Growing up and growing old

They were born here on the lake last spring. Swans often don't survive that first year, foxes or mink take the young eventually. These two are about 9 months old, hiding amongst the reeds, tall and strong. 

My own chicks have been here for a few weeks. All six footers with beards and long legs, they are each in a transition state of mind. 

We look back at old home movies. The lads are building a raft, determined to float it on a lake. One rushes around gathering tools, and materials, talking non stop, broadcasting the adventures they will have. One stands at the lake edge, banging a long stick on the surface of the water, he dreams about the said adventures I suppose. The youngest sits sweetly on the half built raft, driving it as you would an imaginary car, saying...... when will the raft be ready.......while no one responds.

Twenty years later we are all together again in this stage set home. Everything moves around.  Musical beds, household contents, the remains of their lives boxed and bagged. The hall is full of chaos, empty, then full again. Larder contents diminish at an alarming rate. A lot of toast is made. 

And while I am at the shoreline lost in following half adult cygnets through the seasons, everyone around me is growing up or growing old.....and there will be even more goodbyes........sooner or later.

Her little bed of roses

In her garden it's the sweet perfume that I remember. Her little bed of roses.

She broke her back in a car accident in the 1930's and was bent over and frail. We used to laugh saying she was so wrinkled that her wrinkles had wrinkles. She was strict and made us eat things we didn't like, but always only one or two bites. Because of her I will try anything once......

Because of her I love the fading grandeur of roses, of crumpled faces and the curled up edges of smiling eyes. In a world paranoid about aging I still love the beauty of autumn leaves, vulnerable yet eye catching as any bud in spring.

The gravelly voice, would repeat her favourite rhyme, "her foot slipped, down she fell and broke her alikaboozalam" I never tired of hearing it or of gazing into that puckered up old face full of joy.




PS Updated portfolio based on the seasons here

Ages older and deeper

Every day it's the first thing I see from any window in the house. If I am having breakfast it catches my eye, twinkling in the morning light. Later I could be on the phone chatting and I am drawn suddenly to notice the lake darkening and soaking up every shard of light into it's depths. At night when I close the curtains on the day, it's moonlit shadows and reflections form an eery backdrop.

The lake has moods. It shudders and ripples or starts to solidify into a sheet of glass. The events that surround it can be both heavenly and bizarre. Baptisms, horses swimming with boys on their backs, herons swooping over and back, parties, picnics, scout camping trips, lovers trysts, forest fires.

On Autumn evenings like this one, the earth tilts and the setting sun magic descends. The lake and I commune with the sky. She is solid and still. All dressed up with absolutely no where to go. Dignified, ages older and deeper. Her dazzling beauty and golden highlights are on full display.

I am giddy and happy. Up on the roof, elbows resting on the edge, playing at being the flaxen haired lady of the lake. Sometimes I imagine my future old lady self, she is pushing the boat out, trailing her fingers in the icy water and soaking it all in for as long as she can.......

And by the way...........there's room on the boat for a few more giddy old lady pals.....




Also posted today on Vision and Verb where I will now be contributing on a regular basis. Check it out, there's a new post from a diverse group of women bloggers every day.

Windswept, freckly and fairly wrinkly

While I am standing beneath this Sycamore, besotted with its golden glow, leaves are passing away in front of my eyes. A little death is taking place as each one turns, decays and falls. Autumn and it's peaceful slowing brings the inevitable truth to mind. 

The wrinkling up of my smily eyes like a crisping leaf, curling and fraying at the edge. The retreat to creative solitude as each hour of daylight becomes more precious. The overwhelming urge to dawdle and dander on my walks. While the Sycamore is going through a gradual decline with each season, I suppose in some ways so am I.

Without any sense of panic or great turbulence the natural world is going to sleep, is letting autumn happen. All the so called imperfections of these ageing leaves, dark spots, crow's feet, crumples, puckers, creases and fraying at the corners, once caught in the eye of my lens, are surprisingly beautiful!

I'm not there yet, still only dabbling, but when the time comes the best possible decline would have to be a similar windswept, freckly and fairly wrinkly one.  I doubt that this will never be written on the back of a jar of moisturiser............ 




This time last year I wrote a similar post called "To whom are we beautiful" inspired by the lines of David Ignatow