I just read this blog by Sarah Pinborough about home comforts and growing up and I realised that I have all the things that she describes, and I realise just how lucky I am to have all the things she describes, and how very, very lucky I am to have all sorts of other things besides.
I guess I was always that person.
Sometimes I kid myself that I’m the convivial, outgoing bonfire person that Sarah claims she used to be, but I’m not, not really.
Sometimes I think that I’m horribly isolationist, insular even... I worry that I shut myself away far too much and that there are people who resent that. Perhaps it’s true.
|My lit stove from today's writing chair|
On the other hand, perhaps I blame too much on certain aspects of my personality when, actually, it’s OK to enjoy my own company and the husband’s company and the dort’s company. Perhaps it’s OK to sit alone in front of a roaring fire and to be content with who I am and what I have. Perhaps I am a grown-up, after all, and perhaps that’s OK, too. Perhaps I really do have what I need, and I spend too much time second guessing myself too readily on other peoples’ terms.
Sarah Pinborough makes an approximate picture of my life sound so wonderful to me that before writing this little blog I took myself off into my drawing room and prepared my stove with newspapers and kindling and logs cut for the purpose. I struck a match and thrashed around with the poker until I had my blazing fire, and my fingers were sooty and smelled of newsprint. Then I sat in a wing backed chair with my feet up on a gout stool and tossed a blanket over my legs while the cats settled in for the afternoon.
It’s a cliché, I suppose, but since I have all this, where else could I possibly want to be? And what else could I possibly want to be doing?
I’ve been struggling with two writing projects of late, but I suspect I might just get something done this afternoon.