Wonder. Of Parakeets and Perch.
Shouldn't life include wonder?
Here’s a piece of writing I was working on recently. It’s about wonder. And parakeets and Perch.
Enjoy.
Wonder.
It struck me when I was eight years old, fishing for perch in the river Thames, home just a short walk up the road.
A flash of green and a vibrant chirp broke the monotone colour pallete and patter of rain.
Parakeets.
Around me the water was grey, the sky was grey, the concrete embankment was grey-brown, the road was grey-black, the trees were bare, even the one fish on my line was muted of colour.
The parakeets flew fast down stream. How did they survive here? Vivid brilliant impossible summer in winter and tropical.
The opposite of that day in South London.
Wonder.
Shouldn’t life include wonder I thought?
I looked at my fish. It had spiney prickles. I thought perhaps it was like me, a rebel. Even though it was ugly and small I liked that fish. Releasing him I caught my finger on a spine. Red blood bloomed.
I was a little girl with mad hair that stuck out like roof thatching with wiry antennae searching upwards for exuberance.
I was born with pointy elbows. I was born with rebellious chi. I was born with a love of colour.
I hoped my grown up life would include bee hives, olive trees, warm summer days and nights ringing with the sound of cicadas.
I wanted blue skies and countryside.
I wanted to write stories.
I wanted a big farm table under trees lit with night lights.
I wanted the people I loved around that table, laughing, drinking wine, and eating good food.
For many years I pictured this life of olive trees and summer nights; I drew it on a chalk board in the suburban home I had my first child; I wrote it on vision boards as I tried to weave it in to the mission and vision for the business my (then) husband and I started.
What I yearned for was the antidote to grey skies and London pollution and the smell of cleaning supplies in school corridors I had known in my childhood. It was the collection of things I knew from moments of happiness riding my bike through thick piles of autumn leaves and conkers and graveyards edged wild with blackberry brambles. I grew up towards it with the same anticipation I felt at weekends leaving the city of London, through miles of traffic on motorways, heading towards Sussex, and finally arriving.
“Be careful girls!” My dad would shout as we rushed down the slippery paving stones towards the big wooden door of our grandparents home.
On the other side of the door was the sound of crackling wood and the smell of chicken casserole and the proclamation of ‘Girls!’ and the black labradors wagging their tails, and then, the best part, the squeaky kisses planted on my sister and my cheeks.
Those squeaky kisses were love.
Wishing you a lovely day,
Lucy
p.s. If you enjoyed this piece of writing, part of a collection of essays and nature writings from my upcoming book, The Home Tree, please share this & if you’re not already subscribed please do:)