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Postcard from now: the moon split in two

Magnolia buds

I just went into the garden, looking for an excuse to write something here. I could tell you how the sky this morning was pure blue & as I walked home from town with a coffee in one hand and the pushchair in the other, everything seemed full of possibility. Always, I’m amazed how the weather can affect me so deeply. (Caffeine too, of course.) And how, when we got to our singing class, the Pip-Pop was so sweet, so beautiful, his voice piping and clear. ‘Who has got red castanets?’ ‘I have!’

I could tell you how last night when I went to yoga, the sky was clear. The stars bright & precise. The moon split in two: half lit, half shadowed. I could tell you that when it turned out that there was no yoga, I ran back home; through the car park, past the school. Breathless, lungs filled with river-cold air. I could tell you that the garden, though full of scaffolding and mud, is also full of promise. Rose leaves unfurling. Fat magnolia buds.

Unfurling rose

And, if I told you all this, I should also tell you to go here & read this poem. I love the things that Molly remembered from it & the way she frames it so perfectly. I would also confess to you that I’m starting Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Golden Child for the second time. Because she is so cunning and quick, and I knew that I was missing out because I couldn’t keep up with her wit. (I could also tell you that I don’t like starting sentences with because but at parents’ evening last night this was listed as a ‘next step’ for T as an example of ‘varying sentence structure’.)

While I’m talking about not being able to keep up, I might also mention that I’m still following Tim Parks’s advice to read with a pencil in hand. If I hadn’t been reading The Golden Child in the bath & I had been holding my pencil, all would probably have been fine. A collection of Parks’s wonderful New York Review of Books columns is now by my bedside & they make perfect five minute bedtime reads.

And finally, I could tell you that after lunch, when the Pip-Pop says, ‘I rest now,’ and I make myself a coffee and sit on the sofa with the sun on my back, I’m holding my pencil above Jane Hirshfield’s thought-provoking and wonderful collection of essays Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry which I heard of through Calm Things. It’s an experience that is equal parts poetic and spiritual & it’s making me think, and that thinking feels new and necessary, beautiful and freeing.

So, how are things where you are?

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