Fine lines

Here is a story that I recently wrote that will appear in a small short story publication in October. . .

Fine lines

Samantha Layton-Matthews

With each meander and turn in the road, Samantha questions her sense of purpose.   She brings her creative spirit into her personal and professional life.  As a business and life coach, she enjoys working with individuals and teams, enabling them to work towards self-actualisation.  As a mother, she explores the world through the eyes of her young son.  As wife, sister, daughter and friend, she realises the beauty of relationships in enhancing her spirit.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.

Don’t go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.

Don’t go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill

where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.

Don’t go back to sleep.

Rumi

Fine Lines

Someone is playing the piano.  Cwm Rhondda, (Guide me O’ my great redeemer.) becomes more distinct as I walk around the bird sanctuary.  My footsteps hasten toward an echo of the past.  Not to lose the end of the track before discovering where the music is coming from.

 I know that hymn from childhood.  It resonates with my Welsh blood.  A Celtic spirit within has yearned for its deep roots before I even understood what I was yearning for.  I do not fully understand the vast expanse of this yearning but it is always there.  I have heard a combined male choir from two lands sing Cwm Rhondda .  From my home now, and ancestral home.  A choral splendour. 

I see in me an eagle perched on a mountain peak in North Wales, soaring towards the hills of the South.  Dipping from the thermals to lower altitude, following the gallop of wild horses in misty hills above mining towns.  Finally, finding its way to the port of Cardiff and catching the breeze of the sails of a ship. Flying aross the oceans to South Africa.

            I stop suddenly, tracing the piano’s home.  It can’t be.  Not here – this house is uninhabited.  Its gable remains above a doorway that now enters onto a roofless entrance hall.  Part of the side wall has crumbled to reveal what once would have been a lounge. 

               I imagine it as it once might have been.   The afternoon sunlight filtering through windows, touching the faces of a family settling after a Sunday roast.  Dad has retired to his corner chair, one hand holding pipe, the other a book.  Glasses tilted on the tip of his nose. Occasionally chuckling at his read.  Mom taking out embroidery and sighing as she relaxes into the stitches and relishes the warmth of the fire in the winter chill.  Two young boys sitting cross legged on the rug in front of the fireplace, each on their own journey as they hold story books in hand.  A wireless playing in the background.  Outside, the winter breeze rustles hard wan shrubs. 

Am I imagining the way my Dad described the camaraderie of  his childhood Sundays in Wales?

As the piano grows more dramatic, my heart soars to its rhythm.

Bread of heaven feed me now and ever more. Ever more. Feed me now and evermore.

The crumbling walls sound out their song and then recede into silence.  Am I going mad?  I look around to see if any early morning walkers are around, to check if they heard what I heard.  But there is no one to bear out my sanity.

            I stand there, waiting for more.  But no. Rather I hear the crunch of feet along the overgrown grass at the front of the gate.  A man in a trilby hat opens the gate, walks through, turns back to close it.  He then notices me across the road, tilts his hat and smiles.

My breath catches in my throat as I look back.  I have seen this man before.  Underneath the hat lies baldness.  I have seen that dapper style, the dark grey suit, white shirt, tie, complimented by black shoes so shiny they reflect your face.  I gaze at his face.  His smile reaches his eyes.  He tilts his head towards me again, turns to walk on.  He does not say anything.  Neither do I.

I follow him into the early morning mist. As I turn the bend in the road, his polished shoes disappear. Gone.  I break into a jog to keep a close, thinking to make out his form again.  But nothing. 

Instead someone breaks through the mist on the opposite side of the road.

Hey Sam, enjoying your early walk?  Verushka waves, her dog on its leash eager, moving her pace more hastily than seems comfortable. 

Hi Verushka, this is the best time - when you can sense all the elements around you? So quiet before that big rush that we walk into each day. 

She smiles.  There is a peace about her that I find inspiring.  We always connect soulfully with good cheer no matter how much time has passed.  Tendrils of her spiralled dark Indian hair fall about her face.  She lifts her hand to push it behind her ear.  

Hey, your CD has just arrived. I was going to give you a call today.  And I have more books in stock.

Oh, great!  You know how long I have been waiting.  Can’t wait to listen to it.  I will drop by the shop later. 

            She allows the tension of the dog leash to propel her and waves.  When I turn to wave, the mist has drawn her in.

           Silly me, I should have asked her if she saw the man in the trilby hat.  I walk further, hoping to see the polished shoes reappear.  But somehow I know it is unlikely. 

The sun breaks through the low cloud and the mist slowly lifts to reveal the early morning lake.  Birds pirouette across the waters, illuminated in reflections of orange, red and purple.  I breathe in the fresh morning air, feel all my senses awaken.  Recite the opening lines of Rumi. The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep. Don’t go back to sleep!

   The last chill of the mist tingles my cheeks, now competing with the sun’s rays that start to thaw me out.  It is quiet still, apart from the odd joggers that pass by.  Engrossed in their worlds.  I look again for the man in the trilby, take a deep breath and turn towards home.   Have to get to my writing desk, and then tackle several chores on the list of things to do.  Later an appointment with a psychic.  Gavin thinks me rather mad paying such visits. 

           All that we have is here and now – I believe in existence and this is it. Any charlatan can tell you what you want to hear.

But I argue. I don’t necessarily like all I hear.  I am searching and this is one of the avenues, that is all.  I like to engage with possibilities, seek bizarre avenues.  I guess you think I am looking in all the wrong places, but for me it is a journey.  Anyway, rationally or irrationally, I do believe in past lives.  Our cells have memories.   We may not have met certain people in this actual life, but there is another dimension from which they beckon.  Silly, I know, but I am curious.

Each to her own, he smiles.  He may have his say, raise his cynicism yet he always lets me be my own person and respects these odd journeys of discovery.  I am grateful.  If there is one thing I admire about you, Sam, is your exploration and yearning to discover more of who you are…what subconscious potential you can tap into.  You are so unsure of yourself and yet you are so sure that this is a value to be pursued.  It is paradoxical the way you allow it all to confuse you.

I know, I think to myself when he says this.  I feel lost, like a ship bobbing on the ocean with no anchor.  Unsure what shores to steer towards.  Overwhelmed by the options.  Once I was sure of so much.  Now sure of nothing.  So I search in all sorts of nooks and crannies for answers.  I don’t even know what the questions are anymore.

Yet I am guided. People are going back and forth across the doorway where the two worlds touch.

            I stop by the shop.  Verushka is sitting cross legged on the floor, laying out new stock on a shelf.  Amber incense permeates all senses.  The sounds of Tibetan singing bowls echoes from the CD player. 

           Hey Sam.  I put your CD on the counter.  You should see the new books.

She stands and leads me towards the  bookshelf. 

           These have your name written on them. 

She holds a book in each hand.  Surprised by joy and All my roads before me by CS Lewis.  I have read them before but these look like collector’s copies.  I take Surprised by joy and open it. To G, May you always know where to look for the joy.  With all my love, B.  Dated Christmas, 1967. 

Wonderful!  CS Lewis has been a companion for many years.

Once in Oxford I took an historical walk, exploring  CS Lewis haunts .  Alan, my uncle mapped out the journey with special care.  He, aunt Judith, brother, Lee and his wife, Linda, walked with me.  A day of being surprised by joy.  There’s the photograph of us in the Turf Tavern where we shared a drink in a side street called Bath Place.  Off the beaten track, it was a favourite of Clive Staples Lewis.  Stopped in time.  I see him comparing stories with his ‘Inkling’ friends.  Tolkien listens to plot ideas for Narnia.  Lewis listens to ideas of how The Hobbit is taking shape.

I turn back to Veruska.

           I will read these and see what I missed the first time.  Thank you!

           I park the car outside the psychic’s.  The midday sun reflects off the windows of the house and brightens the robin’s egg blue shutters that frame them.  I open the gate to a pebbled pathway that separates lavender bushes on either side.  I brush a hand against the purple stem, take my hand to my nose.  Breathe in an overwhelming peace. There is a lavender song in the Flower Song Book dating from the late 1920’s

hide it in your trousseau, lady fair.
Let its lovely fragrance flow
Over you from head to toe,
lightening on your eyes, your cheek, your hair.

I stand for a moment in the winter sun and feel its rays on my skin. A breeze blows through the lavender, offering its fragrance.  

 Thoughts ripple as the psychic opens the door. 

       Welcome.  I am Sarah.  A lovely day today, isn’t it?  After all the windy and rainy weather heaven has landed on earth this morning.

Mmm, I did not think of it that way but it certainly sheds a whole new light on the earth. I smile and feel an instant warmth.

            Follow me. She turns.  We are straight through here.  Sarah leads down a narrow passage, the one side glass-panelled, looking out over an alcove filled with rocks and flowers.  We reach a study at the end of the passage.  She motions me towards a seat.  Her walls are covered with framed pictures of various goddesses.  Persephone, Demeter, Gaia, Athena, Isis and Gwynhywfar, better known as Guinevere.

Have you ever seen a psychic before?

A few times, I turn towards her and hope that she does not ask for details.

Well, as you know, we are not all like those odd characters you see in movies, with a big crystal ball, wearing a headscarf, cigarette dangling out the side of our mouths. Generally resembling the image of an ominous witch.  At least I hope I don’t look like that. She laughs.

Indeed she doesn’t.  Sarah has long brunette hair, wearing jeans tucked into boots, with a purple polo jumper under a v-sided cardigan. A rose quartz crystal hangs at the end of a chain.  Striking.  I had noticed it when we met outside.  Even out of the sun, its glint catches the eye.  It carries its own power.

I also work as a medium so will close my eyes for a while…  see who comes forward.  My philosophy is to receive messages… gifts to those I share with.  This is not a Hollywood horror ghost story.  It is about constructive input from people who have moved on.  Then I finish off with cards – these help us to establish what lies in your past, your present and things to be aware of in your future.  I cannot interpret for you – it is for you to make of it what you will.

Gavin’s voice creeps cynically into my head. Naturally that leaves no responsibility in her court. It is probably all a load of hot air.   I have  not told him that I have seen three psychics and each one referred to a certain person with specific features.  That cannot be coincidence, can it?  I guess he would argue that we misconstrue to suit our own means.  So what if I do?  Reality or metaphor? All this may help pose the right questions, seek the right direction.   I lower my head, close eyes for a few seconds.  Open my mind, allow any scepticism to wash away.

Her eyes are closed when I look up.  She seems far away.  After a few minutes, she opens her eyes and looks as though she is staring right through me.  I see a man. He is wearing a dark suit.  His is tall, proud in his posture.  He is bald but you cannot notice once he has his trilby on.  He used to work in a post office.  Near a river.

Yes, I see a river flowing go past it.  A forest on the opposite side.  He is saying that he watches over you always.  You should have known each other but time did not allow for you to meet.  You passed each other in another dimension.
I swallow. My throat is dry.

             He says that right now you have a cup that is half full and half empty.  It is up to you how you see it and use it. But you must do something with this cup soon.  The cup is your answer.  Look at it carefully.

The man in the trilby. Breath catches in my throat.  The man of this morning walking away from the dilapidated house.  The man who was surely playing the piano – the Welsh hymn. The fourth psychic to refer to him in this way.

The rest of the session goes by in a blur.  I find myself looking at a three chosen cards .  The first says It’s your choice to make life easy or difficult  so choose to live with gratitude, loyalty and commitment.  The second, the present.  Life is never boring, it is a gift that contains many treasures.  My future focus, Be adventurous.  Do something different to keep your spark alive.

           

Leaving the lavender path, I drive for a while to ponder.  Who is this person that every psychic sees? This person whom I am also starting to see – in my dreams and now today, in everyday life? The cards ring true too – I have been standing at that proverbial crossroads for a while now.  Too scared to move.  No longer that young person averse to risk, seeing the cup as half empty.  Who  am I?   Who do I want to be?   Yet I know I am here on earth to fulfil a wider purpose.  But I am scared.  Why?  Why do I give it such authority in my life, this fear?  Head knows it is irrational.  Heart is frozen in its wake.

Now to drop off a few things at Mom and Dad’s.  I turn my car in the direction of their home.  My mind wanders again.  Is he here in the car in the passenger seat?  Or did I leave him in at the bird sanctuary this morning?

Hi, Dad calls from the garden as I get out of my car.  So lost in thought, I cannot even remember getting here.  Dad is a gifted gardener, just like my Grandmother.  I open the gate and make my way towards the bed where he is planting seedlings. So, what brings you by?

I promised Mom I would drop these books off – I heard you were running out of reading material.

He takes off his gardening gloves, shakes off his hands of any remaining soil. Reaches for the books and has a look through. . . Bread of angels by Stephanie Saldanha,  Here be dragons by Sharon Penman.  C S Lewis, Surprised by Joy.

Mmm – I think it is time to take a break and do some reading, he grins.  Your Mom is at Bible Study.  You want something to drink?

Some fruit juice, thanks Dad. He dusts off his hands again.  I follow him indoors and put the books down on the kitchen table. He gets juice out of the fridge, pours a glass and hands it to me.  He switches on the kettle to make himself tea.

Dad, you know I have been seeing psychics.  I take a sip of the fresh orange.  Savour the pulp over my tongue.

            Yes, and what do they say?  He is open-minded to this world , despite attending conventional church every week.  Gavin would argue that this means nothing because all churchgoers believe in ghosts anyway!

I tell Dad what they have all told me. 

Hold on a minute.  He gestures with his hand and walks out of the room.  Shortly he returns with a photograph album.  Is this who you and your psychics see?

My eyes turn to the page – there standing smiling in a trilby hat, suit and clearly polished shoes, is the man I saw this morning.  I turn the page and see the same man again, standing outside a double storey post office.  To the right, there are trees and a river alongside.

            I can’t believe I did not remember these pictures.  Yes, this is him.  Granddad.

He is with me always, they say. My heart leaps. Dad he looks a bit like C S Lewis…here.  Look at this picture. I flip open to the back flap of Surprised by Joy. And look at the inscription at the front. 

Uncanny.

Well, you know your Granddad died only three weeks before you were born. You were three weeks late in coming. He wanted you to be a girl.  Even after his stroke he kept asking Nana if you had been born yet.  Something I never share because people may think me mad, but shortly after you were born, I walked down the back garden pathway of our house in England. As I came around the corner, I saw your Granddad looking in the window – it was the window to your nursery and he was looking onto your crib. He did not see me but I definitely saw him.

           Wow, you never said.

He shrugs his shoulders.  I know what I saw.  Only that once, but I remember it as though it were yesterday.

He makes tea. Pours.  So what are you going to do about that cup then?

Well, until a moment ago I would have answered that I need to focus on what I can do to fill it.  But after my philosophy class earlier this week, I have just remembered a story.

Tell it to me. Dad perches on the edge of the kitchen chair.

Nan-in, a Japanese master during the Meiji era (1868 – 1912), received a university professor who came to enquire about Zen.

                      Nan-in served tea.  He poured his visitor’s cup full, and then kept pouring.

The professor watched the overflow until he no longer could restrain himself.  “It is overfull.  No more will go in!”

“Like this cup,” Nan-in said, “you are full of your own opinions and speculations.  How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?”

        
My father smiles and nods. Sips his tea

Dad, you know what, I need to empty the cup.  For me, Granddad is the monk and I must be the student…  I must integrate what I learn everyday into the depths of my soul, discard what is useless and destructive… make room for the new with an open mind.  My fears fill the cup at the moment.

Perhaps it is time to make that fear your friend.  Let me know what comes up for you.  I know you have been struggling for a while.  It is hard to look on as your Dad and say nothing, but only you can find the way.

I take my early morning walk again at the same time the next day.  To seek out a tune.  I break through the fresh mist.  To my delight, hear the sound of a piano again.  Going Home resounds in the notes.  I stand and listen, wait for the end.  Long to catch a glimpse of my Welsh Granddad exiting the gate.  My soul soars in hope and renewal.  What will my cup be filled with today?

Avoiding the scrap yard

I have become stagnant.  Rapidly the world of technology has slipped me by and I have not been paying attention.  Once upon a time, I used to be quite computer literate.  Not brilliant, but quite.  I need to ask myself why I have allowed myself to get into this state of dependency on others to get a grip with basic IT tools.  Now even setting up a blog and accessing conversations with others frustrates me.  So my new resolution is to struggle with it until I get it.  Although I must admit, I am like a woman who gets into a car and expects it to go.  Equally, I like to get onto a computer and know exactly how to drive it, without understanding all the underlying intricacies of getting it to its destination.

All this has brought to mind the idea of getting old, dying. My Father-in-Law refuses to learn computers or any form of technology at the age of 83. Am I better than he?  Well, yes, but only a little in that I do use a cell phone.  BUT I still have to learn all the features of my Blackberry because quite frankly, I am squandering its potential.  Until my My Mom-in-Law died earlier this year, we could at least still get hold of them both on a cell phone.  Now my Father-in-Law has even declared that redundant.  But he manages a portable phone and knows just how to find Sky News and golden oldie soundtracks on DSTV.  He is happy with that.

But as I stagnate, and start to realise that I am entering the latter years of my life and no longer have the luxury of tomorrow being another day, I reflect on what is important.  As I stared at Mary's coffin in the chapel, I wondered for a fleeting moment at the fulity of this thing we call life.  But as my little boy nudged me and whispered something in my ear, it is as I turned to look into his young face that I am reminded of the legacies we leave, the purpose of it all.  Why we are here at all.

Yes, technology is important in all of this purpose.  It helps to keep up with today's generation, 'chat' more with friends anywhere, make the world a smaller, more accessible space, so we can experience life more and expand the time that is allowed us.  That is a good enough reason to 'get with the technological programme!'

But is odd how a theme can resonate for a a while and there is synchronicity all around.  Life and technology - two things that would not seamlessly coincide in a topic for a blog discussion.  But here I am, engaging with the possibilities.

Recently, my friend Anne-Marie and I had a discussion about illness and getting old.  We commented on the bad news we keep hearing - Anne-Marie has been losing friends and it is reminding her harshly of her own mortality.  At 63 she is suddenly getting conscious that she is far too regularly saying goodbye to friends.  As she mentions this to me, I am conscious that I have taken it for granted that she will outlive me.  I never think of her as 20 years older than I.  She is young in all she does - she has a zest for everything she does.  She travels widely, laps us every experience, applies her wisdom and creativity in all aspects of her life. 

I don't think it matters what age you are - one can always feel vulnerable at the fragility of life.  Presently, it visits me often.  My Mom is very ill and everyday we all, as a family, side-step the dance with the shadow of death.  My brother recently had a brush with some very risky surgery again. Once again, we entertain the road of 'what if?'  But I am learning that it is engaging with those deeper questions, embracing them, that we really live and feel things.  We don't know what tomorrow brings but each day we live with a mission and purpose, not engaging for too long with that sense of futility as we accept the precious gift of time we have been given today.

But in all of this, Anne-Marie and I also laugh as we understand that this is a very important part of the recipe of life.  What else can we do?  Life and death are seasons of everyone's life.  So I think it was in this spirit, tinged with a moment of subconscious desperation that Anne-Marie tried to reconnect with her childhood the other day.  She seemed to think that one of the rugs in her house would serve well in rendering a magic carpet ride.  She slipped onto her guava and apparently just laughed hysterically.  After ascertaining that there were no injuries, her husband, David, commented on what a circus the household is!  Upon hearing her story, I expressed my gratitude that at 63, her hips are still very firm because neither of us are ready for her to have any hip replacements.  I am just so sorry that the carpet did not take to magical flight though.   Now what a story that would be to tell.  But I kid myself, we take magical carpet rides every day. It is only Anne-Marie that gives due diligence to taking it on literally though!  I did mention she has great zest in all she does.  Not sure where the wisdom slipped away to on this one though!

My little boy has quite a take on old age and dying. 

A few weekends ago, after our attempt at a steam train ride (the train ran out of steam), he came home and built intricate bridges and stations with his Thomas the Tank Engine set.  I can still barely walk across his bedroom floor for all the cities and villages and airports he has built.  But he has great fun and that is what counts. I may indeed need to get a magic carpet just to access his bedroom. 

Anyway, he asked me to come and have a look at what he had made.  I commented on what a great job it was, but then also asked him why he had a heap of trains to one side stacked on top of each other with wheels in air etc.  Included in this was the Greendale Rocket from Postman Pat.  His response was “they are going to be scrapped, Mommy.” 

“Oh no, surely not the Greendale Rocket, he is my favourite,” I say.

“But Mommy, you know he is old.  A bit like Nana Mary (my Mom-in-law) when she was old.  So now we need to scrap him.”

I honestly did not know what to say although I relayed the story to Gavin and we had a laugh.  I promise, there was no influence from our side.  Anyway, later he came into the room, apparently rather sensitive to my need not to scrap the Greendale Rocket. . .”Okay Mommy, I have decided to use the Greendale Rocket as a museum restaurant and a toy shop at the station.  Is that better?”

So now we know what happens to old people and trains. . .

Poor Nana Mary.  But I am sure even she would laugh at Tristan's take on this.  So between Anne-Marie and I, one of our great themes lately is how to avoid the scrap yard.  Well, she has decided it is time to go back to school - she has boldly enrolled for an MA in Creative Writing at Rhodes Univeristy for next year.  Way to go, bon amie, I think.  She will do well as she is already a great writer and I think will love the youthful student sentiment and journey she derives from it too.  'But I have not even been accepted yet,' she protests, as I discuss with her in way that assumes this is a foregone conclusion.  For me it is, her road is already mapped.  And how exciting to have a new journey of discovery as we start out each new year, without any thought of age, potential ailments and life's fragility.  We forge on in spite of it.

As for me, I have enrolled with the SA Writer's College for an online novel writing course.  I have also become determined to get technologically prone and avoid being scrapped due to redundancy in this area - I do believe my husband would indeed scrap me for this reason alone, as he gets frustrated that I don't approach technology with the ease he does. 

My new formula for life. . .

New challenges + new thinking + new achievements + lots of laughter even in the most serious of moments = avoiding the scrap yard.

At 63 Anne-Marie beats me hands down in the technology field.  She has what her friend Maxine refers to as 'an Apple Orchard'.  Her Kindle and her IPAD are her greatest possessions and she plays with these toys from wherever she is in the world with such seeming ease.  Gavin has almost converted me to the e-reader.  But I have to confess that the main reason for wanting it is for instant gratification purposes.  I like the idea of getting a book the minute it is released if I want it.  And 'The Kashmir Shawl' by Rosie Thomas is calling my name but I have no Kindle to send it to.  I sigh very deeply as I share this.

I hope to share again very soon any new tips I acquire in avoiding the scrap yard.  Any further tips from you would be most appreciated!