Maybe, Maybe Not
“I would love to live like a river flows,
carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”
unfinished poem by Irish poet, John O’Donohue (thanks, Bill)
We are sitting in the garden, tuned to the babbling of the birds and the river, maybe even to the unfurling of the roses. I in a deckchair nursing a formidably empty notebook and a full pen, he snoozing on the bench under the apple tree, with yesterday’s Sunday paper lying open at the abandoned cryptic crossword. All around us the rampant energy and exuberance of new life and wild colour.
Sensing despondency in the depth of my sighs, he peers fondly at me slumped in my floppy sunhat against a backdrop of tall foxgloves and a rapture of roses. Above us, the endless bustle and jabber of the sparrow tribe in the eaves heightens my sense of dumb inertia. I explain that I need a nudge from a muse to snap me out of my May doldrums and get back into the routine of writing again, as we enter joyous June. A most magnificent May it was too, yet always within it the tumbleweed seeds of a few long-gone and seemingly forgotten sads, awaiting the lightest of triggers to seize their chance for acknowledgement and review. Triggers as flimsy as a small clamour of forget-me-nots, the slow reveal of perfume within the darkest rose, an extravagance of rosemary, or the relentless chiming chirp of the sparrows. And usually, the light nocturnal thud of the maybugs at my bedroom window - though conspicuously absent this year. This spring, a flurry of losses and sorrows of friends and loved ones loomed large, and overwhelmed my empath awhile, made all the more poignant by nature’s joyous and explosive carnival of life. And my own opportunist old sads sneaked onboard to re-remind me that change is the only certainty in the overall uncertainty of life.
Dear May, the unbridled flagship of regeneration and growth, assures us that the old earthclock ticks on and all is and will be well. Being fortunate to live where I do, with the luxury of my own small garden, on the banks of a river between the ocean and a wild hinterland, I’m ever rich in the perspectives that nature perpetually offers up when life exceeds mere understanding.
So where was I? Searching for something to write about - Iooking all around, I meet his patient gaze - “Meee?” he proposes, drowsily.
Okay.
Lately he’s become older than I, yet he wears it so well - handsome chap, no visible wrinkles, no glasses, good hearing, most of his own teeth, and a total of about twelve white hairs. Unlike me, he has his own hips, doesn’t need a stick and is surprisingly fit - no fat, good muscle tone, stays sharp - never loses keys or phone. Increasingly content to just potter at home these days, he seems to enjoy my company more than ever before. We bicker a bit, but nothing serious. I think, as for so many, lockdown brought us closer, and we spend many happy hours, like today, in the garden, or snugged up on the sofa watching YouTube. He does seem to nap much more than I do, which may be the secret to his relative youthfulness. What else can I say? I believe we are blessed to have found one another.
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly notice a whole bunch of weeds that need my attention, the greenhouse needs watering, there’s a wonky robin telling me the bird feeder needs replenishing, and there are several bumblebees concussing themselves on the windows of the conservatory. I’m rapidly losing concentration. I turn my focus back to the subject of my writing just as he begins a demonstration of his magnificent seventeen year-old flexibility, thrusting his back leg into the air to commence his ritual grooming …
O dear, yes - that old device again. I’ll try writing again properly in a week or so. Time now for a glass of wine and some cake, methinks. Toodlepip.