This morning I woke up with my mother. She died two years ago, in May, but this morning I was with her, and when I opened my eyes the longing was intense, and I felt again that detachment from reality that was with me for so long, two years ago, and the presence of the…
The flowers in Madeira reminded me of my mother’s garden in South Africa. She loved gardening and the plants grew well for her – they really had no choice as she urged and cajoled them into growth. Indeed, they hardly dared not flourish! These were happy memories, but then, as I walked round the Museum…
The mist is low this morning; a heavy, cold, dampness that wants to sink into my bones. It is silent, with only the occasional brave bird somewhere out in the greyness. This time last year I was getting ready to return to South Africa; now it is five and a half months since my mother…
Being alone in the garden brings a kind of peace, but my feelings about my mother are still very fragile. They seem to take two forms: there is an almost ‘spiritual’ or ghostly aspect when I feel she is with me but in a disembodied way. I can hear her and I feel she loves…