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Published: June 29th 2009
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Burnt Norton - Eliot. Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind...
I have carried this poem with me for over 15 years, through an education, a marriage, a divorce, and for over 25,000 miles across Europe and Asia.
My first edition floppy, tactile, paper-jacketed copy, tied with string lies in a darkened chest in Sheffield waiting for my return from China. I often think of snatched sections of Eliot’s poem which filter through the haze of my retrospective thoughts or his words burst through into a present flicker of time as a shard of light bringing that split second sharply into focus - making it my only moment in time.
And only
then, am I able to fully connect with my own true thoughts and feelings.
The twisting points of time at the still points of the day, come to me when least expected poking holes in my life, leaking light and offering insight into something I can’t quite figure out.
Fragments.. The Lily flower and root ball haul The ancient stone bowls with the water lilies sprouting from the age old root balls hauled from the waters as old as Suzhou, sit on the floor in the tea house. He and 3 friends dived down in shoulder high water to pull the lilies out from their dark and silent natural habitat, which they had grown in for over 5 generations of Chinese families - through the cultural revolution and into liberation and then the opening of china. Now, they are here with their long blood-red thread stems the length of the depth of water coiled and wrapped beautifully around the bark-hard root of time. He has an eye for detail. They’re stunningly presented and the story of their existence has already spread because negotiations take place over the purchase of a living piece of
time.
I remember the lupins that Sean and I rotovated in the late 80’s trying to chop through the 50 year old root balls so that we could plant an acceptable lawn. Standing back and surveying our destructive hard work, feeling satisfied and ready to plant a lawn over a generation of old root balls, we thought it was done. Having no idea that the following year nature would come back and they would grow back in full strength giving us a 200ft bank of grass carpeted in lupins. Seemingly, plant root balls are ripped, chopped, and hauled across the world but they survive the move and journey to bloom somewhere else and breath different air. .
The Chinese Cat - Red Almost loving the cat makes me sad. Waves of memories roll over me accompanied by its crying and my tears. Why does it make me sad to rescue the helpless discarded thing?
2 days of unreasonable sadness triggered by a kitten. I can’t love it as I did the dog. It’s not in me any more. I care for it, I feed it, I hold it but I don't think I can love it.
I lose more fluid whilst it mauls my only pretty top, stinking on my lap, trying to find another mother. I don’t think I can take that role. Already it’s caused landlord trouble and it’s too demanding of me but I couldn’t let it die - could I? I impulsively scooped him up from the middle of the road in front of the bird and flower market yesterday. If I hadn’t, it would already be dead by now - hit by a bike, or a person or a dog. So I have it at home.
After 5 days, the discarded baby cat died. It died with Jie Jie and I wasn’t there. She buried it and burned tiny silver paper offerings to help it in its after life. She showed me the burial place and when I went to see the place, I felt nothing.
The man from Dong Bei. He wants nothing, asks for nothing, knows nothing about me, and sits smoking into the night air.
“Hen shu fu”, he says and I know what he means. I look and wonder how this repetition of joined personalities and recurring life patterns can happen again.
All the world swirls around us in the night air. The ebike ride that we have just had, where I had to dip my head into his shoulder, resulted in me trusting his skills but being aware that I could lose my skin if we fell. Present tinted with the light of a past ride on the back of a bike in Sheffield which I knew would stay with me forever - the flickering light through the railings piercing the pathway ahead. Laughing both times. All these moments merge and I am left with a time past and this present moment merging into my future.
A path I did not take. A path I did take.
These flickering moments happen so often now that I feel so totally in tune with my inner rhythm that I cannot concentrate on the expected daily work social arena that I move in but do not exactly function within.
And when I read the words from a friend the silent tears roll down my cheeks and everything comes into one single moment because as I look over my shoulder, I know that she was right - there is no point in looking for meaning. And, when I understand that, I am completely content.
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carolyn coleman
non-member comment
burnt norton
i have just recently read this after watching an incredibly moving portrait of ts elliotts life on arena. you were the first person to intoduce me to it through jeannette winterson, it feels so long ago and i have only just really understood what its all about. you seem to be going through a reflective period right now but in a positive way. memories shape us for everything we have not yet faced. love carolyn