So let us pretend the last post never happened; I put it back in Drafts. I'm thinking it was a bit raw. Perhaps in want of more time under the old broiler, so to speak. Janet Malcolm, in her controversial book The Silent Woman: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes wrote, "Poets and novelists and playwrights make themselves, against terrible resistances, give over what the rest of us keep safely locked in our hearts." It wasn't such a fight - it simply spilled over. The angst of not knowing how to draw my own lines spilled over. Now we are moving on.
Nearing the end of our sixth week living at my parents, I have to say, it's not all fun and games, not all coming up roses, not ...whatever. Many people have said, glancing at me under their eyebrows, "So how is it living at your parents??" Blinking and smiling, always blinking, innocently. And smiling.
There have been a few tense moments. But in all honesty I have discovered so many treasures along the way, like a kid with shells on a seaside vacation. And I thought I would mention a few.
Old books that I poured over as a girl, dog-eared and loved into softness. I flip a few pages, read a line or two, and the words sing in my heart. Mistress Pat by L.M. Montgomery - I noticed it leaning inconspicuously against a rather serious brown commentary at the bottom of a bookshelf. It smells like my youth, eyes wide, sensing all the emotions in the universe through the pen of one writer or another.
Sweet Little Kids that belong to brothers and sisters of mine, cupping my chin with their chubby warm hands and saying, "Auntie Pam, Auntie Pam!..." with earnest, heart-melting brown eyes. How can I resist? I enjoyed hearing their bare feet patter over the floor, knowing they were searching for food, or Grandma, or food....or Grandma who must have treats somewhere...or marshmallows...
Or perhaps a little respite in the bathroom, just, and Auntie Pam, you wait out there, and I will call you (exactly three seconds later, "AUNTIE PAMMMM!!!"). Ah, such sweetness. Even at ungodly hours of the morning (such as 8 or 9am), so wonderfully adorable. I gush.
Lovely Vistas of green rolling fields, and the smell of farm and bales of hay, and clover honey-wafting over the fence. The gathering storm seen from the windows. Early morning pink-lavender skies and late summer evening orange-magenta sunsets. Peas from the garden. The thunder of hoof beats across the ground as the horses run for no reason other than they taste freedom on the wind.
The insanely raucous hee-haw of Brownie the miniature donkey...at three in the morning, braying as if he was the first animal created....whoops, I'm puncturing the dreamy atmosphere completely. As did he.
Back to the lovely vistas...
Evening Chats over tea in beautiful mugs. Tired and thoughtful, mulling over the day and the days to come. Conversation and company.
All treasures, and treasured. Of course I could go on. There was a mysterious supply of DQ ice cream treats that seemed to appear and disappear like mists on the moors. Nothing left but smacking lips and wooden sticks. Quad rides. Walks along the road. Swinging. So, when people ask me with that gleam in their eye, "How is it living with your parents?" with their Mister Bean smiles; tea, beauty and memories are all I have to say. And Thank-you, to the most wonderful parents. I love you. Please shoot that donkey. No, it's ok. I'll do it.
