Who is that person? The more I know her or him the less I know them. And their mystery deepens as we love them. You couldn’t make us up, as old hacks say about facts which confound the invention of any fiction writer. Yet here we are. I told someone recently of some distressing dreams which were bothering me. He said: ‘Who is to know that our dreams are not what is real?’
Yet we live and work, create, help and, sadly, destroy, as we move in the tiny part of life’s stage which we occupy. And how we do that matters. Our actions and reactions may often be a matter of life and death.
The seasons roll round and we work in time with what we’ve got. I noticed tonight that the recently ploughed great field on the bypass is sprouting new grass and in the soft furrows, the seed spilt by the combine is throwing up new baby plants.
In our garden the crab apple tree which has deep pink blooms during the Spring is full of ripe fruit, gold spreading into red.
Using an old recipe I picked a gallon of them and added a gallon of water. In due course, with demerara sugar, raisins and yeast it might produce some wine – in a few months time.
I remembered gathering crab apples with my children in the wilds of North London, 40 years ago – and Mrs Llew’s struggles with a piece of muslin as she tried to strain their pulp to make jelly.
And I thought that love does lead to a greater knowledge – of what one does not know; while it increases one’s wonder and awe.
Meanwhile the weeds grow on the drive and knees groan and the present moment is without wonder. All being well it is there. But it is not for us to hurry after it.