The Happy Gardener

Chronicles of a new home.

It has come to a point where I am not sure if I have used the title already.. I should probably have a list of titles somewhere.. Will blogger complain if I try to create another post with the same name? Coming to the actual topic of the post or the non-topic. I ran 6.2 miles today. Ok - so I walked a few short stretches in between but still. It was fun. I had spent most of the day at home and realized around 5 pm that surprise, suprise! - I really wasn't that productive as I'd planned on being. So I pulled up my socks, pulled down my cap, pulled on my gloves and stepped out to run. I haven't run in a while but I've been looking fwd to running here - in the city - since my move. Anywho - around an hour = 15 songs = a kabillion steps in tune with my wildly swinging plaits = one really red nose later, I was back at my apartment. It was cold but not too cold and the run kept me reasonably warm so it was a pretty good one for the most part. Except for the last leg where I w

It all started when I was 15. With her. Jane Austen. I remember seeing her books lined up in a glass cabinet at the school library - Pride & Prejudice, Sense & Sensibility, Persuasion. I remember assuming that they were some boring non-fiction on exactly those subjects - sense, sensibility, pride, prejudice, persuasion and moving on without thinking twice. I should have stayed that way. I should have stuck to my Macleans and Wodehouses. No. I had to find an abridged version of the blighted novel - Pride & Prejudice in the form of a non-detailed text that was part of my brother's coursework. And I had to be overcome by this desperate urge to read the full version. And I had to read it. And fall in love with him. Mr Darcy. The most perfect of men. That alluring and evil combination of pride, brooding,stiff manners, knowledge, strong opinions, condescension towards everyone but friends, chiseled, handsome features and vast amount of wealth coupled with utter desperation an

I am weary. Weary of all the information. All the news. All the opinions. All the arguments. All the training. All the meetings. All the discussions. All the words. Too much of all this floating around. Sometimes I just want to turn off the show and immerse myself in my life - just me and things that immediately concern me. But no, I am not weary any longer. I have been sitting at my window for the past 10-15 mins looking out at the scene. It is a nice view. The city and streets are quieter in the night and somehow more homely. I have nothing profound or funny to convey.In fact, I am happy to not convey anything and just muse on this scene with some old 50s/60s music in the background. Then "why blog?" you say? Precisely.

The fridge magnets are all packed. The walls are bare, save for the nails that held the paintings. The shoe-stand stands forlorn. My life waits patiently, all packed up and waiting for the morrow. Good music is essential for packing. Ilayaraja has been such a comfort - the mostly 80s, early 90s music adding to the whole nostalgia of the moment. And so to bed.

Ok. I confess. I stole the title from a poem. A beautiful poem. And because I like the poem so much, I am not going to stop with the title. I am actually going to copy-paste it here so all of you (yes, all you seven of my readers - ok, I've inflated the number but you know who you are) can enjoy it as well. The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider It is a kind of love, is it not? How the cup holds the tea, How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes Or toes. How soles of feet know Where they're supposed to be. I've been thinking about the patience Of ordinary things, how clothes Wait respectfully in closets And soap dries quietly in the dish, And towels drink the wet From the skin of the back. And the lovely repetition of stairs. And what is more generous than a window? "The Patience of Ordinary Things" by Pat Schneider from Another River: New and Selected Poems. © Amherst Writers and Artists Press, 2005 Wonderfu