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.