I continue to rifle through my sketchbooks. It’s funny how I remember places far more through the drawings I make in them. Or perhaps not so funny. I have to concentrate and the people I draw in them somehow seem to incapsulate them. Like the girl in the coffee shop in Shrewsbury, that Friday morning while I whiled away time waiting to meet an old friend of my parents. She was in there with her mother, I presume. She looked surly – her peroxided curls held tight under a wooly hat that she never removed. Her mother, or maybe it was just a friend, had a couple of blonde curly-haired children in tow who she was trying to keep under control with bribes of porridge and honey. They weren’t having any of it.
The trawler I saw yesterday wasn’t there this morning. I missed it. Maybe trawler is a bit extreme. It was a fishing boat, almost ready to go. I saw one of the fishermen on deck, hatted and sou’wester-ed. It’s their lights that I love – bright white spot lights – a stark glare made comforting in that blackness. They light up the harbour. And it is also their heralding of adventure as they get ready to rock and jostle on the tide out to sea.
He is so much better. A different man. Letters keep coming through the post with appointments. The operation nears. How will it be? I want to be steady for him. I must be sanguine.
The moon was a glory this morning. Oh, I walk bathed in its light. It is always about light.
It is a simple task, really. Just accept it. Accept what is. Here it is. A quieter life. A hidden life. An inner life and nonetheless rich. Go with it. To fight it is to give oneself unnecessary pain. This is your life – see it, embrace it, it is no one else’s. There is much to love.