The Grateful Granddaughter

Do you know dogwood? Maybe it’s especially bright these days, but I notice it more. The bare new stems look literally like beams of red light - not solid at all. My mother startled me out of my book the other day as she leaned forward suddenly. I don’t know why she whispered, as we were behind glass, but you do when you’ve seen something precious, don’t you? There were birds that I had never seen before, heading for the dogwood. They travel in groups, but don’t stay long. They move decisively as greyhounds, but with the lightness of thieves. Softer than blossom, their infant faces blown with down; tails straight and strong as metal rules. How perfect a painting was every pose as they chattered in the dogwood, their little monochrome frames balancing on the red beams.

It reminded me of days long past, when I was seeing so many things for the first time, returning to England at age seven after several years in America. My mind had carved England into some ethereal Elysium, and the reality in no way missed the mark as the seasons unfurled.

Fear could not cross the threshold of my grandparents’ house. Not even nightmares followed me there. Insects became interesting, water tasted sweeter; everything cast its own flawless form. If I heard pigeons outside before I opened my eyes each day, I knew where I was: in the enchanted safety of that house. The smell of a potting shed, or only its memory, has a soporific effect on me even now. There was something so reassuring in the way the tools were only hung if clean and orderly; even the compost was tidy in that damp darkness. There was hardly a more comforting place than the greenhouse; I would long outstay my physical comfort in that stifling incubator for the hypnotic fragrance of tomato vines. I’d never seen foxgloves – not real ones. I’d seen how Beatrix Potter painted them in books, and such round bees I’d seen in “Winnie the Pooh,” but I had never stored them as true memories. There was barely any soil to be seen in summer, but only clustering, clambering, rampant, redolent, magnificent effulgence in the shapes of snapdragons, chrysanthemums, pansies, primroses, sweet peas and foxgloves, all fussed over by cabbage-whites and bees. Wrapped in a brocade eiderdown, to be read a chapter from “The Waterbabies” was heaven’s pinnacle to me. My grandmother would stroke my head, but I did not want to miss her devoted tenderness, and stayed awake until she mistook my heavy-lidded eyes and peaceful smile for sleep.

I’m not sad those days are over; I don’t miss anyone or anything. I know now that those feelings are not like objects to be gained or lost; they reflect a way of looking at the world. I used to think the childlike view was lost with the child, but in meditation I find it is real and enduring. I know how lucky I am to have access to that same robust purity, that same enchanting freshness, that same golden joy, that same invincible safety, that same rapt innocence, no matter what age I reach. I think you know what I mean.

Sumangali Morhall
January 2005