Sun woke me, a vast ball of coral-pink, trailed by warm circlets of gold, rolling the world into spectacular morning light. Buttery light drips off trees, leaving a softness to the green leaves. The sky, viewed in geometrically-precise shapes between roofs, has the perfection and consistency of a small child’s palette. Slanting reddish-gold shadows peel bark from trees in perfect dark spirals.
The smoothness of the lawn – cut, by me, yesterday – brings contentment and delight, as does the welcome sight of tiny seeds showing their mysterious heads in my furthest pot. I cannot, you see, remember exactly what I planted! Deliberately, this was done, for the excitement, the surprise, the wish to blend and experiment and play, like a child, in the metaphorical sandpit of colour and texture.
Then my mind wanders. Minds do. Notorious for it, I would say. Perennial travellers, never content to remain on the familiar continent of known mental and emotional countries; always jetting off by synapses’ planes to explore the new, the previously unseen.
Past posts, read early, bring remembered horror back – but a weak echo, if you like, and the knowledge of the distance I have travelled since those dark days. Should I have written of such matters, knowing that a tiny slice of my life’s emotional pie was convinced that I was lying, or delusional?
Yes! Yes, I should! I deal in truth. I may lack the filter of appropriate, to some, ducking, diving and weaving. But, for all that some details cannot be divulged, lying does not come naturally to me.
I have a phone. A landline not now shared with the wool shop, as I once erroneously called it. But I rarely use it. I dislike talking on the phone, except with two or three very specific friends/exceptions. I am uneasy, clumsy and faltering. My fluency comes from the written word, always has. I clam up when I cannot see the person, when the dominance of another’s emotions and superior ability to articulate forces my tongue into virtual silence. We are guided so accurately – in most cases – by a person’s body-language, facial expressions in particular, that this sensual blindness is, for me, a real stumbling block when it comes to telephonic communication.
But, having said this, I do keep in touch with those I love – by email and text mostly, and by suggesting meetings, or responding positively to invitations.
My mind has returned, suitcase labelled with the countries it visited, passport stamped with colourful symbols. As always, it wonders what inspired it to visit the far-flung land of Telephone, or ponder the lost landscape of Autumn 2016.
But at this moment, it gives precedence to the senses. The orchestra of light, now fully tuned up, pours a symphony of pale gold notes into the Living Room, variations and cadenzas delighting the audience, the Baroque Sun melody leaping off the stave in a flurry of deepening rays.
Clipped sideburns of grass cling to the garden’s skull. All is stilled potential, a day barely begun.
Sun woke me – and that molten sphere, light filtered, or so it seemed, through fine pink glass, has energised me for the day ahead, given colour to my mood and, with the bright ribbons now sewn upon my dress, opened the well of creativity once more that I may drink.