fault line in the glaze, each path that was followed. The aroma of peony, darjeeling, chrysanthemum, will stir olfactory senses to a dancing mirage of memories and you will know that you have lived a nourished existence.
Friday 20 November 2015
Tuesday 10 November 2015
An Autumn Morning
Geese honk unseen as they coral above a thick quilt of grey clouds, the urge to migrate stronger than gravity. Cobwebs are lightly misted with opals of dew and the scent of humus decay, fermenting fallen fruit and smouldering garden bonfires lace the air. Early sun filters through the web of branches, laid increasingly bare by the strong gusts of wind, their tangled skeletal complications showing Mother Nature to be a master sculptor. Here and there a scattering of leaves still cling to the trees like golden coins, in suspense, waiting to join the party, abandoned by their brethren. The Fallen swirl in eddies of current, moving together then apart, sighing, a flock of starlings in motion, in communion with a greater power; lovers in the heat of passion. Here and there they lie in spent drifts, slumped, exhausted, damp, entwined, content to know they have given life and love their all, and in time the seasons will make their mark, revealing a new simplicity of beauty within, an intricate tracery of arteries and veins.
A desire grows in me and I begin to drag my feet in lazy sideways arcs, pooling a collection of leaves, uncovering the green of the grass, the dark smears of worm casts beneath, until I have a mound of russet and gold and brown. I perform a salutation to the sun, the earth. It is deep and satisfying. I feel the energy, the connection with the season, gratitude grows within my wide embrace, then, clawing my fingers I pull my hands together catching the leaves in a great congregation. I lift them as joy blossoms at my centre and hurl them into the air, twirling arms outstretched, face to the heavens one word escaping my lips "confetti!" The riches fall from heaven in a whispered prayer and I receive an evangelical baptism of fiery leaves.
A desire grows in me and I begin to drag my feet in lazy sideways arcs, pooling a collection of leaves, uncovering the green of the grass, the dark smears of worm casts beneath, until I have a mound of russet and gold and brown. I perform a salutation to the sun, the earth. It is deep and satisfying. I feel the energy, the connection with the season, gratitude grows within my wide embrace, then, clawing my fingers I pull my hands together catching the leaves in a great congregation. I lift them as joy blossoms at my centre and hurl them into the air, twirling arms outstretched, face to the heavens one word escaping my lips "confetti!" The riches fall from heaven in a whispered prayer and I receive an evangelical baptism of fiery leaves.
Sunday 1 November 2015
A Bride to Be
Part 1
Life would never be the same again her mother said.
"Never more will you be able to put your own needs first."
Emily wondered whether she ever had? She had escaped for one last time, before the guests arrived. In the garden of her family home she could find the quiet space for reflection amid the hustle and bustle of preparations for the big day. She wondered among the herbaceous borders assaulted by their showy flush of colour and drinking in their scent. The light summer rain had left crystal drops of water on the blooms and she watched their unhurried course trickling down into each flowers sweetness. The simplicity of it brought tears to her eyes and she gently patted her silk glove to her carefully made up cheek. She was painted, disguised for the benefit of the guests, a society queen unseen in her natural beauty.
The bees buzzed hungrily from flower to flower collecting liquid gold, pollen souped by the rain, to take back to the hive: the great provider. Was that what Carmichael would be? She was not sure that he might not turn out to be rather a bully. But he was a catch and the arrangement had been made carefully by her father to the satisfaction of both families. She must trust all would be well. Carmichael's slightly baffled look, his sun bleached honey hair and slight yet muscular physique certainly appealed to her, but he could be a little brash and boorish in the company of other men and she hoped he would be more genteel in his manner towards her when they were alone. She worried that her beauty, painted as it had always been would still hold his roving eye once the paint started to crack. Only time would tell. She must face this day with boldness, come what may. Would it be so terrible to be the trophy wife. Another society wife in the driving seat a great house, while the Lord and heir went about his business, a bachelor in all but name, one of the boys, living it up at his Club?
For one fleeting moment she wished she could run from this circus, her obligation to her family, and trip the light fantastic in the garden with the bees, disperse among the wilderness like a dandelion tuft singing 'Hey ho, into the botanical we go!' But the pull of expectations and corset silks grounded her. There was no escape.
Part 2
There was no escape, a way in but not out. Even the water sparkling like diamonds must evaporate and begin again. She must become a different brand of woman, innocence would only take her so far. She must hone new skills of womanhood now, manage her own home and staff. She would be queen in a new society with responsibility for invitations, dinners, house parties and in time a family. She would need to walk the tightrope of civility and superiority within a strange new land and do it well or be fed to the lions. She worried that she would not be up to the task, that she would be a poor mistress, fail at the accounts. And what of being a wife? Would she manage to sing honeyed sweetness into her King's ear? Could she become his Queen in the arts of love, a vessel for his bodies joy?
She ran back to the coolness of the house and tiptoed up the staircase listening to the sounds of excitement from the over-stretched staff, the florists and her anxious mother. There were no honeyed words here only hard edges and polished surface. She passed through the lozenge of light from the vaulted oculus that walked down the landing through the day as the sun arced through the sky and reached her room, still her private sanctuary, for now. Emily sat at her dressing table reaching for the perfumed water in the broken urn, the scent of roses and cloves to be stroked at her neck with the finger of glass. How cross she had been when Johnny had come crashing into her room hurling his toy train in frustration and smashed the lid. So many years ago. She could not bear to think of his fallen body interred alone in some foreign land. She inhaled deeply, peace be with you, and emerged to the sunlit balcony prepared to spread her wings. Love would be like cherries, bitter sweet and better fermented.
Life would never be the same again her mother said.
"Never more will you be able to put your own needs first."
Emily wondered whether she ever had? She had escaped for one last time, before the guests arrived. In the garden of her family home she could find the quiet space for reflection amid the hustle and bustle of preparations for the big day. She wondered among the herbaceous borders assaulted by their showy flush of colour and drinking in their scent. The light summer rain had left crystal drops of water on the blooms and she watched their unhurried course trickling down into each flowers sweetness. The simplicity of it brought tears to her eyes and she gently patted her silk glove to her carefully made up cheek. She was painted, disguised for the benefit of the guests, a society queen unseen in her natural beauty.
The bees buzzed hungrily from flower to flower collecting liquid gold, pollen souped by the rain, to take back to the hive: the great provider. Was that what Carmichael would be? She was not sure that he might not turn out to be rather a bully. But he was a catch and the arrangement had been made carefully by her father to the satisfaction of both families. She must trust all would be well. Carmichael's slightly baffled look, his sun bleached honey hair and slight yet muscular physique certainly appealed to her, but he could be a little brash and boorish in the company of other men and she hoped he would be more genteel in his manner towards her when they were alone. She worried that her beauty, painted as it had always been would still hold his roving eye once the paint started to crack. Only time would tell. She must face this day with boldness, come what may. Would it be so terrible to be the trophy wife. Another society wife in the driving seat a great house, while the Lord and heir went about his business, a bachelor in all but name, one of the boys, living it up at his Club?
For one fleeting moment she wished she could run from this circus, her obligation to her family, and trip the light fantastic in the garden with the bees, disperse among the wilderness like a dandelion tuft singing 'Hey ho, into the botanical we go!' But the pull of expectations and corset silks grounded her. There was no escape.
Part 2
There was no escape, a way in but not out. Even the water sparkling like diamonds must evaporate and begin again. She must become a different brand of woman, innocence would only take her so far. She must hone new skills of womanhood now, manage her own home and staff. She would be queen in a new society with responsibility for invitations, dinners, house parties and in time a family. She would need to walk the tightrope of civility and superiority within a strange new land and do it well or be fed to the lions. She worried that she would not be up to the task, that she would be a poor mistress, fail at the accounts. And what of being a wife? Would she manage to sing honeyed sweetness into her King's ear? Could she become his Queen in the arts of love, a vessel for his bodies joy?
She ran back to the coolness of the house and tiptoed up the staircase listening to the sounds of excitement from the over-stretched staff, the florists and her anxious mother. There were no honeyed words here only hard edges and polished surface. She passed through the lozenge of light from the vaulted oculus that walked down the landing through the day as the sun arced through the sky and reached her room, still her private sanctuary, for now. Emily sat at her dressing table reaching for the perfumed water in the broken urn, the scent of roses and cloves to be stroked at her neck with the finger of glass. How cross she had been when Johnny had come crashing into her room hurling his toy train in frustration and smashed the lid. So many years ago. She could not bear to think of his fallen body interred alone in some foreign land. She inhaled deeply, peace be with you, and emerged to the sunlit balcony prepared to spread her wings. Love would be like cherries, bitter sweet and better fermented.
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