Category: From the heart

Put out more flags…

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In my part of the coastal boondocks we are very excited because a rather large golf tournament is taking place in the neighbouring town.  Apart from the much needed injection of cash for the local economy, and the fact that many people have been inundated with visits from distant relatives with a fetish for sticks and small balls, this sporting fixture of note has meant access roads & short cuts to and from the Golf Open are subject to traffic restrictions. 

To help residents get over the shock, we’ve all been given bright orange car badges, that say ‘LR’.  These identify us as locals, and give us right of way over journalists, sneaky golf lovers and out-of-towners. The effect has been curious.  Weirdly some sort of cameraderie has developed – people who don’t know each smile, wave and let other vehicles bearing the LR insignia go first at a junction.  Actually, its the same as when it snows heavily in London and no one goes to work – everyone gets all Christmassy and starts performing random acts of loveliness.

It got me thinking…if a small square of orange plastic could create such profound change, wouldn’t it be great if we had a sticker system for life…?

Dead Poet’s Society…

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Apart from my nephew, one of my most treasured possessions is a book of poetry by Robert Graves. It was given to me by someone I loved. A lifetime ago. Like the book, I imagine that now he’s a bit battered and threadbare at the edges.  As am I. I found the book at the bottom of a box of keepsakes, and it put me in contemplative mood. I feel like sharing this poem as a reminder that the past is always another country.

The Pact by Robert Graves

The identity of opposites had linked us
In our impossible pact of only love
Which, being a man, I honoured to excess
but you, being woman, quietly disregarded –
though loving me no less –

Valentine…

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Given my rather jaundiced view of love, you would be forgiven for thinking this blog would be a diatribe about the perils of giving your heart to the wrong person.  Moreover, the actions of a recent, but now extremely ex lover –  he is definitely on my ‘I regret you and hope you die slowly and painfully’ list – made me wonder whether this blog should be fair warning to those tender souls who still think hearts and flowers mean something.

So far, so cynical…

Actually, St Valentine was a Roman martyr who was killed for marrying Christian couples around 269 A.D. and was stoned and then beheaded. Not terribly loving of Emperor Claudius!  Not a card or flower or soft toy in sight!  Nevertheless, I’ve decided that on a day which celebrates romance it would be fitting to share one of my favourite poems.   I read it at my sister’s wedding, and I reproduce here for everyone who has ever felt that toe-tingling, heart-stopping, crazy little thing called love.  Happy Valentine’s Day!

I carry your heart with me by E.E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)
i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you
are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Forest Fire…

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Wagner Dodge was a smoke jumper who was called to fight a fire in Mann Gulch, Montana in 1945.  Gulch wildfires are notoriously difficult to control – the safest route was for the fire team to make their way down the slope towards water.  But the fire jumped from one side of the valley to the other, and a wall of fire began racing up the hill towards the men.  They ran away.  Well, when faced with a wall of flame 200 feet high, what would you do…? 

Wagner Dodge didn’t run.  He realised that if he ran from the fire he would die. Heat rises.  Fire accellerates uphill.  Wagner Dodge stopped, lit a match. He made a circle of fire around himself, and laid down in the charred earth while the flames raced towards him.  Fire can’t burn what’s already been scorched.  This seemingly crazy, counter-intuitive and irrational action, saved his life.

I’ve given Wagner Dodge a lot of thought since mid-September.  My own forest fire has been of the emotional kind. Like an inferno, love sparks disaster and has the power to melt rocks. Just not the ones in my heart, the moment I realised someone I love was lost to me. There was only one thing to do. To save myself from total immolation, I took a metaphorical match to my heart’s desire and set it ablaze.  Fire can’t burn what’s already been scorched. 

The inspiration for today’s blog was Lloyd Cole.

Boy…

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A few people I know are having a mid-life crisis.  This is evident from their interests. If they are female – in botox and butt surgery. If they are male – sportscars or other unsuitable hobbies seem to be prevalent- some of which involve other people and chest wigs, but not necessarily in that order. 

I managed to get my own crisis out of the way when I was 25, and that sort of thing was fashionable.  Besides, existential angst isn’t attractive when you are over 30. And it causes wrinkles.  So I hoped I had managed to avoid it. Yep, people make plans. God just laughs. So anyway,  I have a sneaking suspicion that I might not be myself of late.  In fact, I think I am probably re-incarnating as a teenage boy.

What evidence do I have for this apparent transformation?

Well, amongst other things…I am wildly excited that they are releasing a remake of the original gamers movie – T.R.O.N.  We never even owned a Playstation when I was growing up, so where this has come from is anyone’s guess.  I’ve started surfing lessons (cue ‘unsuitable hobby’). Also, I am surgically attached to my ipod touch. And I’ve started listening to louche rockbands and having an overwhelming desire to sleep late and mooch around the house on the weekend instead of being a grown up and doing my chores like I know I’m supposed to.

Of course, all of this is really distressing. I’d much rather re-incarnate as Sugababe than a Sugar boy! It’s when I start wearing baggy jeans that hang down my butt, I’ll know I’m in real trouble.

Nine lives…

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I lost a good friend yesterday.  As with most serendipitous things, Loulou arrived by pure chance.  I didn’t choose her.  I inherited her. It was only supposed to be six months, but ten years later she was still with me… Sometimes its the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.

Designer she was not.  Battersea born and rescued she was.  Lovely with it, though.  Despite being a feline fashionista.  And in case you don’t believe me, I kid you not…

Favourite gay man: Gok Wan. Favourite designers:  ‘Miaouwschino’, ‘Miaow Miaow’, ‘Georgio Armiaowni’ and, of course, ‘Prrrrrada’! Favourite words: ‘Sushi’ and ‘Nobu’!  Go figure. For someone so small and furry, she did have big ideas!

Actually, I could never work out whether she thought she was human. Maybe I was just the Alpha cat in the pack…?  I had many parties where Loulou sat at the table and was part of the conversation.  Not on the table, mind you (we do have standards), just at the table. Daintily perched on a chair. Listening. Observing. Taking it all in. Perfect guest. Good manners, great listener and an even better radar. Could sniff a love rat at thirty paces! Useful skill if champagne has numbed your owner’s common sense, but that is another story…

In the end, Loulou’s exit was quiet and dignified, much like her life. She was much loved and I will miss her sorely. Mostly because when my own life was pretty pear-shaped, she was the reason I would get up and go on. Well…she needed feeding, and  – at that time – I needed a reason to fight the despair that threatened to overwhelm me. And maybe, just maybe…it’s because she is the last connection with a life I had, but no longer aspire to. 

Sometimes, we have to be ready to say goodbye to one life in order to understand what we are to be in the next…

Wrapper…

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If you know what Quality Street chocolates are you will know that everyone has a favourite – toffee pennies, green triangles and what is only ever described as ‘the purple one’.  When I was growing up, the greens and purples had rarity value and ownership of the last one in the tin was always hotly disputed. 

Like these chocolates, people come in wrappers too. I think all of us have an exterior coating. This can hint at what we are on the inside, or disguise how we appear to others – sometimes what you see is exactly what you get, but not always. Some people are an acquired taste, some are brittle and difficult to digest, some hide a soft centre. Others need careful unwrapping before their real flavour is revealed. And yes, you do find the odd nut!

But do we need our foil coating?  Unwrapped, we might melt. Personally, I think that’s preferable to being consigned to the bottom of the tin.

First kiss…

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The first boy I ever kissed, was the same age as me, but in the year below at school.   I was extremely shy and scared as hell, but he was more experienced (Tick) and very good looking (Tick). He was also a good kisser (Big Tick).   He leant across the stable door at the front of our house and kissed me, casually. It was lovely. In fact, it was perfect.

I remember that kiss because it was the first time I had been that close to a boy who really liked me.  Well, that’s not strictly true.  When I was fourteen a boy who really liked me tried to kiss me and … I ran away – yes, literally! I just wasn’t ready to give my heart. And frankly, trying to kiss me in the middle of a department store (in public…eeuuww!) was never going to work, was it? 

 Rodin sculpted it, Eisenstadt and Doisneau photographed it.  Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy princess found her prince by kissing an amphibian. Hell, Heshey’s even turned it into a chocolate! O.K., maybe that last one doesn’t count, but kissing is an intimate act. It’s a way of being close to someone. And maybe a way of keeping out the cold of  loneliness by starting a fire.

And yes, some kisses are rash (no, I really didn’t mean to…honest), some are an affirmation of life (it was a funeral and I was sad) and some are just what they are (in the moment for the moment…I was curious). Some kisses herald the beginning of great happiness (a.k.a. lust – or love – at first sight) and some mean unwelcome obligation (a.k.a. I kissed you and you were so rubbish I need therapy!) A kiss can give you power, or enslave you. (Just think of Judas! )

For me, kisses are a form of divination.  You can tell from a kiss if its meant to be, or meant to fizzle. Some are fun, but the ones that count are the ones that really make you tingle.

Gift Horse

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One of my favourite bands sing a line that goes: ‘This is a gift, it comes with a price’.  As the Christmas shopping season kicks off a frenzy of materialism and over-consumption – my thoughts have turned to those gifts that don’t come prettily wrapped with a bow.  You know, those gifts that cleverly disguise themselves as a learning experience but turn out to be karmic kickings – never timely, not always welcome and often without clear purpose until you see the experience through to the other end.

For me, as for many of my friends and family members, 2009 has come with it’s fair share of ‘gifts’.  Houses needing to be sold and lives started over, jobs and lovers lost, sickness and bereavement. Not exactly the sort of presents you’d want to find under the tree.  What I’d term ‘random acts of unkindness’ if I actually believed in some sort of superior deity.

In life, we often get what we need.  And if we need to learn lessons, then that becomes our experience, no matter how hard the teaching.  But experiences can be good as well. 2009 has also come with gifts that bring joy: wedding celebrations, the ‘all clear’ from cancer for a friend’s husband, the announcement of new life as babies are conceived and excitedly anticipated.  Our world holds so much promise and it’s gift to us is like a new day.  It’s not what happens to us that matters – circumstance does not need to define us. It’s what we do with the gifts we’ve been given.

A god (dess) of small things…

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Over 200 years ago, Blake, in his Auguries of Innocence, wrote ‘To see a World in a Grain on Sand, And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand, and Eternity in an hour’. I think what he meant was that the secret of happiness does not reside in grand sweeping moments, but rather is to be found in those small, still moments of intimacy that modern life does its best to stop us from noticing.

I’ve moved down to the coast, and I’m fortunate enough to be in an area where there are both brutal landscapes (industrially attractive shingle beaches, rough-hewn piers) and wild spaces (cement sea, greenery and white cliffs).  I grew up in the Cape which probably has some of the best beaches in the world, but somehow my rough little patch of SE England has beauty all of its own.    It’s an under-rated place – like the shy girl in high school who looked a bit nerdy and then turned out to be a beautiful swan, or the woman whose sense of humour helps her to laugh at what it prevents her from having.  It needs time – and courage – to be appreciated.  It also needs patience – noticing that rare seaside plant or beautiful butterfly when walking on the Leas, seeing the possibility in newly harvested fields with rough, stubbly remnants of crops, and hearing the seagulls and guillemots and ring-necked doves greet the morning… along with the high speed train and the ambulance rushing to the local hospital!

Despite being a non-believer, I know that I believe in the god (or goddess) of small things.  In life, as in business, its the small things that really matter.  A warm smile, a lovely day, a beautiful autumn scene – that man on the tube who gave me his seat, my coffee shop guy in the station who greets me like a long lost friend, even though he does not know me,  the local shopowner who was kind and comforted a distressed nine-year old by calling her mother, the optician who gave me a discount and a free eye test just because he could. Small, but important things.

Having moved from a massive city to what I would term the coastal boondocks, it’s been an adjustment, but its also been a pleasure.  Don’t get me wrong – in my small pocket of London where I used to live, my neighbours were fantastic.  I miss them.   But I also know that the people in my pier-side town have restored my faith in the little things.