Our own nest

A bird in a cage sings more sweetly, they used to say; and no one is more lyrical than the exile. Now that I have come home from exile, able to build a nest in freedom – that is to say bought a cosy little house – I’ve not written a thing. Plenty of excuses of course. Computer not set up (what’s wrong with my beloved fountain-pen and sacred notebook?); too many pressing and exhausting tasks, more than enough to fill each day (all the more reason to take time off and write); no internet connection (doesn’t prevent me from drafting out a piece anyhow and transcribing it in the internet cafe – which is what I’m doing now).

K had said we’d be nostalgic about the flat we’ve just left. But I don’t miss the apartment itself, or if I do, I only have to reassemble it as a full-size model in memory, with all its shortcomings and overcomings. When you sat back on the sofa, the springs dug into your back. I had to make sure guests never sat on it. when we offered food to guests, the camping table normally kept in a cupboard would be unfolded and used for a buffet.

Now, we have a lounge and separate dining-room adjoining the kitchen, and 3 bedrooms upstairs. Not grand though.It’s a dark little house because old English cottages up to Victorian times tend to have small windows. My computer desk (that Singer sewing-machine that reminded me of childhood homework when we first moved to Isle of Wight) is not very ergonomic for a grown man: the swung-down & concealed sewing machine gets in the way of one’s knees. There’ll always be scope for overcoming in this life—I wrote in this blog a few weeks ago of those smart houses in Babylon Town that seemed over-finished, like expensive coffins. This house is not like that!

We were given this place, that’s the only way to describe how it feels. But I have not been keeping that focus. It’s a form of craziness to think I am making it all happen. At this moment I feel once more that sense of gratitude that has been painfully missing these last few weeks when struggling on top of a ladder or at the ironmonger’s searching for the right kind of screws. Those are necessary tasks but they distract from the passive enjoyment of divine warmth: that so precious experience which has inspired every religion.

It’s the feast Eidh at the end of the fasting month Ramadan: a time of great joy in these streets as Muslims flock to the mosque at various times in their white robes and crocheted caps. Sometimes the service is held outside, or is it just an overflow from the main hall? Worship and gratitude arer certainly overflowing. Islam is impressing me more than Christianity: the Baptist Church next to the Mosque is a dour place where nothing much happens except on a Sunday. But I won’t lose my overall perspective that every religion and every idea of God is a mild heresy against experience, just as a political party cannot help twisting the facts. Religion is merely a cup to hold the wine when it’s shared.

I’ve positioned the sewing-machine – the computer I should say – to view a microcosm from the upper back window as I ponder and write. Lots of sky; a crab-apple tree in the public playground tht drops fruit in our backyard; an acacia that drops pea-like pods everywhere. Behind these rises the hill crowded with houses built in the last 20 years. but still called The Pastures. My Ordnance Survey map from the Fifties shows nothing but contour lines, public footpaths and a few old cottages. Mercifully all those footpaths have been protected and you can still walk them, evn through the housing estates. At the front of our house on the opposite side of the road is one marked “Hill View 1898”, but sadly for its purchaser that view was permanently blocked when our house was built.

It’s a joy to observe from my window the visitors to the playground, and watch pedestrians pass to and fro on the nondescript street beyond: some returning with shopping bags; some going to work, some on their way to the mosque. In the evening, young men gather in twos and threes talking, some riding the swings or addressing their mobile phones. At that time they are silhouetted by a dim streetlamp and I cannot tell if they are white or Asian or West Indian. The differences are always fascinating. As I write this morning, a group of seven Asian teenagers gathers restlessly under the acacia tree, apparently planning some harmless mischief. Others more earnest stride back from the mosque. As I passed through the playground on my way to this internet cafe, a tall Rastaman (dreadlocked West Indian) leapt over the low fence and greeted some Asian youths with a “Merry Christmas”. They replied with some reminiscence of last time. Perhaps the sharing of spliffs was involved, for this Rasta was high on something. His companion was more grizzled, his grey shaggy beard tied in a bizarre tangled knot under his chin.

Dear friends, it is an honour to address you thus, and to invite you to my home – verbally for now, but who knows? Do we know how much we are blessed? How can we share our blessings with those who lack?