Some friends are part of the fabric of your life, almost as present as a faithful dog, within easy reach no matter where. An invisible thread stretches fingertip to fingertip.
RITA is one of these. We first met in the seventies. Rita loved the arts, wrote poetry and read incessantly. She and her husband had built a beautiful stone home with their own hands. Set into a hillside it was on two levels – living area on the upper and a well-stocked cellar of European character below. Every time I pulled into their driveway, I’d have to close my eyes and draw in deep draughts of the heady perfume, of not only countless varieties of flowers, shrubs and trees but of rich composted earth. I’ve never met anyone who could be so excited about a compost heap and its potential to enrich her garden that was filled with the unusual and exotic plants she’d read about or remembered from childhood. Scattered throughout the beds were tokens of European folklore, sculptures and pottery. Her house was filled with fresh flowers brought in by the arms full and placed lovingly, haphazardly in vases of stamp.
Every wall of her house was lined with paintings, fabrics, books on every subject. Their furniture was made by hand – covered in aged leather. Glorious rugs covered the recycled wooden floors, and there were lamps – in corners, on tables, beside chairs – always aglow for ambience. A generous fire burned in the large stone fireplace on any cold day. Coffee brewed and fresh cakes rose in a warm wood oven if Rita was expecting you.
As she and I shared our poetry and dissertated about music, art and the books we’d read, the works of great musicians played on her turn-table – from Brahms to Baez, Dvorak to Dylan.
I was always taken on a tour of the garden before I left and would come home with at least a bucketful of flowers.
Rita had spent her childhood in war-torn Germany. Through the terrible hardships of war, she had sought and found beauty in her surroundings, in books, music and a handful of people of her stripe. This quality was still in her. She was a woman of substance and a wonderful friend.
Today she lives alone, in a small house. To visit you need to wend your way along a path overhung with rambling rose and crabapple branches, and edged riotously with hollyhocks, foxgloves, penstemon, sage, beets and basil. As she welcomes you with open arms you enter her living room and gasp every time at the anarchy of books that greet you. Not neatly and unread on shelves but in a constant state of flux – many open, heavily book-marked, piles nearly toppling off their shelves, on cupboards, on tables either side of her chair. Rita is into esotericism, and her interests in this respect lie largely in the unseen. Amazing to listen to her knowledge and understanding of energy fields and consciousness. She has been an inspiration to me in her fullness of living. She attracts an amazingly diverse calibre of people, goes out into the world to explore her surroundings, the arts – both visual and performing, she loves to cook, preserve food, create amazing clothing. Each time you visit she has some new food she has discovered for you to try. She is warm and sentimental. The gifts that people have given her are placed artistically all over her house. She writes prolifically – poetry. She is one of those friends who is within fingertip reach at any time.
The world has changed for now, maybe forever. Our values, and perhaps more-so those of our children and grandchildren, will change. Perhaps they will learn to know the joy of taking their time – with books, music, food, gardens, nature, friends, strangers. Friendship is a freedom they cannot take away.
I found another little poem of mine – from the seventies.
Walk closer now and warm me as the dampness grows
This day’s been long invited by you and me at least
didn’t bat an eyelid at our cartwheels in the grass
went right on being while our fears and doubts
roamed aimlessly away
In nearby fields small horses stamp and snort small clouds
while our minds huddle close and brew the evening’s coffee
over persevering coals within the cosy cabin walls
amongst the rugs and timber
firelight and kisses
and the reminiscences
of this old day
It would be lovely to hear from you. There’s a box below.
Keep safe everyone. And discover your closer world.
Sue