Angel of the Morning
‘Let your life come amongst them like a flame of light, my
child, unflickering and pure, and delight them into silence.’
from The Child-Angel , Rabindranath Tagore
Angels, as I know them, come in many guises. This little one, who has endured significant travails, was a gift from one of the many angels who supported and loved us at the White Plains Presbyterian Church, Westchester, New York. In silence, I delight in angels.
Said one silly chook to the other,” Well, I did warn you that your bed of roses ideas would sink us.”
laughter in silence, silence in laughter
THEN
Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone’s face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
‘Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He’s crawling out of the duckweed.’
Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
Late afternoon, lily of the Incas, heavenly bamboo, Nana’s jardinière, memories
facing west, twilight on its way
‘The night is for stillness.
…….
It is night after a long day.
What has been done has been done;
what has not been done has not been done;
let it be.’
from © A New Zealand Prayer Book He Karakia Mihinare o Aotearoa 1989 p.185
Light departs, shadows, soapstone sisters
twilight on dining table, end of day
As light departs to let the earth be one with night,
Silence deepens in the mind, and thoughts grow slow;
The basket of twilight brims over with colors
Gathered from within the sacred meadows of the day
And offered like blessings to the gathering Tenebrae.
from Vespers, by John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between Us
First Fruits, blackcurrants, my father’s favourite
Blackcurrants, my father’s favourite, the harvest begins
I have said this before and I am happy to say it again. I am in awe of people who can remember their past, particularly their childhood past, in high-definition clarity. I see and hear my past through flickering scenes of snowy noise, crackling static, fragmented pixels, and faulty signals. Occasionally, I am able to focus on what seems to be a clear, defined, image, yet when I try to hold it, to still it in a frame , this is what happens: a split screen of alternative possibilities.
Frame One: Dinner with Nana
peas boil, custard bakes,
leg of lamb on stove top rests,
roasted juices, pink.
“Bloody meat,” sighs Nana Maud.
we grin, dinner not done yet.
Frame Two: Dinner with Nana
The peas are boiling, the custard bakes,
gravy, silky and peppery, simmers and plops.
Nana, pinny-wrapped, and double-bent, is busy’
with sharp-pronged fork, testing the mid-day roast.
She pierces the bubbles of crisp skin
and pearlescent fat, to the bone inside,
and watches, as the juices spurt,
clear and sweet.
“It’s done, ” she declaims, satisfied.
“It’s well-cooked,” she adds, decisive,
“I don’t like bloody mutton.”
No part of sheep would defy that tone.
We grin, we tease, in mock horror.
“Nana! Bloody? Did you say bloody?”
Intent on serving dinner hot,
blind to childish nonsense, she huffs,
“No, no, of course, I didn’t, but
I don’t like bloody meat.”
We giggle quietly into plates, bountiful
with succulent tenderness.
We eat, pudding next,
replete, content,
knowing, even then, we would remember
the day we pretended Nana swore.
Which of these pictures , I wonder, is closest to the reality of that day? Sadly, I can no longer say for sure. The editorial hand of time has steadily and stealthily, spliced and resectioned memories which once seemed solid; immutable.
But this much I do know:
Both recollections are faithful to the essence of my grandmother, and the good food, love, and security which were produced in copious quantities in her little, sunny, kitchen.
She was a hard-working person; always busy around the home. She was independent, despite being almost blind in one eye. She was capable, she was small, and she was strong. Chopping kindling wood for her fire and coal range were daily tasks she undertook into an advanced age.
Her cooking was excellent. Every kind of food she gave me, be it boiled chicken, bottled apricot, roast dinner, or pikelet , I remember with pleasure.
And, as for those roasts ~ Nana preferred mutton and hogget to lamb but, whatever cut it was, she didn’t like it rare, or to say it plainly, bloody. On that fact, my memory is 100% clear.
(This post is in memory of Nana Maud who died 42 years ago, today, the first day of spring.)
In Memory of Nana
For a long time Honey Bun lived in dark space in the attic, and no one, least of all Honey Bun’s owner, thought very much about him, for all that she had supposedly loved Honey Bun for 59 years.
One evening, when the Woman was going to bed, her head full of worrisome questions about wills and property ( her father’s and her own), and what to do next, she suddenly had a dreadful thought which made her sit bolt upright and demand of herself, ” What will happen to Honey Bun when I am gone?” This was followed by an even more dreadful thought, “But where is Honey Bun? Where have I kept my sweet little rabbit? ”
The next morning, a foray into the deepest recesses of the attic, revealed Honey Bun tucked away safely in a box with other family toys. The Woman sighed with relief and clutched Honey Bun tightly to her heart. “Honey Bun, how I have missed you,” she whispered into his long, soft ears. Honey Bun, with eyes as brown and kind as ever, looked at the Woman and said not a word. There was no need.
The Woman took Honey Bun downstairs to her bedroom, determined to devise a succession plan for her dear rabbit, now slightly shabby, with tail becoming unsewn, but still with the sweetest, pink-embroidered nose, and still with arms outstretched, as if forever poised for a hug.
Whilst the Woman paced the room and wondered to whom she could entrust her special friend, Honey Bun stared at her, fixedly and gently, and remembered how the Woman was when they had first met, all honey-coloured curls, blue eyes, and soft pink skin. The Woman was older now, shabbier and flabbier, wrinkle-skinned, and grey haired but, in the silence of the attic, Honey Bun had recognized instantly the Woman’s footfall and her whispers. Her essence was as integral to Honey Bun’s being as his own stuffing. Then, as Honey Bun continued to stare, the Woman suddenly stopped pacing. She turned and returned his stare. A small, rueful smile played upon the corners of her mouth, and inside herself she said,” Fancy all this fuss and worry over a toy.” No sooner had the words crossed her mind, than she sensed a shimmer of gentle reproach alighting on her soul. Though feather-light at first, the reproach grew heavier as each hour passed.
By evening the Woman was weary and no closer to finding a new home for Honey Bun than she had been earlier in the day. Weighted down by feelings of unease she went to her bed, where Honey Bun lay patiently waiting the outcome of the Woman’s wonderings. In steadfast faithfulness, Honey Bun had remained exactly where the Woman had left him. He had not moved an inch, just as he had not moved an inch all those years of waiting in the attic.
The Woman smiled at the sight of her long-loved bunny and placed her head next to Honey Bun’s on the pillow. She gazed into Honey Bun’s large, shiny eyes and saw her reflection gazing back at her with intense devotion. Her uneasiness lifted. What had she been thinking? Honey Bun was no toy. Honey Bun was a presence as real as all her years. There was no need to part, to find him a new home. Not yet. They had years ahead of them to share . The Woman carefully tucked Honey Bun under her chin and drifted softly into sleep. Honey Bun was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little, soft heart that it almost burst. But, eventually, Honey Bun, too, fell asleep, pink nose twitching, almost imperceptibly, in the sweetness of his dreams.
Sharing the love: Honey Bun (59yrs) and Stella the Schnauzer ( ‘hardly me’)
“It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
With sincere apologies to The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams! (Can you recognize any words I have transposed from The Velveteen Rabbit?) This post was inspired by The Velveteen Rabbit and by my mother’s love for a newly acquired teddy bear.
Beloved Betty
The teddy bear is about the size of a new-born baby. The teddy bear is named Betty and has a name tag to prove it. Betty wears a dress. But my mother habitually refers to Betty as ‘he’ and occasionally will look at Betty and remark, with surprise,”Oh, he’s wearing a dress.” Which makes me think that when it comes to love and soft toys, its love, not gender, which prevails. Although I have referred to Honey Bun as a male, in order to be avoid being annoying (linguistically) , Honey Bun has never been exclusively male.
