They called him to say that they’d got some in. And there they were when he picked me up, a cardboard punnet of them covered over with a brown paper bag. How I love them. They are so evocative of summer, of orchards, of skin prickly with sun and from thorns while delving for currants, fingers stained blue from currants. I lump them all in together. Soft fruits. The tartness of them. I don’t use sugar. Too sweet, to dangerous. The next quest is blackcurrants then damsons. A concentration from childhood. A punnet of joy, zinging on the tongue.
The prospect of writing spasms my back. Let it happen. For when I am in it, when I am writing, it is peaceful. I accept what comes out, letting it do so, without judgement. I need to get somewhere. And it, this outpouring flow, is taking me there. What a learning curve. I’m trying to find my voice, authentic, unforced, mine. The sewing I’m working on echoes it. Just doing it. Just working it. More books arrive. Two from the library. I go there for them when I can. They excite me. Thrill me at times. Two are from Amanda Vickery. The interior lives of eighteenth century women. Fascinating. I merely dip my fingers. I want to find a something, a hint of a path I might follow. This is why I am doing what I am doing. Perhaps it won’t come like that. Who knows?
I am nervous about later. A new practitioner. A new space. I hand myself over. You have to trust in the end don’t you?
Sometimes it feels like I am writing her alive again.
