Morning Mist

Wood for Writing

A Room of One’s Own

I Remember the Important Things

I remember the important things.

Like the words to my favourite songs,

Or the way you smiled the night we met.

I remember the important things.

Like what was written in a letter,

Or the way the sun rays shined through the trees.

I remember the important things.

Like the smell of lavender skin,

Or the billions of stars we fell asleep counting.

I remember the important things.

Like the murmur of August leaves and her sad smile on the last day of summer.

What I Dreamed About in the Quiet Room in the Attic

I have come to the quiet room in the attic to write. It smells of books and old wallpaper, and I feel as if I am in my own private library. The desk is directly underneath the window and I gaze sleepily at the shimmering leaves of the giant trees in front of the house. There is a strong wind today and, despite being discontented about yet another grey day, I am soothed by the soft whisperings of the birches.

Apart from a desk and a bookshelf, the room has nothing to distract attention. No-one passes through here and it will be a while until the others realise where I am. I have all the time in the world. I prop my head up with my hands and dream out of the window.

The pine tree is covered in tiny drops of rain, which it has not managed to shake off with the wind. The small birch is waving frantically at its elder, who is so tall and elegant, that only her head and shoulders show sign of movement. The fir tree, with its three-meter branches, is still; its peaceful breathing suggests that it is at rest.

I observe these friends; we have known each other since childhood and I have got so used to seeing them that I no longer pay much attention to them.

I get up from the desk and walk over to the bookshelf, on which a random collection of books has been growing for the past fifty years. History, art, fiction, crime, biography, and even a stamp collection, can be found here, all with yellowing pages and fading covers. One book catches my attention and I take it off the shelf: Matilda Kshesinskaya – Memoirs. I was thinking about her only last week, funny how I should discover her autobiography in the quiet room of my family home.

I look at photos of Matilda in her various dance roles, and my thoughts wander over ballerinas and their hard work and discipline. Over their perseverance, their talent and their elegance. Over their strength of character, their mysteriousness and their beauty. They possess a wealth of exemplary qualities and, as I flick through the pages and bring my nose closer to the paper to inhale the smell of this old book, I remember a quote that I once read and have never forgotten:

“God gives talent. Work transforms talent into genius.”
~ Anna Pavolva

One day, perhaps, I will have the wisdom of a ballerina…