Collecting Joy

Jupiter and Venus hang in the sky like a pair of diamonds, silver sequins sewn into a deepening blue.

The air is full of the scent of the garden, and dhua, that beautiful hazy mix I always associate with evenings in my grandmother's house. Her sitting on the verandah in a beautiful silk blouse or dress, this scent wafting in from the outside, the shape of the Peepal tree dark against the sky. Bats taking wing. A dog barking in the distance. Not, at that time, the sounds of quite so much traffic. Though a dog does bark in the distance even now as I write this.

The sound of crickets.

Owlets.

The low light of beautiful lamps. Her music system, on which she played classical music every evening.

Part of what makes evenings here, now, so beautiful, is the memory of those evenings. A collection of sensations from my childhood that I loved, that have spilled over, unchanged, into my present.

My grandmother is everywhere in my life, still.

Like everyone else I love, I feel like there's a constant stream of thought connected to her at the back of my mind. Whatever else I might be doing.

But more tangibly than that, there's the sights, senses, smells and sensations that I first encountered with her that are still an everyday part of my experience.

Her red shawl, I still wear.

Her peach scarf, and her mauve scarf.

Yarley Orange Blossom perfume - the only perfume I've bought twice, replacing the bottle that ran out. Come to think of it, I don't know that she actually wore this. But she burst into my thoughts when I first smelt it.

Silk blouses in beautiful, hazy, pastel colours. Pearls, roses, butterflies, blue sky, darkening sky, lightening sky. Egg-shell blue walls, the sight of Russian script.

Everything beautiful, and soft reminds me of her.

Sometimes, this comforts me. I am still with her.

Sometimes, this makes me miss her intensely. I think she knew how I felt about her, because I went to her often, and made it clear that I never wanted to leave. But I never grew old enough to be able to articulate love for her, or tell her that I shared the love of these things.

No matter. She must know now.

I'm editing a book proposal. The book will be an edited volume, describing research that's coming out of the programme I assist on.

This is hard.

But also, it feels awesome.

We sent in a first proposal, three people reviewed it, and sent back comments. Long lists of comments. My heart sank. But at the end of each list, in response to the question, 'Should we commission this book', were three words: Yes. Yes. Yes.

Y.a.y.

I'm editing a book proposal. The book will be an edited volume, describing research that's coming out of the programme I assist on.

This is hard.

But also, it feels awesome.

We sent in a first proposal, three people reviewed it, and sent back comments. Long lists of comments. My heart sank.

But at the end of each list, in response to the question, 'Should we commission this book', were three words: Yes. Yes. Yes.

Y.a.y.

Conversations with the man

(Conversing about someone's remarkably measured reaction to a distressing event):

Me: Hmmm. Maybe there's something to that whole 'British stiff upper lip' thing.

Man: He's Scottish. We have stiffer-both-lips.

Yep.

Relativity

I know some people think this is a dirty word, to be avoided and sneered at.

(Outside of physics, that is.)

But it's not.

Here's the biggest 'It's all Relative' in my life:

My father has had heart disease since I was.. what.. 6? 10? Who knows how long he had it before his first heart attack? During his first bypass operation, and shortly after, it was absolutely clear to everyone, including him, that he was Very Ill.

After his first bypass, he made a rapid, smooth and full recovery.

Black, White. Absolute.

His second bypass introduced us to degress of wellness.

Greys and rainbows.

His heart recovered (*touches all the wood in the room). His lungs didn't do so well.

Sometimes he is 'well', sometimes he is ill, sometimes he is gravely ill.

For someone who has been battling a serious illness for so many years now, wellness and illness have become relative.

While for someone observing from the outside, the presence of an oxygen machine in the home might imply that he is Absolutely, Darkly, Ill, I know that he is 'well'. For him.

When someone says 'Hope he recovers soon', I know he is never going to swing from the treetops again in this life. We will be happy when he can walk unassisted and unbreathless from bedroom to TV, from bedroom to bathroom, from bedroom to car, from car to restaurant.

When someone hears 'Oh he's okay today', they smile. When they hear that he was on oxygen at night, they become confused - But I thought you said he was well!?

He is. For him. Relatively speaking. Relative to his own history, relative to other people more ill than him, relative to what we could expect.

Greys and rainbows.

Not black and white.