Small...

... for Knots in the String.

A small feather wafted into my sightline as I walked the dog on the beach. The phrase feather soft came to mind as I watched it flutter and glide on an unbreeze (for trust me, there was no breeze at all). Images of eiderdowns, deep pillows, thick mattresses and a sweet, long sleep drifted into my mind. I looked up to try and find a bird flying over but there was nothing in the faded chambray sky that might have shed it.

So I imagined it was a message of some sort. A sign. Of what I’ve yet to decipher. In any case, it fluttered and floated and then settled into the depression made by someone’s footprint in the sand. I picked it up and brushed it against my cheek and then carried the feather all the way home because it was just one of those otherworldly things that takes one out of one’s self on a freezing day.

We have had our first week of frosts. Only small ones but crisp, cutting the air like shards of ice. I’ve been swimming, but I need to gee myself up when the sky pales to white, the day is grim and the water temp is 15 degrees celsius and sliding.

I stayed in the water too long last Friday because it was a blue day and whilst everything covered in neoprene was fine, my bare legs were chilled to the bone. Ah, I do so hate wearing a full wetsuit but it’s coming to that swiftly so small swims are the order of the day.

My small dog lies stretched in the sun that pools in carpeted oblongs in the small sunroom. Small Dog, aka the Thug, was unimpressed with his first frosty morning. Sat on the doormat holding his pee fit to burst and trembling with it. But eventually his needs won out, and he tiptoed over the grass, did what was required and shot back to the door like a hairy devil possessed.

He’s becoming such a good boy. He’s learning recall with some skill, he is refining ‘the mat sit’, he walks on a loose lead when there’s no wallaby and rabbit poo. He greets everyone he meets (canine or otherwise) with joy (there’s a need for more etiquette here – one-on-one appointment with our dog trainer) and he now seeks cuddles from us often. He has finally adopted us, and we (more correctly, I) have finally let him in.

He plays soccer (aka football - real football) with the skill of Beckham (if not quite the elegance). On a city nightwalk, the coach of Hobart FC offered him a position as he took off after one of the balls that had rolled off the field in a training session! And he’s becoming quite the gardening assistant too. I suspect Monty Don would allow this small chap into the Dog Garden at Chelsea because of his horticultural bent. He’s not a wanton digger – only when we dig. The difference is only known to his wise little mind. And at the end of the day, he loves lying on our bed - wanton and relaxed!

It is the little things that have the most meaning. Ballet class without the gluteal tears making themselves so pervasive. The frantic beat of a curly tail when I return to the cottage after being away from the pup for a day and a night. My husband helping me cart bags from the car. Finding that my husband has turned the heater on in the bedroom. Hearing the waves as we walk in the dark. The sound of an owl in the garden. A plant catalogue in the mail. A memory. A few stitches of embroidery. And written words – small paragraphs that eventually lead to whole chapters.

Yesterday, we went on a small picnic. In the scheme of things, a picnic is probably not everyone’s idea of amusement, but we find little things that thrill us.

We like the backroads, frosted cobwebs on a fence, a tumbled old house with a history, low golden light casting long shadows against convict-hewn stone walls. A black swan – Odile? Perhaps, because I’ve been writing about Odette and Odile all this week. In any case, small images flick by and make our day special. Picnics in the chill outdoors have a Michelin flavour, warm clothes swaddle us in hugs. It’s enough.

I create my own small philosophy – ‘Live big in a small way…’ My husband and I have no ambition to keep up with the Joneses, to fly high. We’re content with our oh-so-small life. Perhaps when all’s said and done, we’re hobbits…

Music? This was my song while I was at university. The movie itself had a small but engaging continental plot. Atmosphere and emotions were built up with clever snapshots … so very French. The melody of the movie theme was itself wonderfully minimalist. So it truly fits a ‘small’ brief.

PS: Anyone who has been following for some time will know this was a watershed health week in our family. Can I just say Status quo? You’ll know what I mean. ‘Nuff said.