A Moving Experience.....
Let this be a letter to you.
Nothing is what it seems. Nothing really matters. Our mothers give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more, (Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot).....
But every silver lining has a cloud. We may be brief candles, and our creeps may be crepuscular, but there are gleams....
Life's a beach, and then one buries one.....
To the point. We have moved, and there is no going back, as the bard did say, O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.
For the record, in a shutnell, the move went as well as could be wished. Days of preparation and packing culminated in a final trauma of finding that the guys who removed the washing machine at the last minute had kicked a joint on the central heating piping causing soaked carpet and a potential flood.... But we had to go, and then we had to arrive, and we were here, with an avalanche of boxes in every room, and no where to put things.
Of a sudden, apart from everything else, I realised how trammelled we are, how materialist and cluttered our (my?) life has become. I have possessions that possess me; possessions from my grandparents, from my parents, from my children, from my past and from my present. Such a mountain of ultimate uselessness that I cling to, as if it defines me, as if it matters.
A goose flies over my head. No baggage. Just living.
More geese honk past.
Not one of them with so much as a handbag. Not one clutching a phone or a water bottle.... Naked as nature intended....
And flying on from day to day, heedless of the perils of tomorrow, unfettered by the imagination of the past. It may not be a 'better' life, but what does that mean? We live; we die; we come; we go. What makes me more or less than a silly goose?
We are lucky if we have homes. However grand....
We are fortunate if we can afford luxuries - however small......
And there is always someone worse off.
At the time of the Bosnian war I lived in Rome, and sometimes we thought we could hear the conflict. When things were difficult for us, I used to tell myself that things could be worse: we could be in Bosnia.
As things are, Amanda has struggled with our move. She still just wants to go 'home' and she has yet to settle into a routine. We have had doctors and paramedics involved, and are now being advised by Chatterton House, but, I hope, she will adapt, and life will go on.
And despite all that, I dedicate this piece to two of my dear friends who have recently come up against the big C. Forza amici! Un abbraccio forte forte.....
There is always someone worse off....
I wish we could all be together. Some whirling big dance in a natural space. Some laughter, some wine (some beer, perhaps?) Nothing viral. Just clean air and smiling faces.
It cannot all be bad.
As I said,
Let this be a letter to you. To you, my friends.
We are OK.
I hope you are too.
With love from
We are all born mad. Some remain so.
Waiting for Godot (1955)