Introspection
The Guest House by Rumi
On March 7, 2023 by Speranza
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
British Stuff . Darkness . Fear
Keep Calm and Carry On
On March 5, 2022 by Speranza
This once timely slogan has been relentlessly cheapened and generally relegated to the same tired category as “TGIF!;” but in the early morning light this week as I opened my own personal ‘Pandora’s Box’ (aka my laptop) I have new found respect for these words.
Being A Mum . Cooking . Frasier and Niles . Getting Older . Retirement
As Time Goes By
On October 23, 2021 by Speranza
Strange, isn’t it, that you can do something for years and then suddenly, for some reason it’s no longer relevant, no longer a part of your everyday life or no longer palatable and it stops. You no longer drive someone every Wednesday for choir or basketball for example or a tutor becomes redundant and then the entire experience floats away and quietly gets tucked in with the other bits of irrelevant mind jetsam.
And what of The Other Parents who were co-existing with me at this time in this weirdly middle class, parallel universe? Where are they now after sharing this peculiar bond? Why should I even care? But I sat beside them, making awkward small talk, warming my hands around a Tim Horton’s coffee I no longer wanted to drink, too self conscious (was this rude?) to read the book I had brought with me. We sat huddled together like this on rigid chairs that pinched my legs for years, watching our children tumble onto a mat (Aikido) all of us learning to count in Japanese as the Sensei shouted in loud piercing syllables: Ichi! San! Shi!
Then a rapid scurry for coats and shoes, the polite veneer of interest in one another falling quickly away and an obligatory: See you next week shouted over one shoulder.
Nostalgia
Reel-to-Reel
On August 6, 2021 by Speranza
I’m sure that there is a name for that strange component of our brains that maintains a special vault for certain feelings or thoughts and then trundles them forward for examination sometimes quite unexpectedly. I most often experience this via my sense of smell: one minute I could be hurtling along, making a grocery list in my head – broccoli, yogurt, tinned tomatoes – and the next minute, the sweet smell of clover, a distinctive floral note I always associate with British summer is carried to me on the breeze and suddenly I’m sixteen, lying in the long grasses slow kissing a boy with eyes the colour of river pebbles. And yes, my stomach flips over a little bit just for a second or two then it’s gone.
Getting Older . Love . Poetry
Listening to our Elders
On April 26, 2021 by Speranza
Perhaps like myself you are consumed with dread much of the time these days but just for a moment, let us not think about The Pandemic.
The General and I distracted ourselves over hot cross buns and marmalade the other day by listening to Sir Anthony Hopkins on the radio and he was full of amusing banter and stories from years ago (hanging out with Peter O’Toole and Olivier, that type of thing) but what I really appreciate, always, is when a wise, older person (or anyone, really) makes themselves completely vulnerable and sincerely speaks from the heart. (He notes how easily he cries for example and how “the past is very present” with him these days).
Rather refreshing to hear in a judging, Instagram world.