The Forgotten Garden - an unforgettable book

"You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing."

Reading this book was not much different than being inside a garden - as beautifully written as the garden described by the author. Each of the three heroines and their lives came to your mind with vivid senses: red flowing hair, the scent of the sea, the foggy cottage on a Cornish cliff, the antique shops... The author weaved a complicated but lovely pattern of different backdrops of times, places and people. It wasn't hard for the reader to follow at all which is what impressed me the most.

Many hours I lost myself in this garden though there was never a rush to finish it, to get to the bottom of the mystery. Yes, I'd like to know the answer but it was all right to just stroll along - getting through the maze, looking at the birds, smelling the fragrance of apples ripening on the branches, listening to the sound of the not-so-distant ocean... Along the way, you learned of Eliza's secrets, Nell's struggles and Cassandra's heartaches. While they tugged your heart strings at different intensity, you also knew that their strength was not to be underestimated.

I came away with the quote at the start of this post which was spoken by Ruby, a middle-aged woman whose warmth and cheerfulness is familiar (I think we all have a friend or two like Ruby) and she is wise - maybe more so than our protagonists. You would agree with me if you've read the book. Not sure if it's coincidence that one of my new year's resolutions is to "be content" and that I would pick up this book. It's a promise, then, I shall make to myself: I am making my life out of what I have, not what I am missing. Amen.

More Haikus

Paul smelt like dog doo
After he mowed the lawn
We don’t have a dog


My fingers are crossed that Paul would never see this post - yikes!

The forest is still
Trailing after fairy’s scent
No path to follow



What is Happiness?
Watching wild geese flying south
A shot gun in hand


Remembering John Lennon's "Happiness is a warm gun."


Tasting the best coffee
Sitting in the wintry cold
My friend is a poet

The Fog is Coming

Aimlessly she wanders
Because the wall is being built
Higher and higher
Until her neck is sore

Her skin is damp, her face cold
She doesn’t struggle
Because she knows
The fog is coming

Her steps are heavy
Her clothes are getting wet
The fog turns into water
And she is not swimming

In a circle she floats
Nowhere to go
She sees the wall now
It’s concrete and sturdily built

Looking out through the wall
She sees the murky people
The sun seems to be bright
And are they smiling?

Crunching down on her feet
She wants to weep
Tears won’t come
Because she's sunken too deep

The walls are growing
Layers around her limbs
It's too heavy
It's too heavy

More Haiku practices

Here is one:

They walk their puppies
Rico, Grace and Cody
My Henry walks me

Another one:

Accident happens
Nature trips on the canvas
No one sees color

Yet another:

Two shades of gray

Half of the bright moon shining

The memory of you

More sleepless nights and more Haiku will be practiced.  It is almost like doing some mathematical problems with a bit zen in it.

Critters and Marriage

An attempt at Haiku and verses
This is what happened when one couldn't sleep at night, eh?

Snacking in the night
These critters of the dark
Dreams sounded crunchy


Don't really know if it makes sense; but what the hell, I was just trying to kill time.


She comes to him at night
Frightened
He breathes soundly and sleepy
Deep into his dreams
Lying awake, she hears herself talking
It's nothing
Just indigestion


I thought this one is about marriage...
Or maybe just my take on marriage...  

A Town Called the Water's Tail

Rufus,

Looking at the dark green ocean, the waves coming and going and the blue sky with feathery white clouds floating by, an understanding came to me:

I am the green of the ocean and you are the blue of the sky. It would appear that the ocean and the sky are connected seamlessly at the edge of the earth when one is looking out from the beach. One only needs to look up and one would realize that, in reality, the ocean and the sky are so very far apart. The distance between them is something cannot be overcome and it is not possible, nor probable to make them closer. Oh but the illusion by one’s naked eyes is so convincing that they are joined, attached and form the straightest horizontal line and I believe that’s where they have their conversations.

This thought pleases me and I don’t know why. I’ve just finished a one-mile run on the beach while listening to Kashmir (It is my absolute favorite, ya know. I had it on repeat over and over); feeling very much young and vibrant. The tide was going out and much of the sandy ground was revealed with broken seashells, sand dollars and tiny pebbles glistening in the morning light. I ran through puddles of water and was splashed with the coldness; skipped over the tiny pools pretending that I was running a mud race. The wind behind me pushing me to run faster and I did. And I was happy.

Trying to take a picture with my iPhone to catch the white-laced waves around my blue Crocs and I ended up with a picture of the shadow of my lower body. I giggled and texted it to my friends with a caption that says “Hey, look at my shapely legs!” Getting a respond from LCG that says “You are weird” and from KG a “Nice…” and I remembered the trip to the beach at the town called “The Water’s Tail." Boy, that was long, long time ago.

F. Scott Fitzgerald is on my to-read list. I’m reading Sagan’s “Bonjour Tristesse,” in English of course. I’ve read it in Chinese when I was in high school and thought to read it again in English now so I might possibly gain different yet interesting new insight? Trying to finish "House made of Dawn" but I am having a hard time understanding why Abel killed his friend. What I really want to read, from start to finish in one setting, is “Guns, Germs and Steel” by Jared Diamond before September - that's my goal anyway. How’s your summer so far?

Dufus

Self portrait

Maybe it was the fear of dying young, losing all the possibilities of everything that defines one’s true self; and in the process something had been kept dormant erupted. If it’d caused any hurt or damages, it’s too late to apologize and one does not regret it. Best thing to do is to let it run its course and eventually, one hopes, it will be solidified into dust.

Nothing useful or wise could ever be said about one’s foolishness. Isn’t it enough that there is breath in and out of oneself? Isn’t it enough that one is walking on one’s own free will? Isn’t it suffice to wade through life, hike up one’s skirt or just let it fall and be wet and cold, all the while watching others slip and fall? Honesty makes one vulnerable; but one is not weak.

Why did the Joseph Mallord William Turner's painting can be so bright and warm at first glance; but when you stop and stare, it seems so lonely? How does one live in the house made of dawn but one’s feeling linger in the depth of hell? Why would one weep for others but couldn’t shed tears when the tragedy strikes oneself? Why do one loath one’s own image but is delighted to see the faces of one’s children? How could one pine for something belongs to someone else yet is reluctant to accept the possibility of denial? Why is the wakening happened when one has crossed the threshold of adolescent and youth and why is the longing never ceased?

One contemplates cutting off one chamber of one’s heart because it’s hurting too much and it’s festering with useless yearning. While the throbbing of pain grappled one so fiercely, one looks at it with fascination. Could one ever forget? Is it possible to forgive and ask for forgiveness – and truly be at ease with one’s transgression? Can it be that one has the answer all this time; one just chose to ignore it? One is confusing enough, one does not need two.