Every loss contains its own seed

I have just lost tonight's blog. I spent time with it and now it is gone. I am never convinced it is as good second time around. As I was talking about megacorporations offering more and more megabytes (and counting) of free storage, it may not be such a bad thing it has been consigned to the digital dustbin. But it does leave me hanging around these sentences thinking about the one that got away. (You should have seen it.) I guess I will have to reach for a verbal paint brush and do a still-life instead. So here we go. Two large works of art are attached to one wall, and when I look at them in the half-light I am aware of the atmosphere of the room being absorbed by the medium. I am also aware of the light in the work bouncing back. It is like a swap. Nature as much as portraiture seems to rule both images and this is perhaps no bad construct in an urban setting. The artist is sitting on the bright red sofa after a hard day's work at the art face, not to mention her tireless mothering, and she smooths her sole like an athlete, in between gently closing her eyes. She is actually watching a programme about children adapting to the death of a parent. (A huge subject and one I am an authority on.) Our children meanwhile sleep, or try to sleep, in our bed. I am still irritated at losing my blog but begin to find my way around this sketch. It is really about loss. It is about loss and not talking about it. I am half-listening with headphones to Nick Drake as I write. (His song 'Northern Sky.') A pack of rich tea biscuits lie open and a warm cup of tea sourced from Fairtrade-certified tea growers in East Africa and North India is waiting for me. Losing a parent is worse than losing a blog. I sit back in my chair and feel the cool of the wood press through my shirt. A book of poetry stares at me to my left. I pluck it from the shelf. It is an anthology of modern verse first published in 1936 and I bought it in a Red Cross shop. The first page I open is Wilfred Owen. This is strange as I half-quoted him a few days ago on Remembrance Day. I won't say what it is I read. It is about loss.

What's so funny 'bout peace love & understanding?

An itchy, important, frustrating day. Another period away from the artist and a meeting with someone different again: another person who knows his war-zones. It was tea this time, in a tall light room with ornate furnishings. It was like a film-set, a scene from a French period piece, with English undertones. There we were, in the middle of it all, two white cups, two white saucers, a tea-pot and tea-strainer, two uneaten biscuits, and two people talking about conflict, post-conflict, and the issues of aid. His own particular expertise was in picking up the pieces and, though I was frustrated, I felt emboldened by his company. I spoke to the artist before returning and when I got back she was hovering by the piece on the wall. To be frank, she looked intimidated by the amount of work she still has to do. It is not all ardour and loyalty in this household. There can be moments of domestic tension, especially when the subject of the artist's work is raised. (The same place where the artist gets her strength is the same place where she also gets her frustration.) Anyway, the issues she has are now being worked on as I write this blog. I can hear that familiar dabbing and stabbing. There is no rest in this house. We are always striving. It is not helped by the fact the children are still awake and we are all in one room. But, and I must try to remember this, diligence is not explained by success alone. We may not have our rewards, but we most certainly have our creative and functioning aspirations. As I peer over the brow of the day, I can see the next excitement, too. It comes in the shape of three family birthdays in the next six days, including the two children's birthdays. There are always birthdays. Even in the war-zones. But ours are ours.