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.

Poetry Days...Three...The Journey

The Journey 

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew 

what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Poetry Days, Two.... Begin

Begin

by Brendan Kennelly

Begin again to the summoning birds,

to the sight of the light at the window,

begin to the roar of morning traffic

all along Pembroke Road.

Every beginning is a promise

born in light and dying in dark

determination and exaltation of springtime

flowering the way to work.

Being to the pageant of queuing girls

the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal

bridges linking the past and future

old friends passing though with us still.

Begin to the loneliness that cannot end

since it perhaps is what makes us begin, 

begin to wonder at unknown faces

at crying birds in the sudden rain

at branches stark in the willing sunlight

at seagulls foraging for bread

at couples sharing a sunny secret

alone together while making good.

Though we live in a world that dreams of ending

that always seem about to give in

something that will not acknowledge conclusion

insists that we forever begin.

Poetry Days, One... A Blessing

Poetry Days

Lower than half mast, almost reptilian, my nearly closed eye lids admit only a sliver of a view; two shades of blue, a ruler-straight line where the sea meets the sky.  The sound of the winds off the ocean mingles with the bright crash of the waves; a constant music for my somnolent soul.  As my eyes finally close, thoughts drift through my head; casual visitors only, they are not invited to stay. These are the poetry days, when my mind lingers over only the most beautiful words; contemplates only the picturesque thoughts.  These are the days designed to provide what I need for the rest of the year. 

 They are the hours of needed bliss.

There comes a time in August when the seaside calls.  I hear it at the breakfast table or in a line of crawling traffic.  It sings down telephone wires; drowns out even the most scintillating of conversations.  It is insistent, persistent, tempting, and there is nothing for it but to answer.  And so I throw drawstring trousers into a straw bag.  Find my widest-brimmed hat.  I place a stack of new books in the backseat of my car.  And soon, crossing the bridge to the island, I notice, with barely contained glee, the lights on my cell phone become fainter and fainter till eventually I know I am deliciously unreachable.  I have left the prose of life far behind me.  I concentrate on the poetry only.

While I’m away for the next few days, I’ve scheduled some of my favourite poems to share with you all.

An evocative picture.

A wonderful poem.

Each day.

I hope you enjoy these poetry days.

Do let me know which ones you like best.

xo

A Blessing

by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans.  They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, 

For she has walked over to me

And nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white, 

Her mane falls wild on her forehead, 

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

Just a Bit More Britain.....

Just a Bit More Britain....

Okay, I heard you!  From the comments and emails I’ve received over the past week, it’s apparent that I’m not the only Anglophile out there.  It also seems that many of you are in the process of planning your own trips to London this year which makes me so happy.  You will have a wonderful time, I assure you.  So here’s just a bit more Britain.. focusing on London.  Enjoy!

1.  Tea

The best cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life was not at the Ritz.  Nor the Savoy.  Nor even at my beloved Draycott Hotel.  No, it was enjoyed not long after the photograph at the top of this post was snapped, in a tiny little cafe on the edge of Lake Buttermere in Cumbria.  The cold weather that September afternoon was punctuated by a wind strong enough to blow my hat right off, which it did.  I chased it a good way, catching hold of the brim just before it flew across the lake.  We were chilled to the bone after our hike and the cozy little cafe handed us the most deliciously hot, deliciously bracing, cup of strong, sweet tea ever concocted.  We sat there in utter bliss, watching gold autumn leaves rain down outside the steamy windows.

Tea in Britain is just different than tea here in the States.  I don’t know why, but it is.  I bring back handfuls of the stuff whenever I can, but it’s never quite the same.  I mean, let’s face it, America is just more of a coffee country.  Generally speaking, we tend to have coffee shops, not tea shops. Personally, I think we cannot duplicate the settings accurately.  And for me, getting the setting right, is half the job.  

For my money, one of the best places for tea has got to be at the Victoria and Albert Museum.  That’s a photograph of it above.  See what I mean?  Whenever I open the heavy glass doors at the back of the museum to walk across the windy courtyard and enter these grand rooms, I feel as though I’ve left one world and been welcomed into quite another.  Each of the three rooms is unique, atmospheric, and as jaw-droppingly gorgeous as one would expect in a museum devoted to the best and most beautiful of design.  I love the old wood-paneled tea room at the National Gallery and the little outdoor cafe in St. James Park is an idyllic setting for a hot cup of tea on a chilly afternoon,
 but this one at the V and A is hands down my favourite.
See more HERE

2.  Pollock’s Toy Shoppe

Strolling up Regent Street you start to see the crowds and hear the chatter before you even approach Hamleys Toy Store.  A fixture in London, Hamleys has every kind of stuffed creature and current craze imaginable inside its multi-story shop.  It is a mecca for tourists of every shape and size, old and young alike.  Tours truly has braved the crowds there herself to purchase several Paddington Bears for children back home.  However, if you happen to be holding the hand of a child who possesses a more singular nature, or perhaps are one of those types yourself... then you must keep walking and wind your way through streets and alleys till you reach Covent Garden.  Keep looking till you find Pollock’s Toy Shop.  Benjamin Pollock started this shop over a century and a half ago, specializing in magical little toy theatres. These tiny creations are still prominently featured at Pollock’s - circuses and shadow boxes,  Punch and Judys and Cinderellas. Pollock’s is teeny tiny shop chocked full of imagination made manifest, of which Robert Louis Stevenson himself once wrote, “If you love art, folly or the bright eyes of children, speed to Pollock's”.

I certainly agree.  

See more HERE

3.  Bea’s of Bloomsbury

On my last trip to London a good friend whisked me away one afternoon for a visit to Bea’s of Bloomsbury.  Not knowing quite what to expect, but trusting her judgement completely, I followed along obediently and soon found myself standing in front of a little jewel box of a sweet shop.  Tantalizing cakes of all shapes and colours sat in the window, each one seeming to call out to me like the cakes Alice found when she tumbled into Wonderland.  “Me!  Eat Me!”, they cried.  I soon found that the inside of Bea’s was even more delightful that its windows promised, and even more fatal to one’s willpower.  More cakes!  Cupcakes, shortbread, scones.... chocolate, vanilla, strawberry...filling glass cases and tiered stands everywhere I looked.  Tiny little chairs and tiny little tables.  Smiling waiters scurrying to and fro.  It looked for all the world like some enchanted place the sort of which Mary Poppins would frequent on her Thursdays off.  

Highly recommended!

See more HERE.

4.  Persephone Books

Having heard of this bookshop for awhile now, I knew it would probably be wonderful.  But believe me, I wasn’t prepared for what I was to find as I made my way down a quiet Lamb’s Conduit Street on cool Saturday afternoon in May.  The hubbub of Oxford and High Holborn muffled into silence as I walked, gazing up at old storefronts and into vintage windows, looking for Persephone Books.  And soon, there it was on the left.  In a building dating from 1701, with handmade bunting swagged in its windows and all manner of vintage accouterments arranged on the deep, wide sills.  Persephone Books.  If the charm of the inside even came close to that of the outside, I was in for a treat to be sure.  Well dear reader, Persephone Books surpassed any expectations I had.  A small room to be sure, with grey covered books on lined in shelves and stacked on tables, some already gift wrapped in a bright paper the colour of California bougainvillea.  Vases of garden flowers.  Vintage floral fabrics and handsewn cushions.  A large wooden table sat in the center of the room, old and full of books and flowers, notecards and bookmarks.  

I am not in possession of a vocabulary rich enough to properly convey the delight a lover of books experiences in Persephone.  The basics are this:  they specialize in the publication of forgotten women authors.  They publish those works in the most enticing dove grey covers, the endpapers of which are aswirl with prints from the 30’s and 40’s, making the experience of reading these wonderful books delightful on every level.  You will want every book you see, trust me on this. An added treat?  They tuck a bookmark to match in each book purchased.  If you cannot book a ticket immediately, then go, posthaste, to their website and browse around.  And for goodness sakes, order a catalog.  Better than a blue one from Tiffany’s.  Truly.

See more HERE. 

5.  Liberty

When I was little my Mother and I would occasionally journey downtown to the large department stores of old -  gilded palaces where escalators smoothly ascended and descended beneath crystal chandeliers the size of Volkswagen Beetles and lilting strains of Bach and Mozart drifted through the perfumed air.  To shop in these places was no mere errand run to the mall.  We dressed up to go there and always made time for chocolate sundaes in the very feminine cafes where little round tables were draped in starched white linen and I could entertain myself endlessly by eavesdropping on the floral-hatted ladies perched like fine-feathered birds here and there around me.  If we chanced to make a purchase, we were treated like royalty, our packages boxed and wrapped with care. Needless to say, my memories of Christmas shopping in these places are colourful, fanciful, and dear. Sadly, those magnificent stores no longer exist in my fair city, having been replaced decades ago by the ubiquitous, and rather raucous, shopping malls, places where the dress codes of old have evaporated and chocolate sundaes are no more. 

 However, when I am fortunate enough to be in London, I always make time for an afternoon in Liberty, both to relive the grand experience shopping once was and to take in all that is creative, unique and gorgeous in the modern day.

The building itself is glorious and would easily make my list were it empty as a broken egg.  But add to its historical beauty floors artfully arrayed with tempting wares and it becomes more than just a store.  It becomes an event, and one not to be missed.  Flowers are massed at every entrance, and yes, I’ve been known to bring some back for my hotel room.  Every floor in the old Tudor building holds treasures; I always find it a near impossibility to extricate myself from both the scarf department and the haberdashery.  I can never seem to leave without dozens of buttons.  The cafe is charming; the perfect place for tea.  Come to think of it... I would bet they could concoct a chocolate sundae if I ask nicely.  Maybe next time.
See more HERE.

6. Dennis Severs’ House

If, perhaps in daydream, or those last fleeting seconds before sleep, you have ever had a momentary flirtation with the idea of time travel, then you owe it to yourself to visit the Dennis Severs’ House in Spitalfields.   Those in the know queue up in the cobblestone street outside its mysterious front door every Sunday and Monday during the brief period of time the house allows visitors, waiting for it to slowly open, waiting to be invited inside.  Not an attraction, so much more than a museum, the hour you spend here will be the closest you will ever get to time travel this side of the veil.  It is a piece of incredible theatre in which every detail, however infinitesimal, is perfection.  Candlelight flickers, freshly baked scones cool on the sideboard, a half-finished cup of tea sits, still warm, beside a tapestry chair.  You hear the clip clop of horse’s hooves as invisible carriages roll past outside the shuttered windows.  A child’s giggle is heard from the next room. When the front door opens to release you back into the world, you hardly know what century you are returning to.  Have you stepped from a painting?  Have you gone back in time?  Who can say? 

There is a tiny handwritten sign tossed casually on a side table in the Dennis Severs’ House which reads, “You either see it, or you don’t.”

Well, I see it.  

And I think you might also.

Find out more HERE.

7. Ben Pentreath Ltd

A few months ago I was browsing around Pinterest on a Saturday morning.  I kept coming across the most gorgeous images, all attributed to a chap named Ben Pentreath.  After a bit of investigation, I found the fellow had a witty, stunningly beautiful blog which I immediately bookmarked.  Mr. Pentreath is a designer, architect and shop owner whose taste makes my heart sing.  His posts are frequently about his country home in Dorset and are accompanied by the most beautiful photographs.  I am dying to see inside his shop.  It’s in Bloomsbury, quite near Persephone Books.  

No, I’ve not been there yet.  But I’m going!  That’s the marvelous thing about London; there’s always something new to see or do.  One is never done with London.

In the meantime, I’m whetting my appetite for Ben Pentreath Ltd. by reading both his lovely blog and his new book on English design.  Swoon-worthy!

Find the blog HERE.

And the book, HERE.