Reading from 'Lighthousekeeping'
.
I used to be a hopeless romantic. I am still a hopeless romantic. I used to believe that love was the highest value. I still believe that love is the highest value. I don't expect to be happy. I don't imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don't think of love as the answer or the solution.. I think of love as a force of nature - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the planet dies.
. My little orbit of life circles love. I daren't get any closer. I'm not a mystic seeking final communion. I don't go out without SPF 15, I protect myself.
. .But today, when the sun is everywhere, and everything solid is nothing but its own shadow, I know that the real things in life, the things I remember, the things I turn over in my hands, are not houses, bank accounts, prizes or promotions.
. What I remember is love - all love - love of this dirt road, this sunrise, a day by the river, the stranger I met in a café. Myself, even, which is the hardest thing of all to love, because love and selfishness are not the same thing. It is easy to be selfish. It is hard to love who I am. No wonder I am surprised if you do.
. But love it is which wins the day.
If I'd quoted that piece ten months ago, two years ago, it would've told an entirely different story but I'm not in that place anymore; praise be. I haven't cut through the first line as I'm still turning that one over. I have my romantic tendencies but they're extremely well buried and certainly not of the hopeless variety. Life has made me tougher than to melt at the drop of a hat.
. I'll call you, and we'll light a fire, and drink some wine, and recognise each other in the place that is ours. Don't wait. Don't tell the story later.
. Life is so short. This stretch of sea and sand, this walk on the shore, before the tide covers everything we have done.
. I love you.
. The three most difficult words in the world.
. But what else can I say?
This, I adore. It's as perfect as can be. And it's right here, this moment now. The fleeting but blessed present hour, day, year.
Winterson, Jeanette. Lighthousekeeping.
Harper Perennial: London, 2004.
_____________________________________
.. I was stitching in love and memory yesterday. Inspired by a craft exhibition, I started making a wall-hanging for Fish for two months from now. It's a landscape piece, partly quilted in places, appliqued in others and embroidered: rich in greens & browns, rich in memories of the Lakes, the Dales, Roslin & Dollar. I'm adding in a waterfall, a cairn, spring blossom and snowdrops... I want it to be beautiful.
. He's sorting out something at the moment yet to be revealed, come Christmas as a joint present for me. But we're going to go away for a week somewhere in July. After the college year is done, after all the waiting and biding, a week together :)
I used to be a hopeless romantic. I am still a hopeless romantic. I used to believe that love was the highest value. I still believe that love is the highest value. I don't expect to be happy. I don't imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don't think of love as the answer or the solution.. I think of love as a force of nature - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the planet dies.
. My little orbit of life circles love. I daren't get any closer. I'm not a mystic seeking final communion. I don't go out without SPF 15, I protect myself.
. .But today, when the sun is everywhere, and everything solid is nothing but its own shadow, I know that the real things in life, the things I remember, the things I turn over in my hands, are not houses, bank accounts, prizes or promotions.
. What I remember is love - all love - love of this dirt road, this sunrise, a day by the river, the stranger I met in a café. Myself, even, which is the hardest thing of all to love, because love and selfishness are not the same thing. It is easy to be selfish. It is hard to love who I am. No wonder I am surprised if you do.
. But love it is which wins the day.
If I'd quoted that piece ten months ago, two years ago, it would've told an entirely different story but I'm not in that place anymore; praise be. I haven't cut through the first line as I'm still turning that one over. I have my romantic tendencies but they're extremely well buried and certainly not of the hopeless variety. Life has made me tougher than to melt at the drop of a hat.
. I'll call you, and we'll light a fire, and drink some wine, and recognise each other in the place that is ours. Don't wait. Don't tell the story later.
. Life is so short. This stretch of sea and sand, this walk on the shore, before the tide covers everything we have done.
. I love you.
. The three most difficult words in the world.
. But what else can I say?
This, I adore. It's as perfect as can be. And it's right here, this moment now. The fleeting but blessed present hour, day, year.
Winterson, Jeanette. Lighthousekeeping.
Harper Perennial: London, 2004.
_____________________________________
.. I was stitching in love and memory yesterday. Inspired by a craft exhibition, I started making a wall-hanging for Fish for two months from now. It's a landscape piece, partly quilted in places, appliqued in others and embroidered: rich in greens & browns, rich in memories of the Lakes, the Dales, Roslin & Dollar. I'm adding in a waterfall, a cairn, spring blossom and snowdrops... I want it to be beautiful.
. He's sorting out something at the moment yet to be revealed, come Christmas as a joint present for me. But we're going to go away for a week somewhere in July. After the college year is done, after all the waiting and biding, a week together :)