transition

falling – commentary

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I don’t know whether I want to write commentary on my poems, but I am trying it out here.

This week I have noticed that lots of old routines and facets of my life are changing or disintegrating.  I am back to writing my book after a long time away with my business work, my colleague is on maternity leave, my favourite café is no longer home, some friends are moving, some are in new relationships, and I have been trying to write daily for extraplorer, which has caused its own twenty-first century vertigo,  even my hairdresser might be changing.

Everyday this week I have felt disorientated.  I wake up, and can’t quite pin down who I am.  I am having to train myself back into the routines that serve as anchors to my everyday life.  Sometimes I forget the things that create stability or peace or connection and productivity and it’s like I have to reinvent or rediscover them.

I love the phrase ‘ontological lightness’; it means a kind of insubstantiality of being.  This week I have felt insipid, more of a breeze than a person, tipped about by circumstances.

But really this is only partial reality.  It’s more in my head than in my legs.  If I stay still for a few minutes, like right now, essence of me starts to fill up and I feel like myself again.

It’s the essence of me that is linked to the essence of the old oak in the poem ‘falling’.  Leaves falling have an ontological lightness; they will decay and fade, but the inner reality of the tree, and the reality of the acorns which although perhaps not visible to the tree do exist in the world, are full of substance.  Very full, and overflowing with life, which will become again visible through the buds of spring.

So once again, patience.

falling

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There comes a point in time in the life of a
brave old oak
when its cloak
gives way,
bit by bit,
to wind, to rain, to age, to the
inevitable pull of
seasons.

When its much loved array
of green and gold
leaves it, forever,
to the nakedness of
cold.

When its acorns, once full of
anticipated joys, of life,
of potential, of
infinity,
are entirely gone.

When even its very last cherished leaf,
the one to which it finally
clings with all its might,
takes flight.

Then the voices in the winds wuther:
‘Call yourself an oak?
Where’s your cloak?’
‘Where are your acorns?’
‘You’re a joke.’

And so the old oak stands,
vulnerable and grey,
lashed by storms
and frost and even
heavy with snow.

And hopes.

my favourite café is dying – my library is alive

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Yesterday I did something unheard of.

Instead of making my the café where I have gone to write for the last x number of years, a café so well-loved and frequented that I believe I may have worn a groove in the paths from my home to its threshold, I went to the library.

It had been little while coming.  First they painted the beautiful big communal room dark blue.  It altered the quality of the light, made it always a little bit sombre.  Then slowly slowly things changed.  The low-energy light bulbs cast less light.  The manager moved on and the new one…. Well, these things happen.  He introduced fresh flowers but when I visited they were always dead.  Then one by one the staff abandoned ship.  I saw the way that things were leaning, I made calls, encouraged from the sidelines, Canute-like failing to hold back the approaching tide.  The replacement members of the team were sweet, but somehow insubstantial.  No history holds them together.  And then on Monday, with the wifi more wi-foe, and the toilets neglected and the broken lightbulbs not replaced, and the cookie turned to dust…

That was it.  We had broken up.  A hastily proffered replacement cookie disintegrated into crumbs on my walk home.   There was no more left to say.

My city is not well-provided for cafés with large airy spaces and happy staff and a perfect cup of tea.  Too many are haunted by the spirit of the formula.  Faith has been put in track-records and not enough in the personal.  But insinuating itself into my consciousness had been the reopening of our library.

I hadn’t gone to the opening; couldn’t bear the potential disappointment of seeing old, worn, wabi-sabi beauty trashed by a new-kid-on-the-block.  So my visit yesterday was my first.  I tiptoed over the threshold, breath held, hands metaphorically in front of my eyes, peeking, and – sigh of relief – it was beautiful.  Not quite old-leather-armchairs-beautiful, but really, quite extraordinarily home and familiarity and sit-down-with-your-book-ish.

So armed with tea (yes, allowed in a travel cup), I took my place by a vast window, looking out to a park rustled by autumn winds, and I wonder about the change of seasons.

in the goldsmith’s workshop

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Last weekend, tucked away in a corner of my city, surrounded by beautiful handmade jewellery, a goldsmith friend and I worked together to create something in writing about her work.

A goldsmith’s workshop is a metaphorical and literal treasure-house.  Scattered all over the place were tools, little bags of silver wire, strange little ladles and dishes.  As we talked, she showed me gem stones from distant mines and pearls from seas in far flung places. As our conversation explored the events and moments in life which are marked by things made in precious materials, the goldsmith told me a story, one of the many secrets of the workshop…

The goldsmith had a customer who had recently become divorced.  Still distraught, she brought her rings to the goldsmith; could they be remade, she wondered?  Hidden in the liminal space of the goldsmith’s workshop, the customer and the goldsmith worked together to melt down the engagement ring and the wedding ring that had symbolised love, and commitment and hope and friendship.  As the metals turned liquid, so tears flowed down the face of the customer.  Something was dying; pain, disappointment and loss seeped out of the cracks of the broken heart.  In the crucible of the molten gold, impurities from the former life of the rings burnt away.

And then the process of re-creation started.  Moment by moment, the customer and the goldsmith designed something beautiful from the raw materials of the old.  What had been was no more; what was left was a becoming.  Slowly the customer watched the goldsmith work with her designs and her hopes to create something new.  Wonder took the place of tears, and then joy and hope and delight.  The new ring slipped onto her finger and with it new meaning, shaped from the wisdom of experience, for a new life.

The fire crackled, the conversation went on…

things I want to tell my children but might forget – going downstairs (and lifts and planes)

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Going downstairs

You may be surprised that stairs are considered very important.  If you watch a film like The Snowman, you will notice that it shows James going down the stairs, even though it does not really show him walking down the hall or landing.  This is because there is something special about changing levels, and it is to do with flying.  While we are thinking about this we are also going to think about lifts and planes.

Lifts

‘Going up!’  In a lift, when you hear this announcement, try jumping.  What is funny is that the floor will come up a bit to meet your legs while you are in the air.  so your landing distance will be a bit less than your taking-off distance.  This is also true the other way round.  If the lift says ‘going down’, then jump and you will land a bit lower than you took off.  This creates a funny feeling like a smile in your legs.

Planes

The same kind of inner woosh happens when you are in an aeroplane that is taking off.  To get into the sky the plane must start by going very fast along the land.  At a certain point, the plane nose will be pulled up and the plane is no longer on the ground but in the air.  There is a particular sensation at this moment which is like a gasp inside you followed by a tiny ripple going through your veins; this is because you are now flying, something that people wanted to do for centuries before we were alive because they looked at birds and wanted to be like them.  We are very lucky because at the time that we are alive, people have found a way to do this.  There are other moments that we feel this feeling and we will think about those later.

It is a strange thing that it is exciting to leave the ground, but it is also a good feeling to land.  Both feelings are good.  Being in the air feels free and wild and brave and being on the land feels solid and connected and comforting.  It is a very good thing when both two opposite kinds of feeling are enjoyable.

Going downstairs

So now you can probably see why going downstairs and upstairs is a special kind of action.  The other thing about going downstairs is that it is a transition that takes time you can notice.  Getting up is a transition that is happens in the amount of time we could call ‘the blink of an eye’.  Blink!  You’re out of bed.  Going downstairs is a transition that takes about ten seconds (unless you run, or slide on a lilo).  So you can notice it while it is happening, if you decide to pay attention.