Sunday

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

On Thursday night, I buried my dog. It has been a year since she died, and I had not been able to do it before now. That sounds absurd and melodramatic, but there it is. The sun shone, the family came, I planted a tree and put the ashes in, I said some words. Then we all went inside and drank champagne. It was the same day a year ago that I buried my father, so there was some symmetry in that. There was a lot of death, hovering about, so I had to concentrate very hard on the love and the trees, which are my great consolations.

The horrible person who has done horrible things continues to dog me. Sometimes, I can do zennish calm, and remember about living well being the best revenge. The Younger Brother calls it the Dalai Lama Let Go. (He is a great admirer of the Dalai Lama.) We say it very quickly, in unison: Dalia-Lama-Let-Go, as if it were a dancehall craze from the 1950s. Sometimes, my attempts at sagacity desert me and I write vengeful letters in my head. I suppose everyone has one horrible person. Perhaps it is a good contrast, to remind one of the loveliness of the Lovely Ones.

This morning, in the freezing cold, I go up to the mare. My new thing is to play games with her, to keep her amused. (There are horse people who would consider this nuts, but it makes me laugh.) I see if I can get her to trot after me when I set off at a run, and then stop when I stop. We do this without a rope. I think some people call it loose schooling. I call it highly diverting. She does it. Three times in a row, so it is not a fluke. I feel as flushed with joy and triumph as if I was leading in a Derby winner.

I get a faint sense she is humouring me, as if to say: better go along with the old girl. She seems slightly bemused when I shower her with congratulations. But her wibbly lower lip twitches, which is always a sign she is happy.

The tiny children come out to see her, and she lowers her head graciously so their little hands can reach her soft muzzle. She dips her forehead to them in regal greeting, and they stare at her in awe and wonder. We all groom the little white pony, who now has a blog name. She is Welsh, and the children chose a tremendous Welsh name for her: it is Myfanwy. Apparently it means ‘my lovely little one’ which could not be more appropriate.

The sky lowers, and darkens. The forecast is for snow. Snow. The Pigeon shivers in the wind, and looks at me reproachfully, as if I could do something about this unseasonal weather. But the garden is starting to bloom, despite it all, and the Duchess’s beautiful apple tree stands up straight and strong in its new home.

 

Pictures are from Thursday.

Duchess's tree, and the wild garden I made for her:

 

Pot table, tarted up specially for the occasion:

Younger niece with Pigeon:

Ready for her close-ups:

Red the Mare:

With Myfanwy the pony:

Their view, with snow clouds coming in:

The hill, in the last bit of light we've seen for a while:

A tonic

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The Pigeon and I went out early. It was minus 13 last night; we were officially the coldest place in Britain. This morning, it was still frigid. It was that kind of suspended, magical weather. Everything was white with frost, but a low, still whiteness, not the antic glittering sort that comes later when the sun is high.

The sky was not cloudy so much as hazy; there was no sunshine yet. A sense of mist, rather than actual mist, hung over everything. It’s very hard to describe, but that is the best I can do. There was a humming blueness to it all too: the frost was slightly blue, the trees had blue in them. It felt as if everything had stopped, as if nothing else existed but this stalled, pristine place.

In the end, I started throwing a stick for the dog almost to prove we were real. I needed movement. But it was breathtakingly beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful morning I ever saw. It was so other.

Just as I came in, the first of the sun appeared. Now, as I look out of the window, there is none of that strange blue magic left; everything is vivid and yellow with light. The sunshine lies across the grass in great golden slabs; it has even conquered the frost, so only traced ghosts of the whiteness remain.

I did some work, thought some thoughts, ate some eggs, drank some coffee. I still felt a bit bewildered and stuck. Then The Younger Brother called, his voice stuttering and echoing and swerving down the long distance telephone line.

I told him all of it. I did not make a drama. I just said: this is what I am feeling, and this, and this and this, and here is where it hurts. This is the bit that is painful, and that is the part that is confusing, and this is the balance I am trying to find, and that is the bit which is quite fine. It was like an almost detached status report.

He listened very carefully. Then he gave me his. It was almost identical, except he is currently crosser than I. He is so cross that he ran around his room this morning shouting expletives and words I cannot repeat because we are still in family viewing time. Then he said: ‘And I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror and realised that I was really angry.’ He’s pissed off about everything, from dad dying, to Rick Santorum talking insanity, to the people on a dollar a day. He’s quite cross with Mr Murdoch. He is enraged by failed political systems.

‘That is excellent,’ I say. ‘Everything covered.’

Then he says: ‘you know, we are very lucky that we can feel all these things.’

We talk about several different subjects then, from the psychology of fear to the Republican primaries to the importance of authenticity. I circle back. ‘The thing you said that makes me smile,’ I say, ‘is that we are lucky to feel all this stuff. I think you are right. It is luck. It’s a little shift in perspective. It makes me feel better. I think it is wise.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, politely.

Then we talk about kindness for a while. ‘Sometimes I think it is the thing that counts the most,’ I say.

He brightens. I can hear him brightening, seven thousand miles away. ‘That’s just what the Dalai Lama says,’ he says.

‘Me and the Dalai Lama,’ I say. ‘Two minds with one thought. Write it down, write it down.’

This is our special joke, because the Dalai Lama travels everywhere with scribes, and when he says something which sounds ephemeral their hands pause over the page, not sure whether to record it or not, and he waves at them and says: ‘Write it down, write it down’. For some reason, this story tickles me very much.

Anyway, kindness. Me and the Dalai, and EM Forster too, who wrote ‘Kindness, kindness, and yet more kindness.’ It’s the thing from which all else flows. I think.

It was a good, honest conversation. I sometimes forget how much conversation can make things better. A sense of communion and sanity returns, through the fragile medium of talk. It’s a sort of miracle, really, when you think about it.

Just as I am writing these last words, I hear a squeak and a rattle and a laughing voice. IT IS THE WINDOW CLEANERS.

This feels like a sign. I adore the window cleaners. There are three of them, from the same family, father and sons, and they are the happiest, nicest, funniest men in Scotland. I sometimes think I pay them cash not for clean glass, but for a tonic to the spirits.

I have just been out to get my fix of smiling chat. Now, back at my desk, I can hear them talking and laughing. They laugh big, deep, belly laughs, as if they think the world is a pretty wonderful place. They clean the windows like lightning; they are amazingly efficient, but they still find time for a joke and a laugh. There they are, out in minus nine, with their hats on, laughing like they have the best job in the world. They are a three man fillip, and I love them for it.

 

Today's pictures, of the frozen world:

Pigeon having fun with stick:

Please please please throw it again:

PLEASE? If I look extra adorable and slightly goofy?:

Blue hill:

Lovely comments from the last couple of days; sorry have not been replying; my time management is all to pot.

Thank you for them.