Small things...

... for Knots in the String.

Yesterday, I watched a mob of ewes and lambs grazing in 21 degree sunshine (so crazy when it was only 6 degrees on Monday). White as white, soft as thistledown babies cavorting. The ewes unconcerned, pulling at sweet spring grass – that tearing noise that has a syncopated rhythm all its own.

A pair of lambs at the bottom of the south hill seemed to be on a mission – they were curious, gentle, sniffing a plover on a nest. The bird didn’t move and the three stared at each other, some message passing between them, mother to babies perhaps? The lambs’ little pink noses moved closer and then they turned and walked away. Curiosity satisfied? What were the thoughts that drifted between bird and lambs?

Too difficult to answer but for me, the sight was one filled with joy. Just a small thing. Life is filled with miniscule things, isn’t it? Small things of great beauty. A baby’s laugh gurgling up from a fat little stomach, in seconds becoming delightful, uncontrolled hysteria, always a robust sound. A Scarlet Robin, his chest as red as a cardinal’s robe, entering my garden. That slash of carmine. Such a thrill because none have visited before.

Word seems to be spreading that I’m offering bird food. Green Rosella parrots have come. They have a call – ‘Hallo, we’re here. We’re hungry.’ And they flutter up into the Japanese maples whilst I fill the terracotta dish and the rusty hanging feeder. Tiny fantails, flit-flirting here and there, some wrens, even blackbirds and of course the ubiquitous sparrows. They’re welcome. Small birds that sing in the garden, mostly in the day but some at night…

There are other petite things as well. Our coastal home. Small rooms, bitty steps between each room, a pocket-sized kitchen, not at all pretentious. There’s something special in diminutive.

Like feathers I find in the bush, or on the beach. A miniature Ship of Fools by artist, Margaret Vandenburg from Bruny Island. Bars of sunshine striped across the old wardrobe. The fragrance of the last of the freesias.

Like the Terrier whose eyesight and hearing is rapidly worsening. He’s enjoying life – running along the beaches he knows, finding the occasional shell, happy to ‘see’ me when I come back from an absence that may have been only five minutes. I hug him because I love him and he loves me.

An even smaller thing – I embroider the legs on the metal threadwork heron. I try three different methods, the one in the instructions, unpicked. Then a whipped chain stitch. Also unpicked. Finally, I choose a simple stem stitch, wrap it in bands of yellow and there it is, the thin legs of the heron just the way I want.

It is cataloguing these little things in the library shelves of my mind to pull out when I need them most that contributed to making my surgical time bearable. That and my family and a small handful of pretty good friends.

Doing:

Reading:

In print, I’m reading Charles III – New King, New Court by Robert Hardman. I’ve mentioned it before. It’s a journey from the passing of Queen Elizabeth to the establishment of the new court of the King. A fascinating examination of an historic time – how Operation London Bridge and Operation Golden Orb were carried out with such precision. Examined through the prism of the Queen’s own accession.

On Kindle, The President’s Hat by Antoine Laurain as he follows Mitterand’s misplaced hat through unique characters’ lives. Fabulous premise and each character so different!

On audio, Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell. Brilliant narrative, beautifully read by Daisy Donovan. The book is currently holding equal place, along with Giles Kristian’s Arthur, as my book of the year.

The final words – ‘Remember me…’ are like a punch to my solar plexus. I am driving and I slump back in my seat and whispered, ‘Oh…’. I gaze ahead. The road curves along the riverside, the rocks of Paradise above me, but in my head, I am in Shakespeare’s theatre as his troupe finish performing the tragedy, Hamlet. In the silent, magicked crowd is Agnes, whom we may know as Anne, watching her husband’s play for the first time. Who she sees on the stage is the boy, Hamnet. Ah, but I shall leave you to read the novel. Perfection.

I’ve danced this week – baby steps. I’m rationed with movement after the n-Stride shot into the knee joint. One must rest lightly for 2 weeks after. Perhaps I’m a masochist after winter’s physical woes or perhaps it is that I just want to move after being a patient for so long. And move and move…

I’ve gardened lightly. Spring is like a pied piper calling plants to bloom. It will be a swift spring. A month early and with warmth, cold and tearing winds that rip things from the soil and aim to push us into summer before we’re ready. But even so, we have small pockets of calm.

Small things are the things we can be mindful of, so that we can weave them into a safety net for the days that might not be as good as we hoped. Small pleasures where we sit on a director’s chair on the porch and feel a mellow warmth on bare arms, sipping a cup of tea and eating a piece of shortbread. In a big world, with large events transpiring beyond our fringe, these small things keep us grounded. As Kate said to me in her comment on another post: ‘Be where your feet are…’

Music for this week?