"First Impressions"

     What do the words “First Impressions” mean to you? For me, I first think of the title Jane Austen originally had in mind for Pride and Prejudice. Today, as I was laying out a set of hand-me-downs for the next size up from what my baby girl is currently wearing, I noticed the clothing tag near the neckline of this little onesie: “First Impressions”. I was thrilled of course that my child would be wearing something that is remotely Jane Austen related. But I also thought of my first impressions of her, my little flower: my initial thoughts when I found out I was expecting, my first ultrasound where I prayed to hear the doctor say that there was a heartbeat, the first initial nudges from her on the other side of my belly button, her contented face when she was laid upon me after her arrival, her pink glow in the incubator when I first visited her in the neonatal intensive care unit, all those moments when she fell asleep on me or near me. I am under her spell…

A Walk to Netherfield

I often walk around our neighbourhood, now as a way of simply getting some Vitamin D with the little one in tow.  In former years it used to be a way of getting exercise, and sometimes an excuse to buy a bunch of flowers from a local flower shop. On the way, there is this impressive house, with a well-kept lawn, and a brick that is just faintly pink in colour.  It contrasts very nicely against the cream trim and columns.  Although the 1995 BBC production of Pride and Prejudice shows Netherfield Park to be a house of rich red brick, somehow I have always called this particular house in the neighbourhood, “Netherfield”. And guess what? It is on sale and it has been so for quite some time.  But unlike the house in my favourite novel, it has NOT been let at last.  I suppose it must wait for some Bingley with deep pockets who boasts a heart of a still greater depth.  Every time I walk by I can picture an elegant Darcy pacing on this lawn.  The Green Lawn.  

Beauty in Disintegration

       At our grandparents house I was happiest to have discovered a stack of books by Enid Blyton in a loft, belonging to our estranged maternal Uncle.  They allowed me to escape and imagine and devour new words.  I was happy also, when my sister and I sat in the rain one day tearing a piece of paper to shreds at our home-home.  Mesmerized by the changing texture of the fibers.  Our mother saw us, and let us be (bless her!).  There was another day when we sat in the front yard digging up mud, mixing it up with water and creating little objects. We let them dry in the sun, and were surprised that they became dust once more.  That is the final destiny of all things.  Therefore our composition is the composition of other things, alive or not.  And hence, I suspect the love in us later becomes the love in other things.  Is it possible that when everything falls apart, the love we have stays intact? 

A Glimpse of Eternity

Today I spent a lovely afternoon in the park with my family; the one I created, not the one I was thrust into. I didn’t realize that going to the park is a possibility with a newborn. My husband and I sat or lay on the picnic blanket, reading while our dear flower napped. We were in the shade of a deciduous tree, the kind that look like their leaves are from a different realm when positioned against the blue sky. Light breeze. Three separate wedding couples getting photographed not too far away. A small artificial brook making music. A harp (no really!). An older couple sitting affectionately on a bench by the pathway. Some small children and their guardians at the thing that looks like abstract art, masquerading as a playground. People in the spring, summer and autumn of their lives. This park where all seasons intersect, is quite dear to my husband and I.

Splintered Family

I was listening to a podcast recently by Lynette Corolla and Teresa Strauser, where they talked about their difficult relationship with their parents. They discussed that in their childhood things stopped being celebrated, something that I could relate to.  It is one of those things that we had to let go.  The next thing we let go was eating together, because our parents had different work schedules.  Now our family seems splintered.  My mother left my father and she is avoiding anything having to do with him, including visiting my sister and my niece.  The reason?  At the risk of losing my only follower ...Well, I am too ashamed and deeply saddened to explain any of it.  It suffices to say that it is positively Shakespearean.  Tolstoy said something to the effect of "all families are the same, and unhappy in the same way".  I don't know what he would have said if he met my family.  My family is a wasp nest and my very sanity at times has felt endangered (but more on that next post). 

Mr. Darcy's Dream

I try to make a conscious effort of remembering my dreams.  But my husband tends to not remember them, though he has some entertaining ones from what I am able to deduce from his nightly sleep-talking.  He oddly enough, remembered meeting my maternal grandmother in his dream.  Bear in mind, he never met her in person.  In his dream, he was serving tea to my grandmother.  And he asked her if she would like the milk poured first, and she replied in the affirmative. And they apparently had a nice cup of tea together.  Sadly, my grandmother passed away a month ago, having never met my husband or our newborn.  Apparently, as she was nearing her end, she kept asking to speak to my husband and to see my daughter.  Despite being a tough disciplinarian who, like many in Jane Austen’s time, believed in accomplishments, also had a fondness for sweets.  And if we are what we eat, she was incredibly sweet.

Vintage Voodoo

Any sense of idleness was heavily reprimanded.  With good intentions, our grandmother and aunt wondered very openly why we never did things. Things. You know all those things: stitching, drawing, crocheting.  And if we tried to we never felt at ease because their criticism then changed to them thinking that we were doing those things “for show”.  We were so flummoxed as to how to please them.

But I think I am ready to teach myself some embroidery, because it will still my mind.  Elizabeth Bennet and all those other women, fictitious and real, who have come before me would prick fabric in the absence of voodoo dolls.  Some of my memories, recent and ancient, are still causing me to have sleepless nights, when everyone, including my precious, baby-girl, my flower of my flesh sleeps away.  I am doing this to please only myself, for I long to add something pretty to this cluttered "Pemberley".