A Room With A View
Ten years ago, when I had a frozen shoulder, I didn’t play the cello for 18 months.
“What did you do?” people often ask.
Well, I did go to India and have Ayurvedic massage every day for two hours, and learn Indian singing and cookery, but hey, that was only for six weeks. I read a lot of books about how my body was telling me something and I tried to figure out what it was. But what did I do for the remaining sixteen months? As far as I remember, I looked out of the window at the sea: For days of hours I watched its moods blacken and thicken and I watched raindrops dance on its surface like thin drumsticks. Then I watched it turn into a gleaming slippery slick of blue, and I dreamed of boats wafting me off to possible futures on the wind in their blood red sails.
Apparently, one of them managed to get me across the channel!
Since life in that English seaside flat – away from which my paint-bespattered skipper whisked me shortly thereafter - I have been missing something. I thought (occasionally and somewhat guiltily) that it was the freedom of the single life, but today I know that, though indeed it had something to do with having A Room Of My Own (and I realise that that is a luxury few couples have), even more than that, I missed having A Room With A View.
Today, sitting in my room (the only one with a view apart from Julian’s new studio) for the first time since it was filled with stress and painting paraphernalia, and on whose door I would knock respectfully before entering, I realise I am doing that thing again that makes me so idiotically happy - I am gazing out of the window. This time the sea is one of vines waving their gangly green arms in the mistral like teenagers at a rave. I can see our blue grey cat rubbing his nose on their roots and our tabby rolling in the red sand. A path leads away up a mountain and into the sky like a stairway to heaven. Around it all is an unfinished window frame.
Julian doesn't knock yet, but he does bring me glass of cool Viognier at six o’ clock on the dot.
“Actually it’s quite nice to have a place to come and visit you!”
if you want to look through the round window, check out my neighbour's beautiful daily images - all taken on his, and therefore our daily walk.