Woohoo...I got both parts of Hot Fuzz recorded! Oh, what joy...to have a dose of that delicious medicine called laughter. Most of the things I'm suffering from can seem better with this treatment but the suffering has been too extensive for even my famously dark humour to find the chinks of light so I was very grateful indeed. Having checked part deux was safely in place I've saved it for more therapy tonight if it's quiet enough, and to give the neighbours who were quiet last night a rest from my cockles and guffaws. The first half ended with Sergeant Angel discovering films were a very good way to turn off minds so an appropriate place to pause...or should I say Point to Break? Probably only to those who've seen it!
I give thanks my body was so delighted with feeling tickled I was completely free of pain in bed afterwards...for a good five minutes! Groan...grumble...grouch... I really am grateful I've been feeling so well and strong physically lately but it seems such a waste when there's so little I can can actually do.
I give thanks for keeping feeding the hungry giant that lives in my tummy these days, and clearing up the mess I make in the process, even doing some vacuuming though this is an activity guaranteed to bring me to (not being able to use my) knees. For having fresh air indoors...before the neighbours got a bit fresh with their volume levels and I had to batten down the hatches and block up my ears again.
I give thanks for the golden twinkling of streetlights coming on in the murkiness of the evening when the bare trees stand out dark still against the grey on the hillside behind. For spotting the windows glowing in houses too and wondering if mine from a distance look as if something warm and inviting is within as well. It's hard to imagine somehow...
I've had snippets of The Woman with no Fire of her Own coming into my mind recently and dug out a copy today to read again. Thought if I'd like to you might like to too so here it is if you would!
The
Woman with no Fire of her Own
Once,
in a time and place not far from here, there lived a woman who did
not fit. Her skin was the same colour as everyone else's and she had
the correct number of senses and limbs. But when she opened her
mouth the strangest sounds came out, for she was a seeker and speaker
of truth, a kind not often found in her land. She asked questions
that couldn't or shouldn't be answered, was honest when she should
have lied.
Her
own closest relations found this particularly disquieting for every
evening while other families sat together encircling their campfires,
they grouped themselves around a cold stone. No warm glow lit their
faces or hearts and they did not share the stories of progress and
prowess the rest of their tribe enjoyed, but only told tales of
spite. They were embarrassed enough by their difficult daughter and
to prevent her revealing this, their dark secret, they told her she
came from a distant race and could not mix with her neighbours and
peers.
Already
shunned for her curious ways this isolated the girl even more. But
the little child grew as children will do in spite of life's efforts
to stunt them. She found joy in the sun and the moon and the stars
of the sky and quickly learnt such lessons as girls of her culture
were taught. Soon she could sing and she could sew, make sweet bread
and sweeter still music, though she danced to a different tune.
When
the time came for those of her generation to leave their homes and
have adventures before adulthood claimed them, the young woman went
wandering too. As was tradition the others were given a glowing
ember from the family hearth so they could start fires of their own,
but her parents, in keeping with the cold way they'd raised her, gave
her only a small grey stone. She took her lute and her breadpan
with her, her finest needles and threads. And most precious of all
she took a hopeful heart that she would find the fire she belonged
by, the people from whom she had come.
The
road was long and the journey eventful. Sometimes she walked for a
while with travellers going the same way, but they spoke the
companionable language of being together that the young woman had yet
to learn.
At
last she came to a town on the coast to the south of the land and
decided to rest for a time. By day she let the rays of the sun warm
her body while the waves of the sea soothed her mind. But when night
fell a chill crept into the air, so she took out her lute and
carefully tuned it and then began to play.
So
enthralled she was with making her music, that at first she didn't
notice the beach filling up with other young girls and boys until the
sounds of their revelry reached her ears and she ventured over to
watch them. They were singing and dancing together around a huge
fire, intoxicated by magical herbs from far off lands, wild rhythms
and moonlight on water.
“If
only I could join them,” the young woman sighed as she stood in the
shadows, her lute in her hand. “If only I knew their tune.”
But
then the circle widened and they beckoned her in and she stayed and
played with them all summer long. She learnt the words that they
spoke and the music that moved them and sampled the herbs that they
lived by. Some made her light-headed, some light-hearted and some so
light on her calloused feet that she danced beyond the dawn. And the
most sacred of all brought a light to her mind's eye that burned
brighter than any mere star could do and warmed her through to her
soul.
“These
are my people. At last I am home!” the young woman thought as she
drifted into dreams.
But
then the seasons changed and the mist rolled in, her lute buckled and
would not play. The herb takers packed up their possessions and
stamped out their fire and left her with no farewell. She sat on the
beach alone again and pondered upon her fate.
“Why
did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”
“I
was mistaken”, she reasoned, “They were not my people. ”
And
she picked up her breadpan, her stone, her needles and threads and
walked away to the hills of the west to search for her home once
more.
She
was much colder now that she had experienced fire, and much lonelier
on her own. One evening she sat by her cold grey stone in the mouth
of a cave hanging her head down and weeping. A young man passing
heard her sorrow and saw her plight and built a fire for them both
from his own glowing ember. The young woman took out her breadpan
and made him sweet bread and they ate together side by side as the
hills grew dark around them. Gazing up at the night sky she spotted
a shower of brilliant shooting stars.
“Look,
”she whispered, turning to her companion. “What joy they bring
to my heart!”
But he saw only a lithe body and an eager face and drew her down
beside him. That night she discovered the warmth of physical love.
“This
is my partner. At last I am home!” the young woman thought as she
drifted into dreams.
Winter
passed and they sheltered together through the storms and the rain
and the snow. But as spring came the boy grew restless and bored, he
didn't tend the fire as well as he should do and many times it was
almost extinguished. One night as she slept he crept from the cave
and made off to the valley below. The young girl awoke to a pile of
cold ashes, her breadpan broken beside it. Alone again she sat by
her stone and pondered upon her fate.
“Why
did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”
“I
was mistaken,” she reasoned, “He was not my partner.”
Her
heart was heavy without his beating beside it, but in her belly there
grew a child. She picked up her stone and her needles and threads
and wearily she journeyed down from the hills to the city that stood
on the plains.
The
first thing the young woman did when she got there was to take out
her needles and embroider a shawl to wrap her baby in. When people
saw the beautiful work she was doing they begged her to stitch and
sew for them. Soon she could afford a comfortable tent of her own
and rich customers brought her braziers of fire so she could
embroider her fine coloured flowers for them by night as well as by
day.
But
when her baby was born she found she could no longer sew, for her
hands were busy with him. Her patrons took their braziers and
business away, her needles rusted and were spoiled.
“Never
mind, my son,” she said, wrapping warm him in the silken shawl,
“We have riches enough for now. “
“This
is the one to whom I truly belong,” she thought, “At last I am
home!”
And
she laid him down beside her next to the cold grey stone as he
drifted into dreams.
While he slept she sang to him, for songs were all she had left to
share. And the sound of her voice and her words were so true that
people came from all over the city and paid money to her to listen.
Thus she was able to feed and clothe her child and pay others in time
to teach him such lessons as boys of his culture were taught. Soon
he could read and he could ride, make fine gardens and weapons of
war, and he grew into a man.
When
the time came for those of his generation to leave their homes and
have adventures before adulthood claimed them she handed him a piece
of grey stone.
“Son,”
she said, “You know I am a woman with no fire of my own. This is
all I have to give you.”
But
the young man said, “Keep it, I have no need of your stone. I am
the fruit of your womb but only half your child. I am going to find
my father's tribe and the fires that I belong by.”
After
he had gone the woman wept and pondered upon her fate.
“Why
did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”
“I
was mistaken,” she reasoned, “He could not be like me.”
She
was too old now for the sound of her sorrow to bring lovers to warm
her. Her once true voice was cracked with tears, all her talents and
treasures were gone. She sat alone by the cold grey stone outside
her tent as the darkness grew around her.
“I
have known the joy of the dance and the pleasure of passion,” she
thought, “the fierce love of mother for child. But all these have
been fleeting and their loss has been hard, what else can I seek that
will bring me warmth and will stay with me forever?”
Gazing
up at the night sky, she spotted a shower of brilliant shooting
stars.
“Look,”
she whispered to herself, “What joy they bring to my heart!”
But
shooting stars shine only briefly and after a while she remembered
the visions she'd seen on the sands of her youth with the herbs that
had opened her mind. She yearned for the blazing white light that
had burned so brightly it had warmed her through to her soul.
“Perhaps
that is the one warmth that I can call mine,” she decided, “but
its fire is the brightest of all. I must seek it now so the rest of
my days can be lived within its glow.”
And
she set off for the mountain that stood in the north to ask the wise
man who lived there, and knew of such things, the path she should
take to the light.
The
road was steep and the journey was tiring, her aging limbs ached as
she climbed. But her heart was as hopeful as when she'd been a young
girl and first set out to find the fire she belonged by, the people
from whom she had come.
“At
last,” she thought, “I am almost home!”
It
was cold on the mountain top and she shivered in the shawl she'd made
for her baby as she described to the wise man her quest. He had no
fire to sit beside, no companions, no partner, nor sons, and yet he
seemed warm and lit from within by a glow she recognised.
“Teach
me the secret of seeing the light,” she asked, “so I can live
without fire like you.”
“Alas,”
said the sage with the greatest compassion, “what I have takes
years of disciplined training. It's too late for you to start
learning now. But the light is inside you and you will see it again
once before you die - for everybody does so.”
The
woman was devastated, she aged many years, all her youthful hope was
gone.
“My
life has been wasted,” she thought, “my dreams all in vain. May
death come soon to release me!”
And
she struggled painfully back down the mountain and made her way to
the slow flowing river that wound through the east of the land.
The
woman sat on its banks with her stone beside her and awaited her time
to die. By day she watched the sunshine play on the water and when
night fell she watched the moon and the stars as they moved across
the sky. But none of these had brilliant enough a light to bring her
the joy she was seeking.
One evening as a golden sunset filled the heavens, the chill of
disappointment crept into her heart and she wrapped the shawl around
her shoulders as she pondered on her fate.
“Why
did this happen?” she questioned, “How am I here?”
“I have been mistaken many times,” she reasoned, “The people I
thought were mine were not. The partner I thought was mine was not.
The fruit of my womb that once shared my heart was only half my
child. And all the time I yearned for their companionship was time I
lost finding the light.”
“I
shall never know warmth!” the woman cried in despair, “What use
is a cold grey stone?”
And
she picked it up and raised her arm to hurl it into the river and be
rid of its curse for good. But her old fingers fumbled and lost
their grip and it dropped down to the rock beneath her. As flint
struck flint two sparks ignited and leapt to the fringe of her shawl.
They glowed brightly then burst into flame. Soon the fine worked
flowers began to smoulder and smoke but still the old woman didn't
shrug off her shawl or shrink from the blaze that embraced her.
“This
is my fire, “ she thought, “At last I am home!”
And
she opened her mind to the inner light that warmed her through to her
very soul............as she drifted into dreams.
*
