Gratitude...
... for Knots in the String.
It’s been quite an emotive week filled with history in the making which (as someone who has read history, studied it and has a degree in it) filled my heart. Minutiae that date back to before Henry Tudor. Historic legacy that for people like me sends shivers down my spine.
Or perhaps you’ve watched the media coverage from the UK and felt the hairs on your arms rise as the Lone Pipers played the laments in Westminster Abbey and St. George’s Chapel, the syncopated crunch of boots on tarmac, or the powerful absence of sound as hundreds of thousands of people stayed respectfully quiet for a two-minute silence.
My existence seems quiet and mundane and after watching the Royal Family and the demands of their positions, never have I been more grateful.
I realise that I can vanish to the sea and coast at any time, if I want to flee from life.
Watch the tide pulse in to cleanse the shore of detritus, to then withdrew leaving pristine sand behind.
Or I can hang over the farmyard fences listening to contralto ewes calling their high-pitched infant woolies to their sides. I can pull on the gumboots and garden gloves and grub in the muddy dirt, watching my spring borders unfurl. Or even pull fresh veg and herbs.
I can spend time watching the birds in our garden – during the day, my favourite grey fantails who are making their presence felt. The silver eyes, the magpies that are cheeky and watch us, almost as if they want to make a connection (if only the terrier would let them). The kookaburras and rosella parrots. At night, the tawny mouths, mopokes and even a barn owl.
I can walk the terrier. He’s age-ing, becoming more linked to me – his night-sight is not as strong and he’s been unwell this year. I think he’s realising that perhaps he’s not as macho as he thought and that his mum is his lifeline.
My point is, I’m thankful I can escape in any way I like whenever I like.
At this point, the Royal Family aren’t quite so lucky as the Carolean Era begins to find its feet and establish its place in history and, let it be said, in a world that is undeniably unstable.
My Time:
Ballet class. I get repetitive, don’t I, about this special day every week? My balance is more off than normal because I’m tired, but as long as I can manoeuvre around the occasional difficulty by flattening an occasional derrière foot position then all is okay. We’re learning choreography to the music from Amelie currently.
We’re 14 seniors (up to 71 years of age) and giving classical ballet our best shot and we’re in company with the Queen Consort, it appears. Actually, I have more in common with the Queen Consort than I realised. Like Camilla, I have a Jack Russell terrier and I also have a mild version of what’s called Essential Tremor which she also suffers. Which Katharine Hepburn also had, so I’m in esteemed company.
And no it doesn’t worry me and no, it’s not Parkinson’s related and yes, it is genetic.
Writing:
A chapter (The Mapmaker’s Scroll) just flowed this week. Go figure! I think one of the things is that I’ve set no date for release of this latest book. It’ll happen when it happens. Life’s too short to stress about it.
Watching:
Spooks. Crikey! It’s so good! We have two more series to go.
News coverage from the UK. The live streaming of the late Queen’s funeral by the Beeb (BBC) was superlative. Discreet, perfectly produced, little to no commentary, beautiful cuts and dissolves. The Seven Network’s (Australia) news coverage from the UK proved to be highly professional until they introduced the Morning Crew and dumbed it right down. Ye Gods!
Reading:
The Offing by Benjamin Myers. As mentioned last week, this is such a wonderful book – an intimate journey through hedgerow, field and rocky coast of Yorkshire as Robert grows from immature and callow youth to a man finding his intellect and his place in a post-WWII world. This is rapidly heading toward my personal Book of the Year.
Rose Cottage by Mary Stewart. Her writing hasn’t dated at all. She is a wonderful storyteller – and what would fiction be without writers of her calibre who entertain without stripping your emotions to a bloody core? Sometimes I despair of contemporary writers and editors who drag their readers’ emotions backward through a barbed wire fence!
Substack:
My favourite for this week: David Michie
 for his perfectly expressed Buddhist view of grief, the Bardo state, gratitude and Her Late Majesty.
The Buddhist way can be used for any sort of grief one might be feeling. It’s enlightening and freeing.
Listening:
My own Spotify List. So, eclectic it’s embarrassing. Ranging from Highland Cathedral by the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards to Dream a Little Dream of Me by Mama Cass to Cinderella Suite Number One Op 10 by Prokofiev, and a hundred various classic, jazz, country and contemporary tracks in between.
So yes, I have such gratitude for the freedom to exist and enjoy life this week of all weeks. We need to be grateful periodically, don’t we? Count our blessings? It’s great to be ordinary sometimes.
Talk next week?
Cheers.