Day 260

Mist on the fields this evening.

Doing the accounts this morning, opening all the envelopes with the beautiful little wooden letter-opener that my dad made me, I was enfolded again in that love, that great grand love he had for his children. 

My father had such energy for life, for beauty.  In that head of his was confusion and bewilderment about certain things, but always a deep ethical knowledge of right and wrong.  When I was a teenager I read an article about a hand-loom used by the Navajo tribe, and asked if he could make me one.  He designed one just from a little picture in a magazine, built it over a weekend and presented me with the finished product.  He helped me learn how to use it and I made a few runners, and even took it to university with me, although I can't remember using it there. He was always willing to spend time with me, to make something, to fix something that was broken, even though he worked so hard. 

When my mother died he was like a planet without a sun, and slowly foundered out of his orbit into confusion and dementia.  But in the early days he busied himself with things that he could still keep his mind on, and one of them was a little box he made for me with the help of his dear friend, my cousin Carol's husband Porti, who is a wood-carver, a maker of beautiful things.  He spent ages in his workshop with him, and eventually sent me this exquisite little lidded box.

It is strange to be at the age where the boys are quite grown up, and are off on their own with their friends, have little desire to spend time with us, these big independent sons who were such dear little tow-headed boys.  Sad to think that we have had our last camping trips with them as boys, gone to our last parties where they were the heroes of the younger set and our hearts swelled with pride at their good behaviour, their sweetness with the little ones.  We are no longer the ones who know the answers to all the questions, we have become "the old toppies", the ones with out-dated ideas, we are not cool anymore.  I know this is the way life works, how it is supposed to be, but tonight is filled with heartache at these thoughts. 

Well, I still teach adolescents, and had such a lovely afternoon class today, with good discussions, sweet students, and creative work inspired by the wonderful magical Marc Chagall.

Maybe this is inspired by him too. 
Waterlilies.