They're Not Just Books!

     I've loved books since I was gifted my first one by a family friend on my tenth birthday. Books had played little role in my life until then. They were absent from our postwar Belfast bungalow, my parents not being readers. There were books at  school, of course, but upon grasping that  "Little Women" was my own to peruse as often as I wished, I was hooked on reading for life.

     After sixty years of collecting, my home library now numbers in the thousands.  I lend, give away and  donate frequently, even as bookshops and thrift stores lure me in to gather more, often on the same day!  A prodigious reader, I burn through many volumes in a year, in genres ranging  from fiction to biography, geology to true crime, and everything  in between.

     Books were what got me through a troubled childhood. However chaotic  my home life, however lonely I found myself to be, I had my books to turn to. They offered consolation when needed, along with the promise of a gentler  future, a reminder that was sorely needed amidst each day's ongoing drama. 

     To me, cradling a book is akin to holding a loved one's hand. Found there is memory, trust and the shared history of years. If it is a book given to me by a friend or is one equally cherished by them, then for a moment that friend is right there with me. That is a source of great comfort to me.

     I've come to realize that books are not just a part of  a home...books are a home to me. They have unfailingly provided me with respite, contentment and stimulation in varying amounts. I don't consider any book to have let me down, however mediocre the story or meagre the content. With every page read, I learn more about the world, and about myself. What more could I want?

     I am contemplating a move, and am trying to winnow down my possessions. I care little for such things as dishes, clothes, and furniture, but deciding which of my old friends to keep is a bigger challenge.

      I know I will never part with any book written by  the Bronte Sisters, who have inspired me to write since I read the first sentence in "Jane Eyre".  I have not a fraction of their talent, courage or the tenacity needed to achieve what they did, but their shared spirit continues to awe and inspire me.

     And how can I let Jeffrey Archer go, he of immense story -telling skills and fascinating life? My major collection of archaeology, history  and forensic books are must-have references and I cannot contemplate giving away my theatre scripts or my volumes of Shakespeare.  Harry Potter stays, as does Jane Austen. The stack of Irish writers I've amassed also remains as does a shelf of beautifully bound and weathered English Literature classics that have been read and reread throughout  the years.  As for my numerous art book so carefully sought out over decades..could I seriously let them go?

You see the challenge I face. Books have provided one of the true constants in my life. I do own and eReader, have books on CD and book apps on my  iPad and iPhone, but the  hard-covers stacked beside my bed offer a comfort nothing electronic could ever give  me. 

     

                

           Books influence everything I do. Going into a strange house, the first thing I look for are the bookshelves...and the dogs.  If I find neither books, nor dogs, I begin to wonder why I'm there. And I both love, and hate, knowing that no matter how many books I read, I will never get to them all.

 
 
 That said, I mean to give it my best shot.

                


 Must run... literary places to visit, characters to meet, old friends to check in with, and many unread books to devour before I part with them.

  I'll be in my library, should anyone need me. 
  
 Just ignore the Do Not Disturb sign...lol!

Ireland's Call

 I am homesick for Ireland today...something in the still morning air is nudging at my soul and urging my thoughts homeward...

In the past, I have shared tales of my childhood in Belfast, and of the Troubles which, with time and terror, tore my much-loved city in half.

But today, only sweetness is calling me back from across the sea, to that small green island whose rolling hills of yore and singular beauty never fail to enchant.

I close my eyes and can smell the meadows hung with mist, hear the waves crashing onto shore...and I give myself over to the true sense of peace that only comes from

being home.

.

.

I have little cause for discontentment...my life

in Canada is a good one...I am blessed with comfort, safety, and the boundless love of family and friends who cherish me as dearly as I cherish them. I am fortunate indeed...

.

But some days...this day...the girl who was whisked away through no choice of her own, remembers that other life and yearns to bridge the gap forged wide by a lifetime's separation.

   

Just for today...this girl's heart longs only for its first home...
.
.
.
I am linking to Theme Thursday's prompt of 'Luck' at the link below, for I am lucky indeed that my heart has found twin homes in both Ireland and Canada!
.
.
http://themethursday.blogspot.com/
.
You might also enjoy these previous posts:
.
 Irish Belleek China

http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/08/another-white-wednesday.html
.
Irish Linen Tablecloth
http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/08/my-second-white-wednesday.html
.

Window Views in Belfast

Because Mary was unable to access her computer for last week's Window Views, I'm reposting this piece to link with her this week...

I have previously  posted photos of the brightly painted doors, colourful signs and wonderfully ornate windows to be found in Northern Ireland.

But most of you will know the other side of this picture...the Troubles that pitted citizens against one another, ordinary families on opposite sides of the street who were separated by much more than mere pavement....

On  a recent trip home to my birth city, I saw reminders of those troubled times everywhere. The Peace Line that divides the city still stands...barriers and barbed wire circle buildings long out of use, and progress seems stilled in its tracks.

.

It saddened me immeasurably to photograph this proof of a time when hatred won out over reason.

 

Yet we Irish are nothing if not resilient.

 .

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Overshadowing the ruins are signs of new beginnings. Reason rules once more...and slowly, but inexorably, we edge ever closer to being united through our love of the homeland that lives in each of our hearts.

.

.

.

I'm linking this post to ' Window Views...and doors too', a wonderful meme hosted by the very gracious Mary.

Do stop by the link below to see windows and doors from many corners of the world!

.

http://windowviews2.blogspot.com/

.

You may be interested in these previous Irish posts:

.

http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/07/immigrant-experience.html
.

http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/08/city-divided.html

.

http://imaginationlane.blogspot.com/2010/07/young-of-belfast.html

.

A Winged Haiku

I had posted this only to Poets United, but as it seems perfect for the Haiku Heights prompt of March 13th, I'm adding the link below. Do stop by to read other poems about wings...
http://haiku-heights.blogspot.com/
.
When I saw that the Poets United Think Tank prompt was ‘wings’, I immediately thought of Richard Bach, author of ‘Jonathan Livingstone Seagull.’ As a young wife and mother in the nineteen-seventies, I embraced his reworking of words which have with time become clichéd:

.
‘If you love someone, set them free. If they come back they're yours; if they don't they never were."Because it touched me deeply at the time, I offer my own interpretation of the quote...

.

.

.

I would wish you wings
with which to soar the world…and
bring you home to me.

.

.

.

I'm linking this post to Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt. For more poems about wings, do click on the link below...

.

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2010/11/thursday-think-tank-24-wings.html#more
.
I live close to the sea on the west coast of Canada and spend a lot of time watching seagulls. The photos above were taken at nearby Steveston and White Rock. My elusive quest for the quintessential shot of a bird in flight is ongoing!
.

Hearts Find Me Everywhere!

Of all the things I’ve collected over the years, hearts have never been one of them. I have always found red to be a jarring colour, and had relegated heart shapes to the territory of Valentine’s cards and inexpensive chocolate boxes. Never a motif I used in any kind of artwork, it was clear hearts were not for me.
.

The Universe has decided to correct me on that! Wherever I go now, hearts find me, in spite of myself.

I came across my first heart rock in England a few years ago. I was visiting a cousin I had not seen since we were both children many decades in the past. In spite of the years and the geographical distance between us, I found myself completely at home with my cousin Michael. He was, quite simply, family, and I responded instinctively to that connection. He walked me down to the beach near his house and the first thing I came across was a tiny heart-shaped rock in the sand, just waiting for me to pick it up. Needless to say, it remains a favourite souvenir from that holiday.
.
From then on, hearts began to find me regularly.

.

A ripped leaf flattened onto a wall by pelting rain…
.

A drawing in the sand, perhaps the work of a lovelorn teen…

A heart-shaped shell nestled into place, as if put there for ornamentation…






.


And this past weekend, a busy holiday for us here in British Columbia, I walked on a beach filled with hundreds of people along the length of it, and this beauty appeared at my feet...a perfect speckled heart, unnoticed or ignored by the many people who must have passed by until I came near. It would seem it was meant to be mine!

Clearly, I must surrender to the wisdom of the Universe!

.

.

Hearts find me everywhere…and then they follow me home.

Apparently, I do collect them, after all!
.

My Sister...My Friend

.

When I was twenty, our mother announced she was expecting a baby. My brother Martin, three years older than me and living on his own, was as surprised as I was by this news. In her forty-second year, Mum seemed to us decidedly middle-aged. She smoked to excess, loved her nip of rye, and played bingo four nights a week to get out of the house. In the colourful sixties, while I sported mini skirts and disco boots, Mum wore prim wool suits with stockings to work, and still pined for the extended family we’d left behind in Ireland. It was almost impossible for us to picture her pregnant.
.
Ours had rarely been a happy home. My parents fought loudly and often, alternately going weeks at a time when they would not speak to each other at all. Timid and amenable, I was groomed early as the go-between. “Tell you father he can get his own dinner tonight” was a common message I got to relay, being then expected to carry back his profane response, rephrased in words I was allowed to use. Alone in Canada without family or support system, the four of us stumbled in chaos through the years, each hurting in ways large and small, yet knowing no other way of life.
.
The birth of my sweet and lovely sister changed the family dynamic forever. Joyous event that this was, it could not, of course, fix our life of discord. With time, the rift between our parents became irreparable. When Nikki was four, Dad moved out of town, Mum became seriously ill, and Nikki came home with my husband and I. She was to stay on with us until she was finished school and ready to tackle life on her own terms. With my first child only three weeks old, I became the instant mother of two.
.
I loved my new sister from the moment I set eyes on her tiny face. Folding her into our little family when my parents could no longer raise her was the natural thing for us to do, and something we have never regretted for a minute. In the years that followed, there were both good times and bad, but I may leave that story for another day.
.
Suffice it to say, we sisters have been many things to each other over four decades, and I am most pleased to say that we are friends. For my birthday this year, she bought me the little figurine pictured above. It is by artist Susan Lordi, and is titled ‘Happiness’. The descriptive blurb about it reads, ‘FREE to sing, laugh, dance…create!’ Nikki said that as soon as she saw it, she knew it was meant for me!
.
I adore the little figurine with her arms spread wide open to the world, but even more, I’m touched that my sister ‘gets’ me, as I ‘get’ her. We are sisters and friends…lucky to be alive on this beautiful earth, and even luckier to be sharing it with each other.
.
I love you, Nik…

.