The House

                                                          Me on my 83rd birthday

Dear reader,

I have been thinking about fear this week, well not about fear so much as being 'fearful'.  I am reading an immensely interesting book about a young woman , aged 22, who decides to travel to India in the 1970s.   The book is called 'The Road East to India' by Deika A. Rosamund and is a diary of her adventures, (and gosh were there some) to India by train and bus.  It reflects on her personal experiences, emotions and the relationships she formed with fellow travellers and indigenous people.

Once she had earned enough money she travelled as far as Iran and then on to Afghanistan and Pakistan to India, braving many dangers on the way. Reading the book I decided she was either very brave or possibly in many instances, very naive and foolish.  Having said that I do admire her enormously and that is what I have been thinking about this week. As someone who is, and always has been, very fearful of life and its vicissitudes I simply can't imagine why she wanted to go to India by herself, a young woman travelling on her own, and then exploring villages, towns, cities when or wherever she felt like it. 

I suppose I have come to the conclusion of a well known fact, that the straw you pulled at your birth was not fair at all.  I would like to be more like Deika, fearless and brave. But in truth I am alert to every danger with the help of my chimp,  (the chimp that lives in my head). I have always found travelling anywhere, even to the nearest village, a mountain to climb, and have been astonished and envious by the things that this young woman did, and on her own.

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From John Ruskin, 1867, March 19th, in Surrey

'Desperately cold, with huge -flaked snow.  The worst of January, November, and March all in one.'

 

From Richard Hayes, 1762, March 21st, in Kent

'This day I saw a yellow butterfly.....My rooks, by the cold weather and snows, did not begin building till last Sunday (14th).

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The House

Was it the sound of Chopin
filling the street air,
escaping from a large keyhole
in the weathered front door,
or the first glimpse of pale
stone flooring and a rocking horse
in the hall corner, or was it the
Easter lilies rising tall out of
white enamel jugs, and books
everywhere, everywhere?

Was it the ancient dog
in front of a small log fire,
protected by a staunch Victorian fireguard,
or the scrubbed table and gentian-blue
hyacinths peeking out of a copper bowl,
Rockingham pottery plates
each one different,
or the sculpture of an unknown woman
young, rounded smooth,
placed lovingly on a window shelf
catching a flicker of the January sun?

Or was it the smell of beef stew,
a nursery smell dredged from childhood,
or the sight of home-grown pears
floating in sugared juice?
Or was it the feeling of safety,
warmth and love
everywhere, everywhere
that overwhelmed me?

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With very best wishes, Patricia