Sambasue21

Easter Rituals Salamanca ,Spain

Managed to do 2 exercise classes.Bought another rain jacket to replace a brand new one .(It was in my bike carrier which  i lost a few days ago ,swerving to avoid a motorist.Lost balance and the bike keeled over.)Had lunch ,cleared the sink, put out household rubbish and removed more from the floor. .Photographed cluttered windowsill where stuff from sink is waiting for a spot Resisted the temptation to deal with the moth infestation in cupboards or walk dog . Succumbed to the urge to add to facebook.Returned 2 phone calls but no answer so couldn’t spend time chatting
Finally retrieved my computer from the drawer.

I am an expert avoider and the minute my fingers touch key board or pick up a pen all the great ideas disappear completely .Not exactly:there is a vague memory of a great idea ,but once explored as a writing piece the great idea becomes just an idle thought.The extraordinary  idea reconfigures itself into an ordinary thought loaded with problems and contradictions .I have written in my head and nothing more needs to be said .
For the last few weeks two phrases have run round and round in my head :,”I am in mourning for my life”,I think it is Masha in Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard who announces this as she enters stage The other phrase is from the South African playwright Athol Fugards Hello and Goodbye .Hester says cynically ” A lot of people get by without any future nowadays “.Maybe it is time to write them out .

I certainly don’t feel those sentiments .But I am unsure of a sadness underlying each day.Perhaps there is a questioning of what is worth doing as life moves fast .Rather like that feeling of lostness when one first discovers death as a child; the  responses to the questions about whether the pet/person will come back ,where s/he goes ,who dies and when are never entirely satisfying .Despite the fact that  the count from 4 to 60/70/80 is a long time to the 4 yr old, it is still.challenging .There is a sense of time   moving ,and the first realisation of mortality.The question after”how old are you ?”is often “will you die ?’’

But the space between the beginning and end number compresses ,and becomes thinner as the years speed by and the  count between 70 and 80 is over before its started.

Why at this stage take on anything new ,or difficult ?However time continues to move, and unappreciated ,unlived time is tedious, prickly and anxiety ridden .

The well worn counselling question-“if you were to die tomorrow and wake up to your ideal world /scenario-what would it look like ?”
And of course “What words would you like written on your tombstone?” How do you want to be remembered ?are  not very subtle attempts to shift the persons thinking from a gloomy present to a lighter future ,and then to work with him/her to start creating that very future in the present

I am thinking right now if ,after 70 years on this planet there have been moments of sadness or  dissatisfaction  with life ,then I don’t think one has a fighting chance to change or to reinvent .Might be able to tweek life around the edges ,or recreate a different present when one of the components has dissolved or disappeared .I’m thinking here of death ,loss,illness ,or war .But given our human propensity for habit and settling into routines , don’t set much store on a very different future.

All we can do is plug on ,working in our imperfect human way towards an imagined end ,keep on attempting to  accept or change or shift some of the stuff that surrounds us ,learn more , love and be loved.

Spend less time being busy and more on loving ,learning and writing .

Easter rituals end joyously

Tackling blog writing again ! Difficult on my iPhone but here goes. Maybe this should be about the 4 weeks or so in Spain,mainly about walking the Camino Mozarabe from Almeria to Cordoba? But will save that for some other blogs.This is about hasta luego, not adios. Because I will be back to a place where I feel I belong in some way.Walking those 20 or so km each day we started  in the very early morning ,walking hopefully. Then as the heat increased and paths took themselves around mountains and the flechas(arrows) disappeared ,spirits sank:yet another long long afternoon with the sun beating down as we trudged one foot in front of the other towards a destination which seemed to move further and further away.Then a glimpse of a pueblo, a few minutes of shade, a shepherd walking across the path with his goats or sheep,a sweeping vista over valleys ,down chasms we hope not to have to navigate.Worth the suffering because we are the only persons here privileged to witness this grandeur.

And now Madrid ,this huge , tall ,vibrant , proud and youthful city.

What is  there about cleaning that is inspirational?There is lots that is just hard physical work and testing of tolerance for human beings -that is if you run a short term rental.After a series of great guests ,have had a run of wingers ,frying pan destroyers and ,worst of all ,sticky fingers Sticky fingers I mean on walls ,on every surface of glass ,tables,chairs and floors .Now no more free kids,my heart is hardened -kids pay double .

So have stated some of the worse aspects of cleaning ,now for the not exactly benefits ,lets call them compensations or maybe just optimisations ,making the best of a bad job.

The following piece of writing came from cleaning a year ago. .As I  folded the corners of a resistant sheet I remembered how my mother was so strict about how we made beds(interestingly we didn’t do that very often as we had servants in the old Colonial Africa to perform such menial tasks.But if a very special guest was visiting then my mother waded in to ensure that appearances were preserved ,and the “girl” could not be relied on to do that ,so I was roped in).As I struggled with the corners of 3 queens and 2singles,my mind wandered from sheets to dust to witchcraft,then on to beauty,age and dying:

Things my Mother Taught Me
You taught me always to pull back sheets and inspect mattresses,
look for evidence of habitation
check the springs and indentations .

You told me to fold sheets at corners first,hospital style .
I had to unmake many beds because the corners were not right ,
the bedding was not tight .
I never mastered the skill,till now
making tidy corners for paying guests .

Ran your fingers over shelves to check for dust ,first thing
as you came into a room in your finery
dressed for entertaining
smiling .

No one knew we had a witches in our family :
Tante Ena ,who wove enchantments with her pubic hair
We looked carefully at the liquid in our cups to make sure it was safe to drink
that there was no single floating pubic hair.
As a child I wondered if thats why we were checking mattresses too ,
just in case another Aunty had been there ,
leaving some voodoo magic buried in the room.

I met her later, that aunt ,very ill and carefully groomed
living with the man she’d stolen away .
I knew then that witches do not always look like witches .

Tante Ena didn’t look like Grandmere Maure ,the old wizened woman
crouched over her cards in a gloomy ,overgrown verandah
dark as the ace of spades, my father used to say
(He said a lot more about that side of the family)
Why did they take me there,to that crazy woman in the dark ?

My first cousin ,the beautiful one ,a great grandchild of the ugly witch
was a witch too,but a doomed witch.
Her beauty killed her in the end
she enchanted her way to money and ease
and died by her own hand .

Oh Tessa in the London apartment over looking Kensington Park
sitting on a stool in front of your mirror
preparing to go out
applying make up to your perfect skin, green eyes smiling at me in the glass
kind to an admiring ill dressed cousin
watching with stars in her eyes ,
so pleased to meet the errant one .

She was named after you ,mum,your godchild.
Theres the connection :two beautiful women a generation apart
one died young
the other has become old and sad
and witches ,scattered throughout the years ,
are still around
I know .

Moving  Objects

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When we sleep at night then the house moves
When we close eyes and dream or weep ,depending on our frame of mind .
A blink of an eye they say and things can change
Hurricanes happen ,the earth opens ,wind hurls itself at trees and sea eats up the shore
A blink of an eye and babes are born ,people die or change
A short sleep may be a dangerous thing .

When you awake things are not what they were
You cant find your favourite fork ,a much loved chair
A carpet gone from where it always was ,beneath your bed
Has it really happened ,or is it your head ?
Things have changed

When we take our eyes of things they move away
When we close our eyes and dream or weep ,depending on our frame of mind ,
They leave .

When you awake you are perplexed to find
There is no box of keepsakes beside your bed ,no potions there
No messages left to help you cope
Gone or taken ?Perhaps you’re blind :
They’re really there

You’ll never know