NOSE BETWEEN THE PAGES

A recent bout with viral fever made bed rest compulsory and, since I had a full quota of books from the Library, this turned out to be a not so bad thing.

‘Gilead’ – a Pulitzer Prize Winner by Marilynne Robinson – came strongly recommended by review and expressed opinion.  So I opened the cover with eager  anticipation.  It is a letter from a father to a son – to the young man that the present little boy will become.  The father is a pastor, from a long line of pastors, and the letter meanders slowly – even ponderously – between the past, the present and musings on what the future could probably hold.  There are insights which beg re-reading for the philosophy they express, but I was left wondering how the young man would receive this communication.  Youth is always urgent, needing the immediate solution, living in the moment.  The reading would necessarily – as was my own – have to be intermittent.  Quiet pauses in the activity of the day. And at the end of it all, would he understand that it was time well spent? That he had shared the memories of one who had passed on but was still present through his words? What kind of a reader would he be? For readers bring their own perspective to an author’s work – their own colouring, interpretation and reaction.  There have been books that left me untouched and yet other readers could wax lyrical on the riches to be plucked, showing me nuances that had somehow passed me by.

The jacket on my next book says ‘winner of the Somerset Maugham award’.  I am not too sure whether this refers to the author or this specific book of his – First Love, Last Rites by Ian McEwan. It is a collection of short stories each one dealing with sexual obsessions, the ‘private fantasy and nightmare’ of each and every protagonist from the paedophile to the coming of age teenager. Each story speaks from ‘inside the head’ and raises the uncomfortable question – ‘how real?’ We encounter strangers every day. What is really going on in their minds? Or for that matter, in the minds of those whom we claim to know?

The last book was reassuringly familiar.  Caroline Graham’s ‘A Place of Safety’ brought back DCI Barnaby of ‘Midsomer Murders’ fame. How I enjoyed that TV Series in all the seasons we were privileged to receive.  Here was simple reading: meet the characters, look at what they did, watch events unfold and the murders pile up till they are solved either by detection or by natural resolution. At every stage we are, with the ‘criminal’, one step ahead of the hapless Barnaby and in the process, we meet the interesting personalities and private lives of village folk who are never ever dull.

Three books, one that demanded reflection, the other disturbing and the third pure entertainment.  As I look forward to breaking open the cover of my next read – Malcolm Gladwell’s ‘What the Dog Saw’ – I wonder what awaits me.

Reading is such an adventure!

ANGELS WITHOUT WINGS

We see them as winged messengers, companions, comforters and guardians thanks to the artist’s vision and the poet’s lyrical description. But angels, in reality, can be quite different!

I’ve said this before, and I’ll probably say it a thousand times more – hubby loved Christmas. It soon became a tradition with us to acquire at least one new decoration to mark each Christmas that we shared.  Nieces and nephews chipped in and added to our growing cache with the loveliest baubles from far and near.  Each year, these would be unwrapped and placed on the tree or mantelpiece and, after Christmas, lovingly cleaned, rewrapped, and replaced in their special containers, as good as new. We knew each and every decoration, their provenance and recalled the memories with joy. It’s now almost three years since hubby bid goodbye and Christmas will never be the same because the significance of our ‘little collection’ was in the sharing, as was the urge to add yet another piece. I let everyone know, accordingly.   Yet, somehow, from an unexpected somewhere, a fresh Christmas memory has faithfully arrived!

Apparently my own special angel is doing overtime on the job. And earthbound angels are being equally industrious in making the connection!

This year I have received (yes, already!) an adorable snowman. He’s a cookie jar, as fragile as the ‘snow’ he’s made of.  He will not melt, but he can break.  Yet he made it across the miles from Canada, carefully transported in a suitcase thanks to one of the many angels in my life.

And this angel plays the harp (read drums and keyboard) too, with glorious rhythm and melody!

So, when October 2 comes around, I’ll be whispering a special prayer for angels seen and unseen, known and unknown – a thanksgiving prayer for the gentle benison their presence brings.

THE SMALLEST OF MIRACLES

The life of one may seem insignificant to another and ditto for the events in said life.  But when viewed with an uncommon vision, how wonderful those events can be!

A friend reminded me of this the other day.  She pointed out that when a hungry child begs, it does so with hope. And when a handout (particularly of the edible kind) answers that ‘prayer’, for that child it is a miracle.

Then take the events in my own not so insignificant life (that’s my opinion!).

A rat had found its way into my home thanks to the climbing frame of pipes outside my window.  I did my best to evict it, but all efforts at polite persuasion failed to work.   I turned to the Lord – the rat may be part of God’s creation but it is one part that I could do without. I told Him so. And then the ‘trap’, which had not worked till my fervent plea, held my furry enemy within its sticky grip. I offered thanks and got the watchman to place the rat in its rightful place in the food chain (yes, my opinion again).

When it rains heavily, one room is awash thanks to some destructive repair work.  I get down on hands and knees and change the ‘flood’ to ‘merely damp floor’ and offer thanks that I am still limber enough to grapple with the task.  Then it rained heavily for two consecutive days and I sent up an ‘admonition’ – how much strenuous exercise is a little old lady supposed to indulge in? Yes, the room remained bone dry! A miracle? For me, definitely!

I was raised to be polite and I believe in saying ‘Thank You’.  Pouring rain is however quite a deterrent to stepping out even to visit the House of God.  I rose, I ‘shined’ and donned my waterproof, with a little bit of ‘should I, shouldn’t I’ turning over in my mind.  The pour turned to a drip! Just for me? I guess so and for all those others who turned up for morning Mass - a time to share praise and worship, expectation and thanks. A time of reinforced faith in a time that breeds despair.

The smallest, most insignificant of positives can add up to make one realise that miracles happen when we pray.  Dare we ask for even bigger things? Like ‘peace’? Like ‘no child hungry’? Like ‘a love that makes the whole world one family’?

I dare! How about you?

GIFTS UNASKED AND REQUESTED…

The boss enjoyed an annual holiday on far distant shores and messaged the question that is music to all ears, ‘What’s on your shopping list?’ All I asked for was a pair of boxing gloves and a voodoo doll. Simple, innocuous and definitely not hard to get.

 

When the boss returned, duly possessed of all the goody bags, we swooped and opened amid oohs and aahs.  Yes, I got my boxing gloves even though they’re ‘miniature’ reminders of this year’s FIFA Cup and will never cause anyone damage (they are also my one and only football souvenir!). Instead of the voodoo doll, I got a monkey and I’m still figuring out who qualifies. The ‘eager beaver Mountie’ key-chain is definitely me and has been immediately put to use. But of all the items out of a bagful the one that touched me most was the unasked for crochet book.  That a big, burly, rugged outdoor person went to the trouble of searching in bookshops for something as delicate as crochet says something of the man! Now, I wonder whether I should present him with the first fruits of my labour – the prettiest, laciest doily in the book??!!

It is only when we receive that we realise the delight that gifts bring with them, because every gift contains a little bit of the giver – a reminder of associations, the creation of memories and a smile banked for the future.

For all of my gifts – requested and unasked – THANK YOU!

THE MONSOON ...

...has stuck its nose around the door and the steam rises.  Not the salubrious sauna advocated by health clubs and beauticians but a sticky film on the skin kind of steaminess.  There is heaviness – a burdened anticipation - in the air, punctuated by occasional gusts of wind and bursts of rain. One is in a quandary: leave the windows open, or keep them shut? The clothes seem dry, but are they? Lights are on the in daytime, but they cast a hazy beam compared to the nighttime radiance one is accustomed to. 

It’s strange that what should be a welcome seasonal change casts gloom and damp!  Where is the freshness of the first rainfall? That rich, moist, invigorating smell of newly dampened earth? That desire to lean far out of the window and feel the fresh breeze on one’s face? The lift of the heart under the twirl of the umbrella? The orchestra of sound and light played against the backdrop of a midnight sky?

The monsoon has come and before it can settle in, we are looking to bid it ‘farewell’!! Could it be that, like all of nature, we too have an inbuilt antenna trained towards impending doom? Or is it the shaming message thrown at us by a savagely indignant Neptune? The tons of garbage tossed back at us and dumped on the shoreline by the recent tidal waves; the rising temperature and the fragmented pattern of rainfall are the cries of a ravaged earth and sea. Even the importunate köel sounded more distraught this year!

 

Imagination?  Warning bell? Or, death knell?