After gardening I notice some annoying bumps on the back of my hand. My first instinct is to worry in case they are warts.
Next day, at breakfast, I observe the rash appears less inflamed; it must be the result of something I’ve touched in the garden.
I say to Joe, ‘Feel this, what do you think it is?’
‘Braille, it says, “I Love You”, but it’s missing the comma.’
‘But ‘I Love You,’ doesn’t need a comma.’
‘Then it says, ‘immensely and deeply!’
How can I worry about a few bumps after such an interpretation?
The heart, the organ donned in electric pinks and vibrant reds for Valentines Day, encourage so many poets to write verse. What a lot of fuss. Frieda and her husband don’t follow this tradition.
In her teenage years there were times when she was aware of her heart racing; with the excitement and the agitation of love that sent her rhythm into presto and appassionato. Not just in her teenage years, she supposes, though it all seems so long ago. In that state of high alert, she did stupid things that she’d rather forget. She and Helen Young sat together in Grade Four. They both fell for the new boy, Walter Wright, who sat directly behind them. He wore long trousers. None of the other boys did. It made him seem so grown up. Helen and Frieda went down to Coles and pooled their money to buy him a 1/6 d watercolour paint set. They secretly wrapped it and placed it in his desk for Valentine’s Day. They never knew if he ever guessed who had put it there.
Frieda feels she’s been oblivious for decades to the selfless dedication of her pumping heart. It’s reliable ticking, like a metronome, continuing without payment or praise. Those memories from the past are best forgotten. She should pay more attention to the present and to her time signature of adagio and even adagissimo.
Now in her eighth decade an occasional twinge will remind her that life is finite. Should she give up rich and sumptuous foods to ease the burden on her heart? No, life is to be lived to the full, with that she gives thanks to the universe. When the metronome stops, she’ll be grateful to have lived a full and happy life.
Barbara Pyett February 2017
A break from routine allows the richness of conversation and shared meals with family and friends; plus the unspoken: pulling weeds, mulching, fertilizing, children to stay, shopping, pruning, cooking, cleaning windows, general cleaning, washing, ironing, washing up, sweeping, picking fruit and vegetables, making jam and chutney, watering, stewing fruit for the freezer, reading, writing letters to those neglected at Christmas time and contemplating getting the year organized making a list to get things fixed.
The TV is on the blink. The solar hot water system needs replacing. The cement step from the absent spa must be removed. Gutters are choked. Solar panels need cleaning. The cubby needs fresh paint. The dishwasher died and needs replacing. Edging around the garden beds need attention since the lawns haven’t been mown. Incessant need of sweeping gum leaves from driveway, patio and paths. Lopping grevilleas and correas to maintain bushiness. Finally, book an appointment with the physio to restore use of shoulder.
‘What do you think caused this bursitis?’ Lachlan asks.
I resist giving him a blow by blow explanation.
‘You’re away with the fairies.’
This surprised me, as I believed I was an ordinary person. Perhaps when I was young I was a bit of a sylph and a little unworldly at times but I thought I’d grown up and left that behind. Continuing to think, I realized not everyone dreams. Maybe she was right.
Dreams are a very big part of my life. So far, flying dreams have been hard work. Flapping my arms is exhausting. It would be wonderful to fly effortlessly. Just to float, relax and enjoy the sensation without strain.
Today’s prompt, ‘float’, is what I’ll do in preparation for sleep and may be it will happen.
Yesterday, being another hot day, the air-conditioning of the cinema tempted me to see a film I’d heard about.
‘Rosalie Blum’ is a delightful French film. Having actors who appeared normal rather than super stars is one of the reasons I love French cinema. They appear so believable and make it easier for me to relate to the story.
This story is set in a village in France. It starts with the character, Vincent, who has friends, but lives a lonely life. His mother is a manipulating person and it takes time for him to finally stand up to her. He becomes obsessed with Rosalie Blum, another lonely person.
That sounds pretty straight forward, but it isn’t that simple.
Rather than give away the plot, I’d love to hear from others who may have seen this thought provoking film.
Hopeful: book review
‘The Woman On The Stairs’ written by Bernhard Schlink is a charming book set in Germany involving creativity, love and hope.
Three men are all in love with the same woman and a painting of Irene is later the pivot that brings them together again.
Well worth a read.
Renewal looks a strange word; it looks like three words in one.
If you are feeling your age, I’ve just read a book you might enjoy.
It is about a widow and widower who cross an invisible societal line in their small community. They feel that they’ve reached the age where they don’t care what others think.
‘Our Souls at Night’ is written by Kent Haruf. If you’re feeling you need to change your life in some way or just need a good read, this is the book for you. Haruf writes about two people in their seventies who find love and friendship with poignancy, charm and believability.