I ❤️ You

I feel this week's blog concerning love should be about the attachments that enrich life and give it meaning, so let me start off with a portmanteau quote: 

"There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved. To love is nothing. To be loved is something. But to love and be loved is the greatest joy of all."

Discuss (as it would then say, if it were an exam question), though there are not necessarily any right or wrong answers, and nobody would ever get 100%.

So who (or what) do you love? We can treat this like a brain-storming session, if you'd prefer. Don't be shy. Here's a sort of alphabetical trawl...

Family. Yes, that's a good enough place to start. Parents, siblings and children are definitely on my list. My parents are no longer of this world. I was going to add 'sadly', but they'd both be well over 100 years old now, so probably wouldn't want to be around anymore. But I loved them while they were here and I miss them. I love my brothers, though they live in disparate parts of the country and we don't see each other as often as I'd like. And I love my daughters, definitely part of the greatest joy of all. In fact I'm visiting them and a grandchild down in London this week-end.

Inamorato/a. I use the old Latin term for a romantic pairing. Be that boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife (maybe they should be in the 'family' grouping), partner, master or mistress, these loves are probably the most exhilarating, intense and often unsettling attachments we make.

Pets. Yes, why not? I have loved cats and I'm sure been loved back. For some people its dogs or horses, ferrets, monkeys or mongooses, birds, fish, snakes. I think the love has to be individual for animals though, not a generic warm glow for a species.

Places: Some of us imprint on a specific location that we think of as our 'happy place', perhaps somewhere associated with joyous memories from an original visit and somewhere we love going back to time and again.. The merchandisers have caught on to this emotion with their "I ❤ [insert location here]" T-shirts, fridge magnets and other paraphernalia. 

Religious: I suppose love of a God (or Goddess) is a valid affection. My own parents effectively dedicated their lives to a religious cause, and many priests, priestesses, monks and nuns and deeply religious individuals down the ages have made that affiliation a cornerstone of their lives.

Teams: This may be closely linked to places, in that sports teams tend to be location specific, and maybe it's a deep-seated, almost tribal need that many of us feel to belong to some sporting enterprise like a football club, to share in moments of communal passion, both delight and despair, as the fortunes of a team fluctuate. Indeed, some of us give of our time freely for the cause.  

Things: I think we're getting into dubious territory now. Clearly, many people derive great pleasure from material objects, collections of objects (vintage cars, stamps, shoes, works of art) but I'm uncertain to what extent such attachments can be described as love. Does it debase the concept to talk about loving one's possessions, loving one's food, loving one's bed, one's car. one's job? I'd be interested in your thoughts about this.

Universal: To quote Bob Dylan: "Love is all there is, it makes the world go round." It sounds simplistic but maybe it's the most profound lyric he ever wrote. We've come full circle and I refer you back to the quote with which I started this piece. 

Here's a new poem (subject to the usual qualifications about it being a work-in-progress):

Nothing Says I Love You Like...

that time when you said you felt numb,

worthless, couldn't see any point to life,

that no one would miss you if you were

gone...

so I cradled you all night, talked to you

till you fell asleep, by starlight watched

you frail but beautiful, the ache become

mine...

and only moved as sunrise flamed your

room, your hair. With care I placed you

in the discovery position, saw your eyes

open...

and we smiled without a need for words. 

As a musical bonus, the Blue Aeroplanes suggest there are actually 25 Kinds Of Love - and fittingly this performance was recorded on Valentine's Day in 2010. Enjoy.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Sacred - Auntie's Lord Jesus

A plaster figurine of Our Lord Jesus stood on my auntie’s bedside table for as far back as I can remember. As a child, he fascinated me. I could look, but not touch. He was very special. He was a sacred gift to my aunt and uncle on their wedding day in 1946 from the Catholic priest who married them, I was told.

When she passed away, widowed and childless, my sister and I were next of kin and I became the keeper of her treasured possessions, including her religious bits and pieces.  Our family was an equal mix of Protestant and Catholic. I still hang on to the Christian faith of all camps I grew up with, but Auntie’s artefacts were not for display. I can’t remember what happened, but I know I was very upset and distressed when ‘Jesus’ became damaged and decapitated. The least I could do for my late aunt was to care for the things that were special to her and I failed. This was as bad as my failing to appreciate that she needed help and care herself and wasn’t just a selfish, cantankerous woman. Life’s hard bits really hurt.

The Jesus figurine ended up at the top of my wardrobe for twenty years until I brought it out today. I wanted a photograph for this blog and I intended to mend it, or rather ask my husband, who has some proper glue for such a job, to mend it. I would then put it with the other items I have of Auntie’s. I feel reluctant to part with these things yet feel burdened with by keeping them.

‘Jesus’ was there where I put him, at the back of the top shelf of my fitted wardrobe, wrapped in a towel and a piece of my aunt’s unfinished knitting before being zipped up safely in a holdall. I lifted him out of the bag, unwrapped the coverings and was surprised to find him intact. I have no recollection of any of us repairing the figurine. And no, there’s absolutely no chance of spiritual intervention, if such a thing exists to mend broken ornaments. There is a faint line of shiny adhesive visible and because it is made of plaster, the break crumbled and left chipped edges. To be fair, it looks alright. It’s just me feeling I’ve let my aunt down by spoiling something that was sacred to her. In her rightful mind, I know she would forgive me.

If anything is sacred to me at the moment, it’s my lovely geum plant in the garden, called Totally Tangerine and doing very well. It must be an omen. The colour of the flowers are more orangey than the photo. 

  

  

My choice of poem doesn’t match the theme of ‘Sacred’ but I’d like to share a favourite of mine from Maya Angelou,

  

 Still I Rise

 You may write me down in history

 With your bitter, twisted lies,

 You may trod me in the very dirt

 But still, like dust, I'll rise.

 Does my sassiness upset you?

 Why are you beset with gloom?

 ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

 Pumping in my living room.

 Just like moons and like suns,

 With the certainty of tides,

 Just like hopes springing high,

 Still I'll rise.

 Did you want to see me broken?

 Bowed head and lowered eyes?

 Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

 Weakened by my soulful cries?

 Does my haughtiness offend you?

 Don't you take it awful hard

 ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

 Diggin’ in my own backyard.

 You may shoot me with your words,

 You may cut me with your eyes,

 You may kill me with your hatefulness,

 But still, like air, I’ll rise.

 Does my sexiness upset you?

 Does it come as a surprise

 That I dance like I've got diamonds

 At the meeting of my thighs?

 Out of the huts of history’s shame

 I rise

 Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

 I rise

 I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

 Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

 Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

 I rise

 Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

 I rise

 Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

 I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

 I rise

 I rise

 I rise. 

              Maya Angelou (1928-2014)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Candles - Remembrance

Strolling around Dublin’s Temple Bar district with friends, I found myself thinking of my late Uncle Bill, a lovely Irishman and one of the pub landlords in my family. We were buddies for the whole eight years we had each other. He loved to take baby me out in my pram. When I was old enough he took me to the swings and my aunt would come along, too. Most Sunday afternoons our whole family would be together. Pubs closed on Sundays between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days and at that time we still lived fairly close to each other. I was always a Daddy’s girl, but Uncle Bill was another good playmate and had a wealth of stories to tell me. With no children of their own, my uncle and aunt doted on me and we were all thrilled with the arrival of my new baby sister. Uncle Bill died suddenly on 16^th March, 1964. His rich singing voice would not be heard on St Patrick’s Day, or ever again. He is buried in his native Cork.

I was in Dublin, my first visit to Ireland, but it won’t be my last, it’s on my ‘to do’ list to go back and see more, including Cork, but it was too far away on that short break. With my head full of childhood memories of Uncle Bill, I excused myself from my company while I nipped into nearby St Teresa’s Church to light him a candle. Feeling spiritual rather than religious, I watched the flame become established, pointing heavenward, unfaltering in the still air like others around it, a tiny light expressing strength and power, a symbol of remembrance and love. I spent a few moments reflection before returning to my friends.

Sometime in my not-too-distant future I will return to Ireland and visit as much of the Emerald Isle as I can. I hope to visit Uncle Bill’s burial place. I will light a candle for him in Cork.

 

I found this poem,

 

 

Candle in the Window

 

There’s a candle in the window,

Shining with a loving light.

It’s been sitting there for years now,

It really is a lovely sight.

 

A tiny candle in the window

Burning with a light so rare,

Where the cold wind doesn’t blow,

A loving sign that someone cares.

 

A tiny flame that burns inside

The window of that tiny shack,

Like the flame that in the heart resides,

Wishing someone would come back.

 

It will burn ‘til two soul mates

Are reunited once again,

And overcome the cruel hand of fate,

And joy replaces all the pain.

 

Juan Olivarez

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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