Jigsaw

I am a lover of puzzles. I like problem solving - most of the time. I have a new jigsaw. But it is one of those new, modern, tricksy jigsaws. There is no picture on the lid and you cannot be quite sure that all the pieces in the box belong to this jigsaw. There may be some that do not belong.

 

This may take some time to solve - even for me. There was once an old jigsaw, where all the pieces fitted into a neat, ordered space and the result was pretty good. We lived in that jigsaw for nearly seven years and then we decided to move on and try a new one. It took us a long time to arrange the pieces of the old one, just how we liked them. It took a long time to keep it clean and tidy. Sometimes we added new pieces. We rearranged a few things and made them fit. Occasionally we threw away old ones. But not often. We ended up with a lot of pieces in our jigsaw. After nearly seven years we decided to pack up the pieces in a lot of boxes - it took more than 150 boxes. It was a very big jigsaw!

 

Now we have a new place for our jigsaw and a new picture to make but what will it look like? We have downsized. So I have a new puzzle to tease me. I think it may tease me for quite a while and I will have to try to learn to think in new ways and do things a bit differently in order to complete this new puzzle. Next week the new jigsaw arrives from the store where I have been keeping it. I have found a new place for it. But this is a new start. I must rearrange the pieces. Now I know where the puzzle must live I have to create a new one. The old one will not do. Some of the pieces will not do either - the question is: which ones? It is a guessing game of trial and error. When it is finished I know it will be beautiful, unique and just the right size. When the last piece is finally placed in the last gap I know it will fit. There will be just enough pieces and just enough space. It will be a new creation - a thing of beauty. Won't it?

 

Someone out there please tell me I'm right! Has anyone else ever moved house?

Forward Planning

Today I am schizophrenic. It is almost too much. The present... the future... which shall I choose? I am bombarded by sensations. A pleasant cooing draws my attention. My new grandson is gurgling at me. He is learning to reproduce some of the sounds he has been hearing around him for so long. He 'chats' to me - at least I like to think so. I talk to him, just a sentence and then he coos in reply. I smile exaggeratedly and he giggles. His mother loves his giggles so much that she is tempted, against her better judgment, to continue the game until his giggles are overtaken by a hiccup, and then another one. Suddenly he is overcome by a succession of loud hiccuping, his little frame shuddering with the force of those unsolicited little eruptions in his tiny body. It is a shame to make him hiccup, but such fun to hear him giggle!

 

My grandson clutces at my finger. He has a tenacious grip. I gently rub bunny's ears against his soft skin and he responds, leaving go of my finger and reaching for bunny's ears, enjoyin the sensation of softness, much nicer than grandma's crinkly fingers.

 

He is a treasure - a very present treasure. But, all at once, I am fast forwarded, my attention slipping from baby's grasp, my thoughts wandering down country lanes, my ears catching the birdsong and my nose scenting the sea breezes. My new home! Suddenly it is present with me. Only ten days to go until we are catapaulted into the new life we have chosen. My inner eyes rove around my new home, planning colour schemes, placing furniture, mentally unpacking boxes of forgotten things from the store and stowing them neatly in cupboards.

 

Our pictures will be the fnishing touch - the icing on the cake - remining us of former dwelling places, documenting the passage of our lives. Now a third dimension enters - that of the past. We will choose carefully from the boxes, gently unwrapping and matching each one to its own surroundings, its colour scheme and mood. Past, present and future. Multi-tasking. Life is a schizophrenic kaleidoscope - so many memories, sensations, hopes and dreams. It is a rich, heady mix that takes a lifetime to process. I am a wealthy woman - I have a past, a present and a future and the capacity to enjoy them all at once.

The Memory Keeper's Sister

We were discussing the passing of time: growing old and how young or old we felt. “It depends on who is still alive” said my sister. What did she mean? She was talking about seniority – position within the family and the responsibilities with which it endowed its holder.  When our mother died our status as orphans was complete and the upper stratum of the family was empty. No aunts, no uncles, no parents – only us and those who had issued from our loins, to use an old-fashioned phrase.

 

It felt a bit naked. We felt vulnerable and no-one more so than my sister: the eldest sibling – ‘matriarchal sis’. In her matriarchal position, reluctantly but doggedly assumed, my sister takes her responsibilities seriously. She is there for us all. She is the voice on the other end of the telephone (even when we ring at mealtimes). She is the provider of Christmas dinner. She is the bestower of meaningful family gifts. Immersed in her almost lifelong, absorbing passion – sewing – she sits at her table, creating masterpieces of family heirlooms. My sister creates tapestries, wall hangings, quilts and mementoes out of countless fabrics, buttons, beads, ribbons and braids, wadding, words, pictures and a lot of love. She takes the fabric of our lives and weaves them into quilts. She celebrates births, birthdays, weddings, dedications and other momentous occasions of our lives with her gift.

 

My sister’s house is elastic-sided. It contains the family heritage. Cupboards, shelves, display units contain mementoes of all the generations of our family: vases, milk jugs, photos, candlesticks, ghastly elves under toadstools (a lasting reminder of a childhood poem our mother used to recite: ‘under a toadstool sat a wee elf, out of the rain to shelter himself’), and books. A framed black and white photograph of our maternal grandmother has pride of place. She was a beautiful woman. I have the same photograph myself but our childhood remains intact through the much greater, careful hoarding of my matriarchal sis. A volume of ‘Magic London’, complete with pictures, still sits on the shelf. It brings back such memories. The Magic Faraway tree does the same. The complete set of C.S. Lewis’s Narnia stories sits side by side with its more modern counterpart: the Roald Dahl stories and Harry Potter’s exploits. Our childhoods and that of the next generation are equally enshrined for posterity. The cupboards are stuffed full of photos, commemorating every birthday, visit to relatives, family holiday that can be recalled – and a lot that cannot. The garage contains spare bicycle parts belonging to various members of the family. My sister is the Memory Keeper.

 

In the throes of an international move, we have become temporarily homeless. My sister and brother in law have offered up their home to us too. It has been our temporary home for us and a lot of our clutter these past few months. Now we are moving on. But our small country cottage is no place for family heritage. Just enough for ourselves and a few occasional guests, it is not the place for such memories. Matriarchal sis has stepped in before the downsizing goes too far and memories are lost forever. We can have a place on the family shelves. We can store our surplus in the matriarchal home. Her home will continue to be elastic for all the growing generations. I am the memory keeper’s sister – I have a place here.