Monk's House

Monk’s House

The elm trees are gone now.  I stand where they once stood, imagining the two graceful giants, their limbs once intertwined, their leaves once freely dancing in the winds blowing up from the South Downs.  They were named for their owners and valiantly kept the charge of guarding their ashes for as long as they could, till the cruelty of time and disease felled them, first one, then the other.  But those careless thieves could not vanquish the two great minds whose ashes seem to have carried their essences deep into the very ground of this garden through which I wander.  Her spirit is everywhere here.  A healthy spirit, too, one gifted for recognizing beauty and attempting to illuminate it for the rest of us, in spite of the pain, in spite of the fear.  It is a lovely garden. I feel she is happy here now.

It is a storybook day in May when I stroll the lane towards Monk’s House, the home of Virginia and Leonard Woolf in the bucolic village of Rodmell.  The lane seems shy, indeed it only bears the nondescript name, The Street, as if anything grander would be unseemly.  Candybox houses hide behind flowering fruit trees and the suede of spring-green moss softens the stone walls lining my way.  I lift the latch on the humble wooden gate and follow the path into the garden.  

It is blissful here.  Fat, lazy bumblebees dip and sway around me.  An alchemistic sun turns the white apple blossoms into celestial clusters of light.  A few break free and drift my way to land in my palm like a blessing.  Ever-vigilant, the sturdy square tower of St. Peter’s parish church casts a benevolent eye over all, morning prayers floating on the breeze, wafting through the pink roses that still clamber round her bedroom door.  Did she ever stand in their shadow to listen?  To stand where she stood, to step over her threshold.  To run my hands across the fabric of her favourite chair.  I know how fortunate I am.

People often tell me they find her books difficult.  It’s true, Virginia Woolf’s writing is dense; it cannot be read casually.  But if it seems impenetrable at first glance, one needs only to find a way in.   Perhaps in the middle of a brilliantly lucid rendering of emotion that is at once intimate and universal, there are two or three words to pull apart, just wide enough for the soul to sink inside the illuminating prose and float down, down, to the core of its meaning.  A light shines there, in the midst of her words, perhaps only flickering at first reading, but growing brighter and brighter with each subsequent one till it is possible to see the deepest workings of the heart, shimmering in the darkness.

Unable to bear another war, unable to quell her fear of sinking once again beneath the weight of another grave depression, Virginia Woolf opened her garden gate on a morning in March 1941, and walked down the lane to the river Ouse, picking up heavy stones as she went.  These she placed in the pockets of her cardigan, laid down her cane and hat on the banks of the river, and sank beneath its waters.  For years I have wondered about the solemn determination of that walk and as I lift the same latch as she and turn right to follow in her footsteps, I am struck by the beauty of the scenery around me.  The lane meanders past fields abuzz with the business of Spring; magpies swoop past me on the the currents of the wind.  Everything is green.  How deep her desperation must have been to deny her the tiniest, lifesaving measure of hope in this scene that met her eyes as she took that final walk, gathering sad stones along the way.  Suddenly, I find I cannot go any further.  Her last steps I no longer wish to retrace.  

The elm trees are gone, it’s true.  But there is a chestnut tree, resplendent in its big-leafed Springness, still standing watch over her writing studio in the bottom of her garden.  Before I leave, I gather up eight perfect leaves from that old tree, placing them in a copy of Mrs. Dalloway that I purchase at the shop.  They dry perfectly by the time I return home and I frame them to hang in my library.

 I gaze at these leaves often; emissaries from the same tree that she gazed upon as she wrote the books that mean so much to me.  Having visited her home, I no longer think of her on that walk to the river.  For me, she lives in that spring garden, peaceful now amidst its beauty.  I smile.

“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.” 

from Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf

One of the pathways through the garden of Virginia and Leonard Woolf.

Read more about the garden HERE.

More about Monk's House HERE

A List for Hibernating in Fall

A List for Hibernating in Fall

No matter the weather, whether I’m tired or peppy, hurried or un, whenever I’m in London I always make time for a stroll in St. James Park.  Partly because it’s lovely in any season, and partly because I like to follow in the footsteps of Clarissa Dalloway.  In that setting, so unchanged throughout the years, (the footbridge notwithstanding) it takes very little imagination to see her walking beside me, her gloved hands moving in the sunshine as she tells me all about the party she is to have that very evening.

On a gorgeous fall afternoon last month, after all the drama of our holiday, I left The Songwriter recuperating in his suite at The Draycott and set out for my usual walk through the park.  I wandered through the Buckingham Palace gift shop where I picked up a baby Prince George tea towel and then entered the park under the gaze of the golden Queen Victoria monument.  I took my time, walking slowly, admiring every flower and tree, saying hello to every duck and pelican, until I reached the charming outdoor cafe beside the lake. A restorative cup of tea and a ginger biscuit were in order.  Usually an Earl Grey or Darjeeling girl, this afternoon the idea of Peppermint Tea totally tickled my fancy.  It sounded somewhat rejuvenating, yet soothing at the same time.  So I carried a steaming cup to a table from which I could easily observe all the hustle and bustle of a September Sunday and sat down to collect myself and munch my ginger cookie.  And right there, a new favourite tea was found.  I discovered I quite adored Peppermint Tea and have been having a cup, or three, every evening since returning home.  

 I have also been reading.  A lot.  And knitting.  A lot.  And cooking.  A lot. With The Songwriter’s activity somewhat curtailed for three more weeks, we’ve been quite the homebodies, which is actually rather nice when the nights get chilly and the days get shorter. I've discovered that forced hibernation is not so bad.  It’s given me time to share some of my recent finds with you.   Some books, some book related items, and a bit of whimsy.  All perfect for this most delightful time of year.  As usual, click on the photo and you’ll be transported to find out more.

  Enjoy!

1. The Bookcase 

 At antique shows, I’m always drawn to bookcases.

  Particularly round, revolving ones.

I have several, and adore them all.  

But this one is the ultimate. 

 It’s seven feet tall!   

2. The Candy Jar 

 This is just magnificent. 

 I can easily imagine it filled with all sorts of sweet things. 

From marshmallows to gumdrops.

 Can’t you?

3. The Witch 

 Recognise this witch? 

 I’m so looking forward to seeing her in the upcoming film adaptation
 of Stephen Sondheim’s Into The Woods. 

 Oh, and it’s Meryl, just in case she fooled you.

4. The Settee

As I said, The Songwriter and I have been doing a lot of reading these past couple of weeks. 

 (He’s really enjoying this book.)

  I’m thinking what we need is a settee like this one.

  Don’t you agree? 

 I can just see it covered in this fabric.

5. And, The Books.....  Here’s a few I’m dying to get my hands on!

An English Room

 By Derry Moore

 With Sherlock on the cover... who can resist?

Dog Songs

 by Mary Oliver 

My favourite poet.  

My favourite subject. 

 Cannot wait.

Beatrix Potter’s Gardening Life

 by Marta McDowell 

 Having had the pleasure of wandering through this lady’s enchanted garden
 at Hilltop Farm in Cumbria,

 this is a book I’m so excited to read.

Memos - The Vogue Years

 by Diana Vreeland, Edited by Alexander Vreeland

During her revolutionary years at American Vogue, Diana Vreeland was famous for dictating memos to her staff each morning from her Park Avenue apartment.  When she  arrived at her office, which by the way was never before noon, she would type these up and dispatch them around.  Needless to say, they were over the top, just like the lady herself.  This, I am sure, will be one entertaining book!

6. My New Favourite Tea

Seriously, try some.

7. Scotland

And lastly... I’ve gotten some letters and comments from sweet readers concerned that perhaps our recent adventures in Scotland might dissuade us from making a return trip in the near future.  Just look at the photograph below, taken two days before The Songwriter broke his ankle.  Can you imagine, in your wildest dreams, that we wouldn’t be going back to Scotland? 

 It’s like going home to me.

How Do You Feel?

How Do You Feel?

Like many others around the world, I was fascinated by the opening ceremonies of last year’s London Olympics.  The sheep, the supermodels, the Queen’s doppelganger parachuting in alongside the illustrious James Bond - all were memorable sights to be sure.  The only portion of the program which seemed perhaps a bit odd to an American’s eye was the proud tribute to the National Health Service, complete with hundreds of real nurses and doctors dancing amongst giant beds in a replica of a ward in London’s Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital.  As it is customary for a host nation to celebrate what they are most proud of in their opening ceremonies - to showcase their values, and honour what they hold dear - the message was clear, and as director Danny Boyle himself stated following the production, free universal healthcare is “an amazing thing to celebrate”.

When I left for my September trip to the UK, I certainly never dreamed I would return home with an empirical opinion about the National Health Service of Britain.  However, when your husband breaks his ankle in three places on the hills of the Isle of Mull, there is no time to consider the politics of universal health care.  You simply put your trust in the system and pray for the best.  And here’s the truth.  The care he received was superlative.  From the tiny hospital on Mull, through three ambulance rides and three emergency rooms, with nurses and doctors from hospital wards to operating theatres - at every turn in the road he was treated with the utmost competence, professionalism, and kindness.  No prima donna he, our surgeon was highly skilled, forthcoming, clear, and amazingly accessible.

  The first sign that we had entered a different system from the one we are accustomed to here in the States was the question I was asked at the first reception desk I encountered.  Instead of our usual, “how do you plan to pay for this?”, I heard, “how is your husband feeling?”.  This attitude was pervasive throughout his surgery and hospital stay.  I have been in emergency rooms in the US when my father was having a stroke and, even in that dire situation, before anything was done for him we were queried incessantly about his ability to pay for any treatment he might require.  Clearly, Great Britain ran on a different system.  

Our family has been fortunate in that we have been consistently able to pay for our health insurance, (which I assure you, is no small feat for the self-employed American) and we have enjoyed excellent medical care.  However, we have many friends who earn their living in the arts and who quite simply could never afford the astronomical cost of health insurance in this country.  They live in constant concern that an illness or injury may visit their door.  Their six year old may take a bad fall on the playground, a cold may turn out to be something worse.  Entire savings can easily be wiped out, bankruptcies can occur, houses can be lost, with even one serious illness.  One artist friend, recently hospitalised for two days with high blood pressure, was visited bedside by a lady on staff inquiring how she was planning to pay for her stay.  The entire bill for those two days was over ten thousand dollars and included a bill from that questioning lady herself. Clearly, our system doesn’t work for everybody. 

One would think, one could hope, that our elected officials might find it prudent to manage to work together in an effort to address this problem, but when our plane landed back here in the States we were met with a Congress willing to shut down the entire government in a petulantly political attempt to block revisions to the health care status quo.  The Affordable Health Care act is a law that has already been passed and still they hold the country at ransom in an effort to repeal or block it.  I am grateful for a President who had the guts to try and change what is clearly not working and while the new law may not be perfect, it is a recourse our friends without health insurance thankfully now possess. It is humiliatingly painful to see those who refuse to even try to help make it work, or make it better.  In my own state, our governor is simply ignoring it completely.  The health care of a nation is an issue that should transcend politics.  To hold it hostage is a slap in the face to those in need.

Perhaps I shall be assailed for these opinions.  It is true that my experience with the NHS in Britain, though serious, was brief, and there are no doubt plenty of British citizens with critical views on aspects of their system of which I am unaware.  It is also true that the so-called American Dream marches hand-in-hand with a “pull yourself up by your bootstraps”, “make your own way” philosophy and anything that hints of a variation in that creedo is, by some, suspect.  But I believe the prevailing question of, “how can you pay”, instead of “how do you feel” creates an atmosphere that moves insidiously throughout the soul of a nation, too easily turning the sick and the needy into “deadbeats” and “shirkers” and eventually stripping away our compassion, our humanity, our greatness.  I am embarrassed that my country, the richest nation in the world, is ranked thirty-eighth in health care.  Now, after my experience in Great Britain, I have seen another way and know that changes are possible.  If only we can find the courage to make them.

We Shall Return

We Shall Return

There are winds that blow round the Isle of Mull.  Exhalations from the ancients, they spiral and corkscrew down through the hills to coalesce with their brethren billowing up from the sea.  At approximately eleven-thirty on the morning of Monday the sixteenth, one of these winds rode the back of a crashing wave to hit the green hills like a reprisal.  It whorled round the turrets of Glengorm Castle, twisting and spinning up one side and down, till it spied an unsuspecting Songwriter standing alone in a patch of green grass down, down, far below.  Homing in like an arrow, this gust of Scottish wind made for the hapless fellow, knocking his cap off and sending it dancing like a taunting laugh down the hill.  Instinctively, The Songwriter made for the chase and in less than a second his world turned on a dime.  His ankle was broken in three places and the game, pardoning the pun, was afoot.....

I was waiting in the rental car for The Songwriter to take a photograph when my mobile phone rang.  Glancing down, I noticed it was him.  Strange.  I looked out of the car window and saw a sight that shall be forever burned into my brain.  Our innkeeper, Tom, was helping The Songwriter, who was white as a ghost and clearly in pain, back up the drive.  A call to the doctor, instructions to meet her at the hospital, and the car keys were placed in my hands.  Never having driven in the UK before, I swallowed hard and took the wheel.  

The hospital on Mull is a small one and, unfortunately, their x-ray machine was broken.  But one glance at the offending ankle told anyone with vision that it was every bit as broken as that machine.  An ambulance was called to take us on the ferry to the next hospital in Oban where x-rays were taken and dispatched to Glasgow.  The answer came back almost immediately.  “This chap needs surgery; get him here posthaste.”  And so.... another two hour ambulance ride later, we found ourselves at the door of the emergency wing of the Royal Alexandra Hospital in Glasgow, Scotland.  It was here that the enormity of our situation began to dawn on me.  Clearly, The Songwriter was to have surgery.  All of our belongings, and our car, were back up on the Isle of Mull, three hours away.  How long would we be here?  Who knew? I am humbled to say that there was a baby in the emergency wing and every time the poor thing would cry, so would I.   I had the presence of mind to phone our doctor back in the states for some information and reassurance, and then my iPhone battery went dead. 

The Songwriter was taken to a ward at four-thirty in the morning.  The nurses then turned to me and said, “Goodbye!”.  “What?!”, I stuttered?  “Where exactly am I supposed to go?”.  As gently as possible, they informed me that, unlike American hospitals, there was nowhere for me to wait; no vacant sofa or chair in the whole of the building where I could stay.  Nothing.  Visualizing myself on the streets of Glasgow with nothing but the clothes on my back must have given my already pale visage a unearthly glow, for they took to the phones in an attempt to locate a hotel room for me.  This proved difficult as there was a conference in town and all available rooms were booked.  Finally, one lone room was unearthed at the Holiday Inn Express by the airport and I squared my shaking shoulders, applied a fresh coat of red lipstick, and climbed into a taxi.  I fell across that Holiday Inn bed, heart thumping, for a scant hour and a half.  (It is here that I reluctantly admit a crime.  I asked the nice man at the desk if he had an iPhone charger.  He gave me one and....well... I stole it.  Sort of like those nuns in The Sound of Music who stole the car parts from the Nazi’s so the Von Trapp's could escape over the mountains?  Not a fair analogy, I know.  But I’ve since mailed it back, so I hope I can be forgiven.  I was fairly desperate, after all.)

I rose at first light, (more lipstick) and called another taxi to take me back to the hospital where I donned the often obnoxious persona of the over-confident American and strode right past those nurses, into the ward, and straight to The Songwriter’s bedside.  I pulled the curtain and waited for the doctor’s visit.  A very impressive surgeon soon appeared, along with his entire team, and gave us both a detailed description of the operation soon to follow.  Words like “pins” and “plates” were bandied about and before I could take a deep breath, it was time for me to leave once again.  There was no room in the Holiday Inn for this night, so I set about trying to find another room on my own.  I did, in a refurbished hotel on the other side of town, one known, supposedly, as an excellent venue for weddings.  As there was no place for me to wait during The Songwriter’s surgery, I left for The Lynnhurst with a heavy heart.  He’d never had any type of surgery before.  What if the anesthesia turned him into a muffin?  

I fell on my back on the overstuffed bed and it was then, as I lay there staring into space, that a maintenance man strode into my room and I realized with a start that my door didn’t lock.  Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less.  The Songwriter texted me when they were taking him down to surgery.  I tossed and twisted for three hours then, (more lipstick), headed back to the hospital.  I arrived at the ward about five minutes after he’d been wheeled back in and found him grinning and laughing with his fellow patients, all of whom had similar injuries.  There was a member of the House of Commons who’d fallen off a sea wall, a golfer who tripped over a stone marker.  There was a fellow who’d fallen hailing a cab, and a carpenter who’d taken the term “hand saw” a bit too literally.  They’d renamed their ward, Stalag 23, and seemed to be having a whale of a time.

The breaks were clean and the surgery had gone well.  He was on crutches and I was told by both doctors, Scotland and stateside, that he should not immediately fly back home.  He needed to rest with his leg elevated for a few days.  So, I went back to The Lynnhurst where I pushed a chair up under the unlockable door, and waited, thinking feverishly, till morning.  Feeling a strong kinship with Frodo Baggins, at first light I went back to the hospital to say farewell to the still smiling Songwriter, made my way to Queen Street Station in Glasgow where I applied more red lipstick and boarded the eight o’clock train to Oban.  Then the ferry to Craignure, back on Mull.  I found where I’d parked the car and, taking a deep breath, drove the hour’s drive back up the island to Glengorm Castle where the innkeepers, Pam and Tom, took incredibly good care of me that night.  A hot bath, a change of clothes, finally.

Providentially, on our first night in Scotland we stayed at a wonderful place called Barcaldine Castle where we met a delightful couple at breakfast.  The four of us bonded over our love of our dogs and the wife gave me her card so we could stay in touch.  As it happened, she runs a highly respected chauffeur tour company in Scotland.  Knowing I wasn’t skilled enough to drive myself back into Glasgow, I had fished that card out of my pocket in the hospital and called her.  To say that she took over is a blessed understatement.  The following morning I packed up our bags, loaded the car and drove back down the island and onto the ferry.  Pulling off in Oban I spied a handsome, avuncular Scot standing there in the rain, holding a sign with my name on it.  He opened my door, took the keys from my hand, and told me to settle in for a backseat nap.  Upon arrival in Glasgow, he carried our luggage up to the ward, shook The Songwriter’s hand, gave me a hug, and returned our car.  Amazing.

As it was imperative his ankle remain elevated, I booked The Songwriter and myself on the Caledonian Sleeper train from Glasgow to London and the hospital provided a taxi to take us there at ten-thirty that night. We settled in like Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint, me in the top bunk and him in the bottom, and slept like logs till we pulled into Euston Station at seven in the morning.  A taxi to our beloved Draycott Hotel where we were tucked into a charming pale blue suite and given breakfast.  The next several days saw The Songwriter partaking of room service and watching BBC movies.  I managed to use our theatre tickets to see Vanessa Redgrave in Much Ado About Nothing at the Old Vic, as well as wander through St. James Park and spend entirely too much money in the scarf department at Liberty.  We boarded a plane bound for home on Monday morning,The Songwriter in a flat bed seat, and are now recovering under the watchful eyes of Edward and Apple. 

We have much to be grateful for, not the least of which is that The Songwriter did not break something which could not be fixed.  I will be forever grateful for a good friend who was traveling on business in Istanbul when I reached him and who texted and called me hour upon hour, helping me feel much less alone and more confident.  I am grateful for our doctor back in the states whose texts and phone calls were frequent and reassuring.  I am grateful for a husband who is always smiling, always funny, always optimistic.  I am grateful for travel insurance.  I am grateful for landing in the hospital that sees all the fallen hill walkers who come down from the Highlands and that consequently has a fabulous orthopedic surgery. I am grateful for our two dog-sitters who take such wonderful care of Edward and Apple, giving us no cause to worry on that front. And most of all, I am grateful for the Scottish people who were so unfailingly kind, so unbelievably helpful, and who treated me like family at every single turn.   

We shall return to Scotland when the cast is off.
And I hope Cate Blanchett plays me in the movie.

Visit:
Glengorm Castle
Chauffeur Tour Scotland
The Draycott Hotel
Barcaldine Castle
and last but not least, my favourite red lipstick... Dior Addict #987

Something Special

Something Special

I have always been fascinated by the marriage of art and domesticity.  Whether we realize it or not, each one of us is in the process of creating a work of art by the way we choose to live.  Colourful or bland, eccentric or traditional - it is up to us and us alone.  The joy in my design work through the years was found in aiding my clients in the translation of their true selves into their surroundings.  I gently urged them whenever I could to adorn their homes in ways that truthfully represented who they were and what they loved thereby creating a dwelling that could become a nest, a sanctuary, a home.

It was a thrill to find the ghosts of kindred spirits inside the charming rooms of Charleston House when I was there in May.  The farmhouse of artists Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant in Sussex is well-documented in stacks of art books on the Bloomsbury period, but to wander through it alone on a late Spring afternoon is a delight unparalleled.   Vanessa and Duncan painted every surface, from doors, to floors, to fireplaces.  They designed the china, the fabrics, the lamps.  One feels their presence, even now, in every room and down every hallway.  

Here at The House of Edward, we live in much the same way. There are whimsical and, some would say, eccentric, touches everywhere one looks, all representing various bits and bobs of ourselves.  The result is that we are incredibly happy at home.  The bonus of course, is that our guests seem to be incredibly happy here as well.    In the creation of all this, I do have a secret weapon of sorts.  Whenever I get another brain wave for something I’d like to add to our home, I know to call Kevin.  Kevin Nichols is an artist I met many years ago and who is now like part of the family.  Amazingly talented, he has never once flinched at any of my ideas, happily recreating the painting of James Stewart and his life-sized rabbit from the movie, Harvey, for me ... replacing Stewart’s head with The Songwriter’s.  He had transformed desks and ceilings, claw-foot tubs and door frames.  He has painted my portrait in a green velvet dress.  (In fact, many of you wrote to ask me about the painted doors that could be glimpsed in a posting a few weeks back. You can see that post HERE.  They are a fairly new addition and both The Songwriter and I adore them.  The five doors are old, two-paneled, and they provided the perfect canvas for Kevin to create evocative, pastoral scenes that manage to be both subtle and dramatic at once.  The bottom panels feature places we’ve stayed on our travels and are a sweet reminder of lovely days.  We’re crazy about them.)

Imagine my delight when I received a gift from Kevin a few weeks ago.  Shown above, it is a wonderful painting of Edward and Apple as those intrepid detectives of old, Holmes and Watson.  Knowing my love of all things British, Sherlock among them, as well as my devotion to both my dogs, he fashioned this painting just for me.  Isn’t it the best?  

I’m so happy to let everyone know that Kevin is now doing some of these wonderful animal portraits by commission.  Working from photographs that you send him, he’ll have you fill out a questionnaire of sorts to find out your own personal interests and marry them with the personalities of your pets.  Then he’ll place your dog or cat, or horse or ferret, in a setting most reflective of you both. ( You can read a bit about the process of creating Edward and Apple’s painting at his website, HERE.)  

Visit Kevin for yourself, HERE.

And surround yourself with things you love.

The Death of a Poet

The Death of a Poet

Not long awake, I sat my first mug of coffee down and unfolded the still warm newspaper, wincing a little as I turned my eyes to the front page.  I was unsure of what fresh hell would stare up to greet me.  The march to another war?  The raging wildfire?  No.  It was a bittersweet surprise to see the clear eyed gaze of the poet, his photograph significantly large, above the fold, its sheer size regulating all other stories to lesser importance on this day.  Seamus Heaney had died.  

The loss of so monumental a poet is a sad fact indeed.  His absence will leave a hole in the culture few if any can fill.  But strangely, staring down at the paper, I found myself flooded with hope.  In a world so fraught and torn, where every news story seems unrelentingly bleak and art often feels corporately designed for the lowest common denominator, that the death of a poet should be considered the dominant news of the day, was wholly uplifting to me.   I saw it as an affirmation of sorts, a declaration to the world that thoughtful words and the recognition of beauty still deserve our greatest attention.

Here in the states it has been difficult, if not impossible, to have spent the last week unaware of the fracas over the performance of another one of our manufactured pop stars on the stage of a televised awards show.  Apparently hoping to catapult herself to adulthood in the eyes of her fans, the former teen darling attempted a romp of blatant sexuality that unfortunately succeeded in being a cringe-worthy spectacle so repellent and laughable that it managed to convey to the world merely that she’d gone off the rails in spectacular fashion.  Parents were up in arms.  Prayers were requested.  And, as her agents and managers knew full well, the result was that she remained the top story all week long, grabbing both the number two and number three spots for iTunes sales in exchange for her sacrificed dignity.

When one looks at the top of the charts it is easy to slide into cynicism.  Badly written books soar to the stratosphere on the wings of vacuous vampires and half-naked, lamebrained ingenues.  Popular music seems merely a vehicle for ego; films are unoriginal and calculated.   Technology has cluttered modern life in ways unimagined even a few years ago.  Just as the robber points and shouts, “Look Over There!” while he slickly steals our wallet, we are bombarded with meaningless diversions at every turn in the road.  
But wait. Not so fast. There is still hope.  

If we can manage to stop up our ears and pick our way through the detritus of commerce, it is possible to break free to travel a clearer road.   The quest for truth and beauty is still a noble one and when we occasionally uncover a gem that makes our heart sing and our soul lift, the reward is pure joy and, dare I say, a little bit of wisdom.  I was reminded of this the other night as I watched Cate Blanchett’s transcendent performance in the new movie, Blue Jasmine.  She breathes such life into her fictional character that one is able to feel oneself lifted up in understanding and empathy, which is, I suppose, the ultimate purpose of art. 

As The New York Times declared by its coverage of the death of Seamus Heaney, poetry still matters.  Art occasionally still trumps war, politics and even commerce.  It remains the best route to a sapient comprehension of our common humanity; a way to illuminate beauty as well as to better comprehend pain; a path that can lead to the discovery of truth.

 Rest in peace, Mr. Heaney.  God rest your soul. 

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

by Seamus Heaney

Portrait of Seamus Heaney above by Peter Edwards

Spontaneity

Spontaneity

Years ago, whenever I imagined myself at the age I am now, I could see myself clearly, with great happy fistfuls of time on my hands.  Time to doze on the back porch in the the early autumn breeze, listening to bird song.  Time to write reams and reams of real letters.  There would not be the teetering stack of books by my bed because, blessed by the avalanche of hours now in my possession, I would, of course, have read them all. My house would be spotless; my garden divine.  My well-stocked kitchen would produce gloriously exotic new dishes every evening without requiring that last minute dash to the market to replace a sad vegetable that had withered from neglect in the bottom of the fridge. 

 I would be calm.  I would be wise.  I would be serene.

Those days still sit there, like a desert oasis, just beyond my reach.  Each year I move the yardstick a tiny bit more but they always seem to respond in kind.  Will I ever reach that Eden of the unfettered day?  The day when my to do list is blank; my alarm clock unset? 

Over breakfast this morning, The Songwriter asked, “Well, what are you doing today?”, and his eyes glazed over as I ran down my list of “musts” for the first day of the week.   But I’ll let you in on a secret about myself, one that The Songwriter knows all too well, but is too polite to mention:  my pressing agenda often gets shuffled around quite a bit because there is always one overriding, omnipresent item on that list. 

 Spontaneity. 

 It causes me to go off script so often but oh, how different life would be without it.

Heading to the cleaners on a rainy day with my back seat full of tweeds and silk, I’ll pass a used book store.  No, it’s not on the list.  But it’s raining!  And it’s a bookstore!  So it’s a few days till I make it to the cleaners.  Does that really matter? Who knows what treasures I might find in that shop?  Treasures that might open entire new avenues of thought.   

Or...off to the market on a cloudless fall afternoon.  I take the short cut through the park.  It’s empty and the russet gowns of the maple trees are reflected in the waters of the lake.  Well, we can always eat out tonight, right? Who knows what brilliant idea might drift down from those trees to land on my shoulders?

  We all have maps and lists we follow religiously. 

 We are wary of deviating from our carefully written scripts.

  But who knows what magic is waiting for us if we do?

  Here in the states we are commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s  March on Washington, the seminal moment in our country’s struggle for civil rights.  Clarence B. Jones, now 82 years old, was Dr. King’s speech writer for that event and tells of how King followed that written speech to the letter, in a professorial delivery, for the first seven paragraphs.

Then something unusual happened. 

 Gospel singer Mahalia Jackson called out to King in the middle of his speech,

  “Tell them about the dream, Martin.  Tell them about the dream.”

Martin Luther King paused a moment, looked down, and pushed his notes aside.  He gripped the sides of the podium with both hands and began to speak, not as a professor, but as the Baptist preacher he was.  Speaking from the heart, his words, extemporaneous and passionate, still ring through history today.

Spontaneity.

Life is just sweeter with it.

Include it on your list today.

**********

You can listen to Dr. King's magnificent foray into spontaneity HERE.

Back to School

Back to School

Every year without fail, there comes an evening in late summer when The Songwriter is especially happy, almost gleeful.  His joy has nothing necessarily to do with his surroundings, although the evening in question did happen to fall this year while we were enjoying near perfect weather at our favourite beach.  But I’ve seen the same reaction at the end of sweltering days spent mostly in traffic; days spent mowing the lawn or washing the dogs; or even when he’s had the misfortune to be caught in the throes of a summer cold.  It doesn’t really matter what his day has been like, there will come a moment when he suddenly realizes that school starts the very next morning.  And he doesn’t have to go. 

 I was one of those children who loved school; The Songwriter positively loathed it.  Trapped and bored, he would look forward to summer holidays with the intensity of a convict awaiting parole.  They stretched before him, a breezy golden road with no end in sight, as far away to a child as September from May.  His high spirits dwindled with the summer days, however, and, whereas the night before the start of school always found me happily laying out a brand-new pleated tartan skirt alongside a crisp Blue Horse notebook, it found him in the lowest depths of misery. 

So I couldn’t help but find it amusing when he was recently asked by our town to sing at the dedication of our grand, sparkling new, primary school.  It was the first time I had been inside a school in years and years, and I was tickled to go along.  Sitting in the back of the auditorium, memories came flooding back as I gazed around me.  I remembered the thrill of being the very first person to use a gleaming new text book; the tantalizing crack when it opened; the delicious fragrance of the fresh, crisp pages. I remembered the smell of yeast rolls wafting from the school cafeteria at lunchtime.  It was easy to see myself in math class, fighting to stay awake as an autumn breeze blew in through the open windows, bringing with it the faintest scent of woodsmoke and falling leaves. Good memories, all. 

 As the program went on that afternoon I saw replicas of both The Songwriter and myself in the little faces sitting round me: scowling little boys, stunned at the unfairness of shortened summer holidays; prim little girls, bright-eyed and eager to impress.  While The Songwriter practically skipped out the doors when the program was over, I was tempted to linger, just a tad wistful for those long ago days when all I was responsible for was learning new things. 

It is no doubt an excitement held over from my own school days that causes me to consider this time on the calendar as the beginning of a new year.  When children start lining up at bus stops in the wee hours of morning, my dreams take on the hues of olive green and orange.  Yes, we can technically wear our white linen for a few more weeks without risking sartorial ruin, but my thoughts, and my heart, have already turned towards knitted scarves and tweeds.  Fresh pumpkin potpourri is now in the old Irish cache pot on my entry table.  Ginger tea is my current drink of choice.  I find myself looking at new art calendars; going over Christmas lists; checking the firewood stack.  As southern summers go, this has been a mild one, unusually so, but still... just as school seems to start earlier and earlier every single year, Autumn seduces me a bit earlier too.  I cannot help myself.  Perhaps I should go back to school?

But then came the early morning last week when I heard the faint rumble of the school bus making its way up the street.  It was just after dawn, much colder than normal for this time of year, and the rain outside my bedroom window was nothing short of torrential.  Crossing firmly over to The Songwriter’s way of thinking, I was happier than ever to be an adult.  Happy to snuggle back down in my downy bed.  Happy not to have to go to school.  I’ll just bake a pumpkin pie instead.

**********
Thanks to all of you for allowing me a bit of poetry indulgence while I was
away at the beach.  I had hoped you would enjoy some of my favourites... and judging by
the emails I've received... you did!  Makes me happy!

Last of the Poetry Days... Ithaka

Ithaka 

by Constantine P. Cavafy

When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
such as these you will never find
as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long.
At many a Summer dawn to enter
with what gratitude, what joy -
ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres,
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But don't in the least hurry the journey.
Better it last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.
So wise you have become, of such experience,
that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean. 

Poetry Days... Six... Those Who Love

Those Who Love

by Sara Teasdale

Those who love the most,

Do not talk of their love,

Francesca, Guinevere,

Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,

In the fragrant gardens of heaven

Are silent, or speak if at all 

Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know

Who loved one man from her youth,

Against the strength of the fates

Fighting in somber pride

Never spoke of this thing, 

But hearing his name by chance,

A light would pass over her face.

Poetry Days... Five... On a Night of Snow

On a Night of Snow

by Elizabeth Coatsworth

Cat, if you go outdoors, you must walk in the snow.

You will come back with little white shoes on your feet,

little white shoes of snow that have heels of sleet.

Stay by the fire, my Cat.  Lie still, and do not go.

See how the flames are leaping and hissing low,

I will bring you a saucer of milk like a marguerite,

so white and so smooth, so spherical and so sweet - 

stay with me, Cat.  Outdoors the wild winds blow.

Outdoors the wild winds blow, Mistress, and dark is the night,

strange voices cry in the trees, intoning strange lore,

and more than cats move, lit by our eyes green light, 

on silent feet where the meadow grasses hang hoar - 

Mistress, there are portents abroad of magic and might, 

and things that are yet to be done.  Open the door!

Poetry Days... Four... The Happiest Day

The Happiest Day

by Linda Pastan

It was early May, I think
a moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made
it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered
in the background, part of the scenery
like the houses I had grown up in,
and if they would be torn down later
that was something I knew
but didn't believe. Our children were asleep
or playing, the youngest as new
as the new smell of the lilacs,
and how could I have guessed
their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn't even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt
on melon were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they simply
made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch
in the cool morning, sipping
hot coffee. Behind the news of the day—
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere—
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations
but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.
If someone could stop the camera then…
if someone could only stop the camera
and ask me: are you happy?
perhaps I would have noticed
how the morning shone in the reflected
color of lilac. Yes, I might have said
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.