Love, the leitmotif

Two months, give or take a couple of days, to Christmas! How I love the season for all that it means.

Birthdays commemorate the day and celebrate the person as the infant grows into the child and the child grows into the teen and then the adult. We do not return, on the birthday, to the celebration of the newborn infant except at Christmas. Christmas is unique.

Across the globe, people of all ages, all nationalities, all cultures and all creeds are aware of this one day as no other. And it is not just because of the trappings - the tinsel, the tree, the gifts, the music, Santa Claus or even the spirit of giving - which permeate our lives; it is the gift of love embodied in the infant that was born in Bethlehem over 2000 years ago.

And this love is recalled to us so well in that evocative poem by Christina Rossetti:

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

And the love of Christmas shall be the leitmotif in the days to come.

Pitter Patter Raindrops

A friend posted a comment on Facebook, calling to mind childish rhymes associated with the season – the wet and windy Indian monsoon.

I was taken back in time to all the happy memories which had taken a backseat, particularly in view of the havoc wreaked in recent years. I remembered the joy of that first pair of gumboots – fire-engine red. The first puddle and the giant splish-splash caused by a well aimed jump at dead centre. Dancing in the rain and getting drenched. Twirling umbrellas of every hue, turning a grey day into a rainbow. Childish poems lisped excitedly, coaxed into existence by adult coaching. And one of my favourite songs: Joy is like the Rain – a simple melody composed and sung by the Medical Missionaries a long, long time ago. Isn’t it funny how one jog to the memory can release a chain of thought?

To a child, rain is an enjoyable variation in the seasons. Hot pakodas and butter melting off roasted corn-on-the-cob, finger lickin’ good. Cancelled schooldays. Sailing paper boats in suddenly appearing rivers off the kerbs. Tracing the path of raindrops on a steamy window, watching a drenched world without, from the safety within.

The adult perspective has a more jaundiced view (pun intended!). Monsoons mean gastro, dengue, malaria, floods, traffic snarls, open manholes, collapsing buildings, leakages – inconveniences galore. The adult world is not a nice place to be.

And, suddenly, I think of snails. Snails, tiny and large, crawling on leaves and across window sills, lured by the freshened earth. And I have a poem to share with you, a poem which brings together the adult, the child and snails!

For a 5-year old – Fleur Adcock

A snail was climbing up the window sill

Into your room after a night of rain.

You called me in to see and I explain

That it would be unkind to leave it there.

It might crawl to the floor, we must take care

That no one squashes it. You understand

And carry it outside with careful hand

To eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails;

Your gentleness is moulded, still, by words

From me who have trapped mice and shot wild birds.

From me who drowned your kittens and who betrayed

Your closest relatives and who purveyed

The harshest kind of truth to many another.

But that is how things are. I am your mother

And we are kind to snails.

Note: The graphic is from Discovery's School Clip Art

Just Visiting

Inviting family and friends to visit your blog is like asking them to drop in for a friendly chat, even though the conversation may be a trifle one-sided! With cup of tea at elbow, I sit at my computer each day and put down what comes to mind. It gives me that happy feeling of being almost face to face with you, imagining your reactions, your smiles and occasional raised eyebrows. Actual visiting is fast becoming a lost art, as is the casual chat over a cup of tea. And the internet is the place to meet. The poem I share with you today, which dates back to 1972 (yes, from my collection), is about ‘just visiting’. The sentiments are still valid, even in a virtual world!

Just Visiting – Annie Laurie Dunaway

May I come in and say ‘Hello’

And stay for just awhile?

For in our hurry scurry world

It’s almost out of style.

But sometimes the heart feels lighter

When you’re sad or sick or blue;

And the day seems so much brighter

Because someone thinks of you.

If you are sick or shut inside

Then this visit is for you

And may you wait with patience

For your strength to gain anew.

And if you are discouraged

And feel misunderstood

Then turn your thoughts to brighter things

And follow up with good.

I hope that through this little chat

As I journey on today,

I’ve left some rays of sunshine

Scattered all along the way.

And the last four lines sum up perfectly what I would like to say!

Words are what I have

Thanks to technology and the media, I was able to watch President Obama’s swearing-in in its entirety. One of the highlights of the occasion was the reading of Praise Song for the Day by its composer Elizabeth Alexander. For me, the words which stood out sharply were, “We encounter each other in words. Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed, words to consider, reconsider…”.

Communication is how we touch each other, especially over the distances that separate us. And we communicate using words. I love words – written, spoken, sung. And because I love them so, I have over the years accumulated those that hold a special appeal. My scrapbooks are a collection of quotations, poems, lyrics and extracts culled from all that I have read and encountered and are a source of solace, humour and inspiration. A precious resource worth more than silver and gold! I look forward to sharing the nuggets and gems in future posts.

And, while we are between weeks, here is a pertinent selection from my collection:

Week Daze – R.H. Grenville

Monday is a bread day

Rather than a cake day,

A back-to-work, want-to-shirk,

Slow-to-yawn-awake day.

Tuesday, Wed- and Thursdays

Are depends-on-what-occurs days.

But Friday is a fat day,

A gay day; is that day

When ready money jingles

And anticipation tingles

Towards Saturday and Sunday,

The wine-and-dine and fun days

The lazy lie-abed days,

Leading to the lead day,

The duty-must-be-done day.

I long to sleep through

Monday!

(And this was written long before the acronym TGIF made its appearance!!)

God bless your weekend and the Monday.

Cut Flowers

It used to be the fashion to have framed mottoes on the wall in the parlour. We, too, had our fair share and one that I still remember is this little verse: The kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth; one is closer to God in a garden, than anywhere else on earth. The words were superimposed on a picture of a garden and the whole framed by a circle of brass butterflies.

I grew up in gardens, thanks to my Father’s military stint. And I number among remembered friends a profusion of blooms: the delicate Cosmos tossing in the breeze (think chiffon flounce), the incredibly blue Cornflowers, velvety Foxgloves, Snapdragons (a child ventriloquist’s best friend!), Helichrysums (honestly, could they be real?), spicily scented Geraniums, chubby, self-possessed Michaelmas Daisies (my all time favourites), towering Sunflowers, and overweight Dahlias. All these, in addition to the ubiquitous bougainvillaea and lantana. Roses were mandatory and sat proudly in their separate ‘rose bed’ but these were no friends – they had large and very sharp thorns!

What set off this reminiscence? A friend dropped by with a bouquet, prettily arranged and headily scented. But my heart prefers blooms that are rooted in the soil – rooted yet free. If you had a garden to look out on, would you really swap the view from the window for a vase on the table? Close your eyes and, for a moment, picture a garden in full bloom:

Did you notice?

The scent, the mien, the style?

Flowers have personalities too!

Some are wild and wilful

Others fat and content.

Then there’s the stately lady:

Stiff, formal and unamused.

Royalty among the riff-raff?

They spring from the earth

And to the earth return

Their circle complete.

Giving life.

Bringing life.

Then there are those

Which feel the touch of steel.

Chopped, trimmed, lobotomized

Posing in sterile splendor

In vitreous bondage.

Flung by careless hand,

They exit vase for bin,

And thence to squalid rot.

“???????”

One of the assignments that I set for my ‘students’ is the writing of a poem: anything from a limerick to blank verse. And I am amazed at the disgruntled groans that arise. An inveterate scribbler from as far back as I can remember, I loved the English Language curriculum that demanded that we state our thoughts in metered rhyme. The ability to ‘doggerel’ at the drop of a hat was much appreciated and the habit has remained to this day as a handy tool for ‘Dear Diary’ entries. There’s so much fun in exploding into verse (or worse!). So, here’s my offering for today:

Do you ever

Wonder why

Amoeba are small,

And mountains are high?

Why dogs bark,

And cats meow,

And do what they do

Never asking “how”?

Why owls can see

On the darkest night;

And the upside-down bat

Loves moonlight?

Why plants still push

Through frost and snow;

And the trees in the forest

Lofty grow?

Only humans ‘think’

And question “Why?”

Worry and fret

Over how to get by.

The moral of this verse

Is plain to see

As the nose on your face,

Or the leaves on the tree.

God is Our Father

Trust in Him.

He created for Love

And not on a whim.

So question not

Or wonder ‘why’;

With God on our side

We’ll surely get by!

And, with that lift to my spirit, I shall leave you to get on with the day.