A pain in the knuckle of the fourth finger – the ring, the one that also supports the fingers and thumb that holds the pen in my right hand; joint swelling, the crackle of crepitus, and bruising; from recent spade work creating a small new vegetable garden, outside the walls so that rabbit netting must be dug in deep and covered with heavy stones – and I am compelled, commanded, upon the word of the beloved physician, she tells me to take up the pen in my left hand.
Again.
It is a slow and slowing business, the uncertain formation of the letters one by one, and the later difficulty of not being able to decipher the script of everything that has been written by the left hand on the page, there is the necessity of sustaining awareness to follow lines of the squared notebook, the practice of silence and slowing thought, the restraint of unnecessary words and proliferating ideas.
Again.
At the age of four, certainly before I reached five, it was the nanny, Nina, employed by my mother and father, of Scottish strictness and likely lonely in the east-midland far from her home in the north, that compelled, commanded, me to write with the right hand, taking the crayon or pencil out of my left hand, which seemed the side I had naturally preferred for writing, at least so far as my memory of childhood is able to recall, and putting it in my right hand; for the purpose of daily practicing the formation of letters along the squared lines of exercise books, in preparation for the coming task of beginning first school at Stamford High in Lincolnshire.
Again.
In conversation two weeks or so ago, telling the memory of the same experience to a writer friend, or at least the story of the past moment that is more than half imagined, the thought was expressed together – "Why not take the pen up in the left hand again?"; about a process of practicing the formation childish looking letters, and making the journey accross the page with child-like uncertainty; at the same time free-handed, and with the amazement as each new letter emerges and unfolds in advance of the following hand (rather than behind as when the right hand holds the pen).
Again.
But not begun until compelled, commanded, this script written out (as I think it now) by my left hand –
My Garden.
in my garden
there are tulips and begonyas…
… and we have botatows and carits
and all sorts of things
– the journey accross the boundaries of time, at the age of four, on a small piece of paper which my beloved now keeps safely stored; the original lay for more than forty years along with other precious photographs and things under the glass top of my mother’s bedroom dressing-table, until she died on the last day of 1994; my gift to her, the best of gifts for her who also loves writing and gardening, the pleasure, texture and currency of the deep world’s gift economy.
Again.
But unable literally to remember or simply to transcribe, the words withheld, the paper on which they are written hidden, there is the freedom of beginning again, and I am also compelled, commanded, letter by letter, the sight and sound; an opera, the childlike practice of attempting to find the exact words again, of which this walkingtalkingwriting also acts as a representation, making the journey accross the boundaries (this weblog about literature, politics, and religion); with the restraint of writing with the left hand, the practice of patience, of slowness and silence, and uncertainty; of who or what we meet – at the meeting place, in my garden – making the journey accross the boundary of time.
Again.
On this Christmas Day.
mmj