A letter.

9^thMay, 2019.

My dearest Pardalito,

I write this message of love on what would have been your 66^thbirthday, on this level of existence. So I am not sure exactly how to proceed. 

That you are aware of my love and my grief, I am certain. That we are parted by what is called death, is self-evident. At times you seem close yet at the same time I know you are very far beyond my touch, beyond speech, beyond anything I can do except express my love.

Because love conquers all (that I truly believe) – because love transcends time, distance and death - this letter is for you, my little one.

Happy Birthday!

There are so many things I would love to tell you (but I hope and believe you are aware of them in any event); so many things I would have liked to do together with you on this day. You always loved the combination of trees and water – be it next to a stream, river or lake. And flowers. I would have liked to take you to those places we have been to, many times before.

Also it is only now that I can appreciate the amazing “green thumb” that you had. I have to work hard to get any plants or flowers to grow at all. Anything you planted and tended always thrived. I believe it was the love you expressed for all living things that the plants seem to understand and which they returned, with interest, with their beautiful flowers and scents.

And the sea. I have spent some time today, eating my lunch on the South Mole, in Fremantle. You loved that spot. Remember when we used to go there every Saturday for our lunch? We had the children with us then – Rob and Caroline. They were much younger of course, in those far off days, and used to spend much of their time clambering over the large blocks of concrete that made up the seaward side of the Mole. And chasing the seagulls! 

I miss all that, I really do.

I always loved the way the gulls soar in the currents of the euphemistically called “sea breeze”. The “Fremantle Doctor” often blows with almost gale force!! Today though, it’s quite calm – in fact a really beautiful day.

It’s always the little things that I remember – they linger - long after. Like in the mornings when I was up, always before you, preparing my breakfast and I would hear a plaintive little voice from the bedroom, “Is any one home?” or, occasionally, “Nobody loves me!” That would be the signal for me to prepare your breakfast.

I miss the sound of your voice, I really do. And, of course, your (hard earned and seldom given!) hugs and kisses too!! 

But always I return to a longing for the touch of your hand – your “pata” – in mine as we walked along, or resting on my knee when in the car and I was driving. Just that touch.

I miss that too, I really do.

I could go on, and on – but I know that you are, in that “special place”, fully aware of what is in my mind – at least that is what I fondly hope and believe.

So I will now end this letter with a poem - this is really for me, expressing, in a small way what I have to do, even though it will not easy – from a little book of poetry compiled by the late Field Marshall, Earl Wavell, called “Other Men’s Flowers”:-

Wisdom? 

“For this is Wisdom; to love, to live,

To take what Fate, or the Gods may give,

To ask no question, to make no prayer,

But to kiss the lips and caress the hair,

Speed passion’s ebb as you greet its flow, -

To have, - to hold, - and, - in time, - let go!”

            From “The Teak Forrest” by Laurence Hope.

So once again – Happy Birthday my Little One.  And thank you for all the wonderful memories.

I love and miss you. Lots.

There are always poems.

Some events; some memories; some recollections don’t get any easier, any less confronting with the elapse of time. They are still too fresh, too raw to be easily cast aside.

At times, such as the present, when recent past events cast a long shadow over my life, I am drawn to poets magisterial use of words to express the inexpressible. 

For reasons that I cannot explain – possibly because of its very early, childhood introduction – poetry has always stirred, within me, a deep well of emotion and intense imagery. Poets use of words are like a cry from the heart, that bring forth both pain and a salve to ease the pain.

One such poet is the Bengali polymath and Nobel prizewinner, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941). From his 1913 publication, Gitanjali, a very short poem, number 87, hit me with a body blow that left me breathless and deeply moved.

87.

“In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room;

I find her not.

My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my Lord, and seeking her I have come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish – no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. 
Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe.”

Never touch save out of love.

In today's world with many people, who should know better, being accused of domestic violence and inappropriate sexual behavior it maybe worthwhile to take some time and read what follows:-

Some of my readers may know that I find solace in poetry. Some time ago I “discovered” the American poet Max Ehrmann. He wrote with great depth, pathos and understanding of the human condition.

For instance, take the lines of the title of this post – from a poem called “Her Acceptance” – the last two lines are:

“Still let us both be owners of ourselves,

And never touch save out of love. – Kiss me.”

Those last words are so, so important – “never touch save out of love”. Here a woman accepts a proposal of marriage from a man – but she comes with nothing. No inheritance; nothing except her love (these line were written I think in the early 1900s). And she warns him that there has to be more that attracts him than her youth, which will fade with the years and she reminds him that with young children she will be a burden on him. Seeing him work long hours in sad drudgery will “pierce me to the soul”, and that she will suffer with him because she knows that she “Shall be a weight upon his back”.

Even with all this she understands that love is what will hold them together and advocates that they “never touch save out of love”.

These are wonderful words with a sentiment that, while many adhere to, quite a few, unfortunately and tragically, do not.

.