Bouquets

Two cellophane-wrapped bouquets of roses have been attached to the railing at the end of the Perygyl. I saw them there this morning. They are understated, just a few long stem roses. I couldn’t tell if they were white or yellow in the dark. Was it for the fisherman who’d drowned in Cardigan Bay last year? Or for his friend who took his life a couple of years back? I think there was another aged man who did the same. Someone is remembering them. That’s a warm thing.

There was a page torn from a girl’s magazine lying on the little bench on the wee hill that takes you down onto Llanbadarn Road. It was a pin-up of a pretty boy face’s with the word ‘wanted’ above it. Perhaps ‘wanted’ is a boy band.

I keep meaning to quote Richard Sennett. I’ve been re-discovering his book, The Craftsman. He’s a true polymath. And it takes some concentration to read it well. I dip in and out between work commitments. The chapter about the hand is captivating and so relevant to me as I try and try to discover what I’m about with my work. ‘We might think,’ he writes (describing work), ‘of routine as mindless, that a person doing something over and over (like sewing, I’m thinking) goes missing mentally…….’ (so interesting, it is the opposite for me). ‘Doing something over and over is stimulating,’ Sennett continues, ‘when organized as looking ahead…..the emotional pay off is one’s experience of doing it again….it is rhythm.’ So good. And now I have it.

He is low. He may not go. We’ll keep the door open, I say. We both will, he replies. I need to let him do what he needs to do, no matter my disappointment and grief at the loss of a shared experience. It will just be different. He looks so sorry for himself. I need to let him be. No bullying, no cajoling. Let him be.

And me, well I want the experience. I want what life has to bring.

No prize. I haven’t been chosen. So be it.

Give me grace to accept what is.