A few days ago, I was reading words written by emily, a special piece of writing, evoking childhood, edgeless time, fixed by the taste of summer sweat, smooth bark and the itch of grass. The piece is about how we first meet the earth, feel the plants and the trees (what she calls the natural world). It planted a thought seed in my mind. I fell back into memories, sensations. Bare legs. Sunshine. Rain. Instant connections between the buzz of flies, the scent of pine, fingers tinging from white touched snow, and the body, inhabited. My memories of nature when I was a child are of a place that held me while I imagined stories, a nest to return to in moments of fear; hope sprung from daffodils.
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Bitter black tea with a cinnamon twist philosophizes with a crumbling butter biscuit. The beverage and the snack keep perfect company with a sullen afternoon, a greying sky. Venus is partying with the sun today, the astrologers write reams about once-in-a-lifetime while I think of the teacup handle that my grandmother held, placing my fingers on bone china that she touched. Everyday we trace a pattern in the physical world, sew a hem of particles as we move. I like used things that have their own material history, think about my body meeting the one that came before through this object, a wordless rendez-vous. This afternoon, I leave a trail of biscuit crumbs, sip and listen to the washing spin.