fifty-nine

John Steinbeck said, "A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals.  He isn't telling or teaching or ordering.  Rather he seeks to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing.  We are lonesome animals.  We spend all life trying to be less lonesome."


It struck me when I read this yesterday as so apt to the writing of this blog.  Usually I am tired every night when I begin, but before long I am energized by the ideas, I take great pleasure in finding the right words, I seek to put things as beautifully as possible, to explore the juxtaposition of the pieces of my language, the fragments of my life.  My observations give shape to my days, and it is as though I live with more lasting perception when I am writing like this.

Several people have mentioned that they love to read my piece with their morning coffee, and there is a connection there, as I too look forward to and enjoy reading people's responses, a "relationship of meaning".

The lovely words, my mother tongue, the language you learn from your mother.  English, the little language which grew into a behemoth with the growth of the British Empire as it gradually took over the world.  English the international language now, the dominant language used in IT, communications, science, aviation, seafaring, radio, entertainment, and diplomacy.

But even more than this, the language of literature and poetry, the language of stories.    The little squiggles on a page which suddenly make sense and take you away, an escape from illness, from drudgery, from boredom, from being stuck inside.  It's like flying...

And you are the gawky red-headed Anne of Green Gables, for whom you were named, you are the curious girl, inquisitive about her new world.  You watch her developing relationship with the brother and sister Matthew and Marilla, and your own heart soars when hers does.

And you are Oliver Twist, aching for his lost mother.  You are that gullible child, tossed and turned on the vicissitudes of life.   

And now you are a very tired older woman falling asleep sitting up, trying to think about language. 

I am a collector of images, and long ago, probably when I was a student in the 70's, I found this incredible photograph in a photography annual, I think.  There was no explanation printed with it, just this strange ritual captured in a moment, the boy rapt-faced, completely accepting of what the adults are doing to him, which is, on the face of it, very odd indeed.

And now, so many years later, with the wonders of the world wide web at my fingertips, I have found a probable explanation.  In Greece, there is an ancient ritual (condoned by the church!) used to heal children who have been disfigured, or had polio or some other type of crippling disease, or are not quite right in the head.  They split a young sapling, prop it open, and then the godmother and godfather pass the child through the middle of the tree five times.  After this they bind up the sapling and leave it.  If the tree dies the child will not recover, but if the tree survives there is a strong chance the child will be cured of whatever ails him.  It is a strange and beautiful idea, reiterating the strong bond between humans and trees.

I have decided to make a painting based on this image, and this is the beginning of my version, not nearly complete. It is quite a lot larger than the little photograph, about 60cm x 120cm, although of course they look about the same size here on the computer 'page'. 

It is interesting how I am capturing the same moment which actually happened all those years ago, the godparents might even be dead by now, and the boy might have grown into a man.

The tree must be a grand size now, and the man goes to visit it, and hangs a little silver chain on one of the tree's twigs, and says a prayer of thanks to his tree which was once the sapling which held his spirit in its heart, and the tree stands there, green and solid, glad that his boy is now a tall man, who became a father and is now even the grandfather of a tiny new grandson.

 Art imitates life and imagination plumes forth.  I love all the hands, and the movement from darkness into light, and the serenity of the boy's face, being born again. 

Same day as my age!

Made it back to the gym this morning!  "Ran" 1.7 miles (2.73km) on the elliptical machine, and did all the other weight-training exercises, while listening to my incredibly long but rather thrilling audio-book.  It was -11C when we left the house - woo hoo!

Did I mention how much I enjoy flying?  It wasn't always so, particularly after an awful flight from Madrid to Chicago where our hostesses were on loan from the Spanish Inquisition. 

One awful flight between Cape Town and Joburg we experienced the most terrible turbulence, when it felt as though the plane had just plummeted about a km towards the earth!  Matthew was sitting next to me and reassured me saying, "It's fine Mom, it's just like a roller-coaster!"  Which did not make me feel much better, loathing roller-coasters as I do.  But he was so sweet, because the next big bump he looked at me quizzically and then held my hand through the rest of the flight.  I think his hand was squeezed to a pulp by the time we landed.

Of course we have all dreamed of flying, and throughout history people have tried all kinds of weird and wonderful designs in order to move through the air like a bird does.

 

 

Perhaps it would be easier to fly if our skeletons looked like this beautiful fruitbat's.

 
But I got my flight mojo back, and so today here is a poem I wrote after flying to Washington D.C. last October with Tim.

Ode to Flying

Oh Goddess of aeroplanes
Sleek dragon
Thank you for taking us up
So fast off the ground,
where we could see the little houses
grow smaller and smaller
until the mountains were just lines of light
and shade.
As we floated serenely through the high sky.

And thanks for the fat little sun-tipped cumulus
Hurtling toward us
then airily parting for our slick craft.
We sailed over an ocean of cloud
for a time.
Until green and golden fields of farms
And long and winding roads.
Also glittering lakes, snaking rivers.
And the lovely thrill of banking
Like the tilt of a frigate-bird.

And I am grateful for the descent,
As baseball pitches, schools, houses
magnified again,
And the plane glimpsed the angled runway.
With delight I watched your fleet shadow
swift beside us, gliding,
saw your tender claws reach down
in motion with our landing gear
Guiding our touchdown,
And all the beautiful momentum
Suddenly pulled back
Slowed
Stopped.
And with a light kiss of the wing
You left us
Elated, grateful,
And back on the ground.

Day 57

 I haven't got back into the gym yet.  We woke up this morning early in time to go but couldn't.  It is so cold!

I am looking forward to spring so much.  This part of the year is very hard, always.  Although I love how the seasons here are so enormously different, winter goes on way too long.  It lasts about six or seven months, and so March and April are really difficult to deal with.

Slowly, painstakingly, the buds appear on the trees.  They swell a little at the end of each tiny twig, waiting to blossom, and you are seduced into thinking it will happen in a few days time, the delicate newness will emerge, the dead tree metamorphosing into burgeoning LIFE!  But no, then it seems that you wait months and months, all that potential, hovering just out of reach, because, like us this morning, the tiny blooms have no will to leap out into the frigid air.

My very optimistic friend Gene told me tonight that she loves this time of the year, because it can only get better!  But I, having just experienced the beginnings of spring in London: blossoms, daffodils, and everywhere green and damp and kind to the eyes, yearn for it with my whole heart.

Three of my indoor plants have decided that it must be time for spring and have produced copious leaves.  My little azalea has produced the purest of white flowers.  My wisteria is growing wildly up the window, searching for the sun.

Ambitious azalea.

Felicity the fig-tree.

I was quite surprised to learn that most private school students here have incredibly expensive brand name coats.  Apparently many wear Canada Goose parkas, which cost between $700 and $1000, and then they leave them on the floor, or in the passage, or on a table in a classroom.  And sometimes they are never claimed, and go to lost property and from there to a charity.   Others wear Burberry leather jackets which cost about the same.  If you can afford it I am sure it is amazing to have a grand coat like that.  But why buy children such things when they are going to outgrow them so quickly?

When Emma and Jess were little I made most of their clothes.  And I mended all their clothes too.  They had outrageous patches on the knees and bums of their trousers, and embroidered flowers and animals on their pinafores and dresses, which they wore (especially Jess in her inimitable way), over their pants. 

Jess on her third birthday.

My mother sewed small shirts for my brother out of my dad's old shirts when the collars were frayed but the fabric still good enough.  My father fixed old fridges and sold them for extra money (my dad was always fixing something).

It seems to me that we have lost something extraordinary in this new Age, a thriftiness of the soul.

We have a glut of information but we don't have the knowledge, time or the patience to mend things.  For example, we have no idea how to sit quietly and repair a sock. When you have darned your own sock, you put it on carefully, you keep your toenails trimmed so that they won't be responsible for more holes.  You appreciate the sock on your foot, you appreciate your fine needlework, your feel a sense of pride in your ability to keep the sock going for another while.

 This lack of frugality is most noticeable here in America, where you can't even have your shoes repaired, let alone a washing machine or fridge.  Often the part is more expensive or harder to come by than a new model, and your cheapest option is to buy it new, again.  So much landfill, so much waste.  The quality of appliances is deliberately shoddy so that the economy will continue to grow as people have to constantly replace the broken paraphernalia of our greedy era. 

I feel the desire to go and mend some of the clothing from my mending basket.
But first I must sleep.

Day 56

It struck me as I was walking into school this morning how many parallel lives we live, or how many different roles we fulfill in our lives.  Yesterday I was in London in the spring, a mother and grandmother, last night I was back in wintry Massachusetts, a wife and lover.  This morning I woke up and had no idea who I was for a minute or two, and then discovered that I was me, Anne, in my own familiar house.  A few minutes later I had the distinctly strange experience of talking to Emma and Luna on flat-screen Skype whereas only a few hours before I had held them very three-dimensionally in my arms. After that I prepared all my bags for school and drove down the cold morning highway to the city on the right side of the road again, listening to my audio-book which is very entrancing.  When I arrived at school I had to claw my way out of 19th century New Zealand (the audiobook, The Luminaries, winner of the Booker prize, youngest author ever at 28!) and become an Art teacher of international children, which I haven't done for a very long week.  

And now I sit here hugging the woodstove, an exhausted blogger, struggling to keep my eyes open.

The kids at my school all speak at least two languages fluently, usually three. They are constantly dipping in and out of these different tongues with such ease.  It is a wonderful gift to children, to be raised in a bilingual household.  Growing up with two languages grows that little brain in a phenomenal way, and makes it easier to pick up other languages later.

And children are past masters at switching codes, talking one way with their friends, and an utterly different way with adults.

I am so tired that I am just going to put up some of my pictures of different skies on different days.  They're like fingerprints, no two ever completely alike.

55

Written while crossing the wide blue Atlantic.

A sad/happy day because while I am leaving my little UK family, I am traveling back to our adopted country where my husband is waiting for me, and we will see each other through the glass doors and smile and our bodies will meet one another, again. When we all lived in the magical 16 Cross Street in South Africa, we could never have dreamed that one day we would be spread all over the globe.  One daughter lives in the "green and pleasant land", this little island which once ruled the world.  Another daughter resides in beauteous Cape Town, the place where I was born and raised, near the southern-most tip of Africa.  One son is studying in sunny Senegal, at the western-most point of Africa, in Dakar.  And the other son is stuck in snow-laden Boston in America, where, a little way north, our house creaks under the burden of this winter's record snowfall. 

We have spent the last thirteen years leaving people we love, or saying goodbye to a beloved person who is leaving.  I am so tired of it.  I hate airports with a passion.  I am green with jealousy when I see the mother of Emma's friend, who lives just around the corner from her daughter, who looks after her little grandson a couple of days a week and babysits him at night when his parents want a night out.  Her house is equipped with a high chair and a cot for the little lad, and his face lights up with pleasure when he sees his granny and grandad.  Such a perfect arrangement.

We were sitting at the airport having lunch when Emma remarked how sad she was and that we are always saying goodbye and then longing for the next time, which is not a great way to live your life.  So I replied that we all have our separate lives to lead, our everyday lives, and they are good, and filled with work and play and the usual mix of gladness and sorrows.  I pointed out that we don't live with our mothers forever anyway.  She smilingly responded that we should.  That Luna will always live with her.  We laughed and laughed, remembering our bond, how when Emma was a baby I wore her like a garment, and when she was about five she vowed that she would marry me when she was a grownup.

The last thing I always tell Luna (well, I've done it the three times I have said goodbye to her), is "Don't forget me, I'm your grandmother."  And so far she hasn't.  I told her that as I was leaving London when she was only six days old, and she gazed at me with those wise newborn eyes and listened, and remembered, because when Emma walked out on to the airport concourse with a four-month old Luna strapped to her front, the little thing took one look at me and gave me a beatific smile, starting with a crinkling of her eyes and spreading until her whole face beamed.  I reminded her again when she and Emma flew back to London five weeks later, and then, ten days ago, when I finally walked into the kitchen where her great-aunt was holding her, all miserable with chickenpox, I sang our little song to her and she recognised me and smiled her enchanting spotty-faced grin and came willingly into my joyful arms.

Missing my little Moon.

I look at the map on the tiny screen on the seat-back in front of me to see how far we have come, and there is the whole world fitting neatly into this little rectangle, with the important cities marked.  There is Cape Town at the bottom, and Dakar slightly west, and above them London, and then off to one side, Boston.  And it all looks so small and easy to deal with, betraying the eyes because the heart knows that the distances are vast, but also that that wonderful imaginary umbilicus stretches across oceans and on the wind to each of those places, beautiful and bright and shining.

Fifty-fourth Day

London bus and my gorgeous daughter.

What I saw in the museum today.

For my last day in London I could choose wherever I wanted to go.  So I think Stuart was very disappointed when I chose the Victoria and Albert museum.  But I bribed him with the promise of a nice meal.

Luna loved the museum.  Stuart thought that it wouldn't be a good place for babies, but little ones like Lunes enjoy looking at anything really, as long as you make it interesting.  Everything is so new and wonderful to their little brains, which are expanding every day with each fresh experience.  She was enchanted by the jewelry gallery, which is like Aladdin's cave, with low lights and shining gems, silver and gold, everywhere.  She loved the halls where she sang "Hoo! Hoo!" like an owl, savouring the wonderful echoes she created.  She was delighted by the reflections she found on a structure next to a bench.  She fell happily asleep amongst all the nudes in the sculpture gallery. 

While Luna was sleeping Emma and I went around the fashion gallery which displayed clothing through two centuries, and picked out all our favourites, or what we would wear if we were forced to pick from a particular display case.  Emma always makes things into a game, which is why I only really enjoy shopping with her and Jess, never alone. 

Afterwards, when we had laughed and exclaimed at all the weird and wonderful fashions, and the choices we had made, we sat down next to Stuart and the sleeping baby to rest our legs for a while, gazing at the beautiful sculptures all around us.  A little girl went up to a seated figure, its shiny bum right at her eye-level and started examining it minutely, then began stroking the crack with great gusto, until a gallery guard came up to her and told her to stop, walking past us afterwards and raising her eyes in amused horror to the ceiling with the whispered remark, "Kids!"

It is interesting that we walk through art galleries and are able to examine naked figures in the utmost detail, unlike anywhere else.  And of course the majority are women's bodies, although there were a few male nudes in the mix.  But there is something inherently savage about a torso of a woman, it is very beautiful, it is artistic, the angles are exquisite, but violence has been committed, there are no arms and there is no head.  Why?  Where are they?

Earlier I had been suddenly met by a familiar figure, my John the Baptist, who has always reminded me of my husband, and whom I have never seen in real life!   What a pleasure, what a master Rodin was!

Sitting there on the bench I wafted off into daydreams, people flitting in and out of view as they passed by on their way somewhere, hurrying to meet someone, or lingered slowly, examining each sculpture.  And then into my consciousness came an old white-haired lady, her hair coiffed like my mum's, her body solid like hers, gently observing a Rodin dancer, and instantly I ached for my mother who has been gone for eight years now.  And I thought how strange it is that only photographs remain of the person who was Joan Radford.  Of course she is present in the memories of her children and grandchildren, and all her friends who are still around, and in the beautiful things she made, the embroidery, the cross-stitch, the lace.  But all that energy, all that love, all that huge long life, everything beloved about her, is all gone. It is so odd.

And now there is this little Luna who has great-granny Joan's hands, so perhaps there is a little bit of my mother in her great-granddaughter's deft fingers, it may be that a small part of her spirit resides in this new child who is so dear to my heart. 

When Nick and Matthew were about four or five they asked me one day where they had been before they were born, so I turned the question back on them and inquired where they thought they had been.  Being twins they told their ideas together, one adding when the other stopped for breath, and it was a sweet story of flying with the stars, waiting to be born, just drifting around like a dream in the sky.  For all we know, they may be right.

Day 53

It was Luna's first birthday celebration today.  So there was a big party with all the tiny people and cakes and all the young parents drinking wine and beer and talking about their experiences of the first year of their baby's life.  What a year that is! 

Happy birthday girl

second cousins

You go through all the strangeness and wonder of growing this person inside the woman, and then the trauma of birth, and then you get to take home this new little mewling (quite ugly-looking) creature who is totally helpless, of whom you are pretty scared, about whom you know very little, but with whom you soon fall utterly and deeply and irrevocably in love, and with whom you suffer through colic and teething and getting sick for the first time, and first smiles, and first food, first word, often first step, standing proudly upright like the long line of Homo sapiens sapiens who have gone before.

And suddenly there is this little person standing balancing against the table, eating cake, and looking a lot more like a human being than they did just a year ago.  Such a short time really, but such an enormous rush of development.  This is now a small human being, with desires and dislikes and interests and tastes of her own already. 

And she is your little person, looking a little like Granny Margaret here, or having toes like Uncle Nick there. She is your darling clever little thing, whom you cannot imagine even going for a sleepover at someone else's house, let alone ever breaking your heart or making bad decisions, or telling you that she hates you, or driving a car, or leaving home to go to university, or having babies of her own.  

The first babies to arrive at the party were all girls, all with blue or green eyes and blond hair.  It is surprising how many tow-headed small children there are, and then the hair seems to slowly lose that luminescence, so that by they time they are in their teens it has progressed to a generally mousy brown.  All four of my children looked like Scandinavians when they were little, with white-blond hair, and only Emma still has flaxen hair.  She does lighten her hair but still has pale eyebrows and fair eyelashes, the mark of the true blonde. 

Only about 2% of the entire world population are blond after the age of 18. There are various theories as to why Europeans in particular developed blond hair, and most of them seem to point to men being more attracted to blue-eyed blond-haired women.  So nothing has changed?  " ... a hypothesis was presented by Canadian anthropologist Peter Frost, who claims blond hair evolved very quickly in a specific area at the end of the last ice age by means of sexual selection.  According to Frost, the appearance of blond hair and blue eyes in some northern European women made them stand out from their rivals at a time of fierce competition for scarce males." - wikipedia

Scientifically speaking, people with light skins and blond hair have low levels of the dark pigment eumelanin.  These people evolved after the last Ice Age in Europe, about 11000 years ago, as a result of fewer daylight hours and therefore less absorption of Vitamin D. 

One of the little blondies at the party.

fifty-two

We went to the London Zoo today, in Camden.  I hate zoos generally, suffer so for the large animals in particular.  But it was Luna's treat for her birthday and a lovely outing for Emma and I too, and I knew there were no elephants, so I was happy about that.  A zoo is the perfect combination of natural and man-made.  Animals living in pens.

Zoos have many good qualities. They educate people about the need for conservation, even helping in terms of keeping gene pools broad.  In the near future they might be the only place where we will find various creatures which have become extinct in the wild, like polar bears, for example.

They don't have polar bears at the London Zoo but they do have two Sumatran tigers, who were both born in captivity and are part of a world-wide breeding programme to ensure a healthy and diverse population in zoos around the world, and to help with research in the field to save this critically endangered species. 

Luna and Em watching the little Red Titi monkey below

Red Titi monkey watching Luna and Emma.

Luna loved the meerkats.

Giraffes are the strangest-looking creatures.

Beautiful bird

Pelican meeting.

My little sweetpea.

 We had a lovely day, and my favourite creatures were the otters, but unfortunately all those photographs had to be deleted because I had taken them on the same settings I had for the indoor ones!  So I have photographs in my head, as my grandmother taught me to do.

And the pictures must speak as I am too tired for more words tonight after our long trek through London today, carrying prams and babies and going underground and overland and through sunshine and rain and bitter cold, but with warm hearts and interesting conversations and arms linked, and lots of laughter.

Day 51

Such a cold and rainy morning for our little Moon's first birthday!  She woke up at quarter to seven, which was just before the actual anniversary of her birth a year ago at 7.53!  She woke up cheerful and chirping away in her little bird-language.  (A year ago Stuart was sleeping on the floor next to Emma's bed while she was in hospital, and woke up feeling dazed and bewildered from all the events of the night, thinking that he was at the seaside, confusing the cries of newborns with those of seagulls!)
We had another long walk along the river Thames from Wandsworth to Putney this time.  Luna slept part of the time, and then when we stopped to feed a swan, some ducks and gulls, she woke up and took an interest.  She is still spotty but beginning to look a bit more normal, poor little Lunes.

The smaller spotted birthday-girl, seen on the banks of the Thames River.

Herring gull lands on the tidal water of the Thames.

Daffs!

It's spring in England already!

The Beauteous Evening  on the River Thames.

All you need is LOVE.

The Thames is a wonderful river which is the second longest in England.  The part we walk along is the Tidal River, and experiences the tides of the English Channel.  The entire Thames River has a path next to it called the Thames Path, which can be walked and cycled and enjoyed by many many people.  It was opened in 1996, and goes about 260km, from Kemble in Gloucestershire, where the source of the Thames is located, to the Thames barrier at Charleton. 

Before bridges were built, the Thames divided tribes, described by Julius Caesar.
The Thames was one of the busiest waterways in the world in the 1800s.
The Thames used to be filthy, and in the 1300s toilets were even built on bridges above the water which then emptied directly into the water, until the stench became so unbearable that the king issued an edict to try to clean up the area.
In the 20th century the river became severely polluted but a huge cleanup was instigated and today there is so much wildlife in the river, including a rare type of seahorse!
Many artists have used the river as inspiration, particularly artists like William Turner and James Abbott McNeill Whistler.
The water flowing past your eyes as you walk is a great calming influence, which is probably why city people walk next to it as often as they can.

And now for something man-made, and different.
Things you absolutely need for babies:
- A wipes warmer - yes, a contraption that WARMS the wipes that you wipe the baby's bum with!

- A baby bathtub

- A seat that attaches to the bottom of the bath so that the baby does not inadvertently fall over.

- A fabric cover for the baby-seat in a supermarket trolley/carriage.

- A nursing/breastfeeding pillow.

- Feeding products designed to give dads the "experience of breastfeeding".

- The Thudguard.

These are some of the ridiculous things that new parents are told they require for good/brighter/happier/healthier children!

Good grief is all I can say.  And poor gullible new parents!
 
A wipes warmer?  Seriously?  Firstly you are taking part in the desecration of the earth by adding to the landfills.  Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned cloths and water?

You don't need a weird baby bath.  You have a perfectly good bathtub in your bathroom.  I put all my babies on their backs in an inch of water in the big bath from when they were very tiny, after they outgrew the sink, and as a result they all love water and were never scared of getting their faces wet and all learned to swim at the age of three!

While a seat with suction cups on the bottom is useful, you sit with the baby anyway, so why not just let the baby sit in the real bath, with more water surrounding him/her?

A trolley seat-cover is the height of germophobia!  Children need some germs to build up immunity.  I would put one twin in the seat and the other would stand up in the actual trolley when we went shopping, and they would partake of the odd bar of cheese or pound of butter when I wasn't looking.   I can't really believe that someone even thought of and marketed this successfully!

A breastfeeding pillow?  All you need is a pillow, one of the ones you already have in your house.

A breastfeeding device for dads?  Surely they should just be happy that they don't have to wake up every few hours for the first year or however long you breastfeed your baby for.  If the baby is formula-fed, the dad can feed them the same as anyone else.

A thudguard?  How on earth is the child ever going to learn to avoid sharp-cornered tables etc.?

Luna loves shoe boxes in which she can pack all her dad's cd covers, and then unpack them again.
She loves the cupboard with all the pots and pans in the same way.
She loves all cupboards actually, and will unpack anything.
She loves books, and will sit with a pile for a relatively long time in terms of her age of 1 year exactly.
She loves to walk along holding on to the couch, plop down on all fours and crawl off in the direction of her mother, who is the MOST IMPORTANT PERSON IN THE WHOLE WORLD to her, which is as it should be, and on the way she will pick up small virtually invisible pieces of fluff, or tiny portions of toast she dropped at breakfast, and eat them.
She loves singing songs and clapping hands.
She does NOT really like to sit for a long time in the pram.