Thursday, 25 March 2010
The tree of forgiveness and the thing with feathers...
Thank you for all your comments on the previous post, which were so kind and inspiring and reassuring, and just what I needed. In response to some of these comments (in no particular order): I'm afraid I won't be able to stay on in Cornwall for the film club (I have to get back to London for the start of my son's GCSEs), but I will be talking about Coco Chanel at the Du Maurier festival, and would be happy to say hello to anyone then, and answer any questions about the film and its relationship with the truth of Chanel's early life (not that truth is ever immutable, for a woman who reinvented her past).
I have gone in search of James Leigh Milne, inspired by treeofforgiveness. I've also been prompted to read about The Tree of Forgiveness, the painting by Edward Coley Burne-Jones.
What else? My dishwasher has been fixed, hurrah, although when it was pulled out from the wall, a sinister and persistent leak was revealed, which has just been mended (I hope) by a cheerful plumber called Barry. Meanwhile, the oven has started rattling and coughing, which sounds ominous. It's as if the kitchen is complaining after a long winter...
The ladybirds are still flying in, crashing and dying on the windowsill of my study. There is a soft rain falling, and a blackbird singing in the garden, but no sign of the fox today. A squirrel has been eating the buds on the magnolia tree, so I threw a tennis ball at it, which missed; it simply stared at me disdainfully, and carried on nibbling. Daffodils and primroses are blooming in the borders, despite the diggings and scratchings of neighbourhood cats. My elderly cat is back indoors, escaping from the drizzle into the warmest spot on the sofa.
I've been reading Emily Dickinson; good for the sharp days of spring:
"Hope" is the thing with feathers --
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --
And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --
I've heard it on the chillest land --
And in the strangest Sea --
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.