The Essays Of My life. Solitude.

ESSAYS OF MY LIFE.

          

                                                                                               

                                                      

                                            Photo: Courtesy  of : Christine Pash.

                                                             SOLITUDE.

                                                                   By

                                                           Heather Rowan.

        "I'm taking a trip."   The usual response when I say that I will be away of course is,  

          “Where are you going?”  (I mean it follows right?) Everyone who asks this in his company turns to my husband and asks.

          “Are you looking forward to it Ralph?” He stalwartly answers. “I’m not going’. Heads turn back towards me, with the rest of their bodies of course but, all look at me as if I have two heads and no body or vice-a-versa. I love it. 

     “Are you go going on your own?" 

     “Ralph isn’t much of a traveler.” .Alone dear friends it is my favorite way to travel.
     “Oh…But New York City!”  “Do be careful.,” and here it comes along with the confused expressions that are so familiar, "Do be careful.", and there they are trying to figure me out again.

      Damn right  I  travel alone. Ralph understands this. I like to disappear in a megalopolis, or wander the mysterious streets of a European village or a sizable town. 

       I have solitude as I move among hundreds, meditation is in the rhythm of my  footsteps. I never have to talk. I never  visit the tourist spots on my first, second or any other time I visit.

     No… I find tucked away places as I walk. 

     A fabric store hiding in the shadows of scaffolding as the contractors putting another new face on the ever-changing face of New York. The stores interior is full of sumptuous bales of satin, brocade, chiffon and so much more. . This store is in the Fashion District of New York. The thought strikes me that the goods on display would be a treasure trove for a costume designer; after all its near the theater district.

    More easy walking and contemplating. My eyes are like cameras. Why is that woman standing under that Fire Escape? A steaming cup of coffee sits on top of a battered green cable box as she lights her cigarette. Beneath the stairs, small pieces of dirty paper drift sluggishly around her feet. Our eyes meet briefly. Are you, stranger, a story?

    I’m walking now parallel to Broadway Ave. The street is shabbier, quieter. Here I watch as a woman walks doggedly behind a man. She is frightened. I know it. She looks my way. Her eyes are full of fear. Why…?  Be safe, sister…

     I’m writing in my head. The smells. The sounds. The only color on this gray November day comes from the Yellow Cabs pouring up and down the streets. Where do they come from? They are like Manna slipping out of the Yellow Cab mothers’ womb.

    I see two men among the hundreds, shaking hands and hugging. “Pietro, my friend where have you been all of this time.”  I have never seen such genuine  pleasure in two men meeting in public before,but as I move around this city I have to admit these New Yorkers can be affectionate it seems, and  they move with purpose, as well as restrained energy. I like them.

    You know we only see these marvelous cities throughout the world through the eyes of Hollywood, or Television.

    As I  travel.,  I  feel the heart of these places. I  discover the spirit in these lands and the cities It and they speak to me.  I am always on a quest to  find the souls hidden there.

      I travel alone... Damn right I do.

                                                              END.
First Draft.

The Essays Of My life. Gifts.

      

                                                Photo Courtesy of Ricardo Pinto.

                                                                ESSAY 1.

                                                                  Gifts
                                                                    by

                                                             Heather Rowan.

    It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth. I could never work it out, all I can say is it means that I have a whole year to hit the next one. This works very well now that I am an old woman, but in 1954 I had withstood all the teenage threshold jokes from my younger brother, and, as ever, he still hadn’t stopped calling me ‘four eyes’, in spite of the risk of boxed ears from Mother who always stood up for me. He was crafty that brother of mine, he always teased me out of her earshot ninety nine percent of the time.

    “Are you sure you want to go all the way into the city today luv? It’s bitterly cold out there” Mother set my oatmeal in front of me and offered me the cream from the top of the milk as ‘an extra’.

   “I’ll go Mum. Once I’m on the bus it’ll be warm enough. It’s the hall that will be colder.”

   “That’s true. I wish Madame Kyte had continued with her ballet classes here in town”

   “She couldn’t get enough students. Anyway I’m glad she asked me specifically to come to her.”

  “There is that”.

    I left the warm house and walked down the gravel path and made my way towards the bus stop. The pavements were white with frost, the hedges surrounding the houses across the street, were buried under its mantle as well. It was cold, the coldest I’ve ever felt in England. One thing, this early morning bus would have few passengers. I decided to sit in the very front seat on the upper level. The view from there as the Double Decker traveled across the moor would be spectacular. I could see the sunrise as I headed towards the city fifteen miles away. One hour to stay warm. The trip was worth it.

   This morning I didn’t doze as the bus rumbled on, the views across the valley where my hometown lay were lovely. In its heart the heavy frost lay over the fields and the trees, and after the usual stop- over at the mid way point of the journey, the bus pulled away and we were heading onto the last bit of moorland before passing through the small villages and suburbs towards the city.

     We traveled on, and as I had imagined the expanses of the moor were covered with hoar frost. I have never seen anything so beautiful before or since that compares. The ponies that made their home on this protected land were grazing as usual the best they could, their coats thickened and shaggy, against the winter weather. Further away in the cultivated fields, sheep stayed close to the barns and fared better.

     And then I saw it. On the grass verge, so close to the road that they could have fallen under the wheels of the bus, if one had caught the other off balance, Stallions fighting.                                              

 One was as black as a raven, and the other, white as the frost that surrounded them. The rays of the rising sun shimmered over the hindquarters and musculature of the black horse as it reared and plunged trying to gain ground. The white held, reared, and slammed his powerful neck against the black, and as he dropped to the ground to gather strength for another attack his heavy mane swung and fell against his neck the heat from their battle turning the droplets of moisture captured there into crystal.  The sight of the struggle was beautiful in its power, its fury, its strength   and symmetry.  Passengers on the bus gasped, and even the bus driver slowed down as we passed the animals. What a gift for a cold January morning in a wild part of an even wilder landscape.

   Arriving at the Ballet Studio the picture remained in my mind. All through the barrre work, the port-de-bras exercises and the central floor work the stunning wildness of it all stayed with me. And when it came to the final exercises of our training, the memory of the horses made my jettes and grande jettes soar. I flew on the music, as our four-hour class came to an end.

   In the changing room I was getting the usual cracks from my classmates about my heavy sweater and bulky leg warmers, and defended my clothing with reminding them that I had a fifteen-mile journey to take before getting to class. My day had started a lot earlier than those city girls. I thought I had won my usual battle when they all quieted down. Looking up from untying the ribbons of my half-pointe ballet shoes I noticed that our teacher had come into the change room. (An unusual occurrence.) This woman had been made a Dame no less.

  “Valerie may I have a moment?”

‘Oh no’ I thought ‘ she’s going to drop me from the class.’ I walked towards her, hoping that she would lead me out to the studio away from the rest of the girls, for privacy No, right there in front of all of them she said’ 

   “ I think you’re good enough to enroll in The London School of Ballet. I can help you there. What do you think?”

     It was the start of a New Year. My thirteenth year, or was it the fourteenth.

Two choices. The freedom of the horses in all the wild places that surrounded my home, or, the discipline and training of one of the best, no, the best Ballet School in England in a city I never thought I would ever visit.  

                                                                   END. 

Lovely Quotes Poem and inspiration

Love feels no burden, thinks nothing is trouble. attempts which is above its strength  pleads no excuse of possibility... It is therefore able to undertake all things, and, it completes many things and warrants them to take effect,
where he who does not love,would faint and lie down .
Love is watchful and sleeping, slumbereth not. Though weary is not tired; though pressed, is not straitened. Though alarmed is not confounded.
                                                          -Thomas A Kempis.- 




Be the living expression of kindness.
Kindness in your eyes.
Kindness in your smile.
Kindness in your warm greeting.  Adapted  -Mother Theresa.-



The bond of two peoples love cannot be broken. Bend it, twist it, do what you will with it. If a true love, then the sun will rise for another day.  -Cody Heller-.






                                                           A TAROT CARD.
                                                   The Queen of Swords Reversed.


A complex courageous, intelligent woman who may well have suffered some deep sorrow or loss. She is concerned with attention to accuracy and detail and can skilfully balance opposing factions to meet her own needs. She has attained  inner wisdom and sense of truth. This card is one for women who have overcome adversity especially at the hands of men, to obtain a state of grace.(An ability of women.) For all of us out there who know it,but remain stoic and silent. 


Behind every success is effort...
Behind every effort is passion...
Behind every passion is someone with the courage to try. For my Muse.


Sympathy constitutes friendship, but in love there is a sort of antipathy; or opposing passion. Each strives to be the other, and both together make up one whole. -Samuel Taylor Coleridge.-

Writer’s Digest - 10 Ways to Fuel Your Writing

Writer’s Digest - 10 Ways to Fuel Your Writing