Three into three makes infinity…

This is a place for me to hold forth on matters both serious and silly. You are invited to participate. 

‘A new title!’ you cry. At least, the more observant of you might. Well… not quite, but certainly a minor moniker modification (try saying that after a sip or two of Elderflower Mojito on a Friday night). Why so? To better reflect the capriciousness of this not-so-long-since rehashed (though still sporadic) offering. Frankly, I could no longer continue to cram an excess of things into a space designed to accommodate only three – it was clearly becoming one thing after another, ad infinitum.

I briefly considered running with ‘Innumerable’ or ‘Myriad Things’ (even upping the number to 4 or 5) but decided against it. No need to get carried away. The addition of unobtrusive plus and minus symbols should suffice. Besides, as I have not so discreetly been flip-flopping between thinking and doing these past few posts, I can now, without guilt or forethought, share unlimited activities and indulgences with you. Therein lies my logic. What say you?

Moving on:

Reading, Watching and Doing: An Amalgamation

My lazy lit pick of the moment is, as mentioned in TT#7, Tove Jansson: Letters from Tove, and I am enjoying it immensely on second reading. My only complaint thus far is that it lacks a reference section for book titles and the like, though mercifully there is an index of letter recipients at the back.

“I am shedding my pride. As little furniture as possible; I shall not need much. I shall ask into my shell only those friends with whom I can be completely honest… I am shedding hypocrisy… What a rest that will be!”
– Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Being primarily a mood reader, I tend not to restrict myself too much these days, so I am as likely to pick up a whodunnit from the 1930s as a contemporary bildungsroman or the diary of a little-known parson from the seventeenth century. Seldom, however, do I experience the urge to embark on self-help titles, finding a generous dose of fiction or a weighty literary biography far more inspirational than a preachy guide to personal growth. But there are exceptions… especially if the title is more (in Wales we might say môr) memoir set by the sea than an itemised list of ways to perfect my morning routine.

I forget now who recommended I read Gift from the Sea, but at some point, I purchased a copy from Blackwell’s, then promptly allowed it to languish on my TBR mountain. During the summer I was searching for a nothing-too-heavy ‘filler’ to slip between lengthier reads and alighted on this unthreatening 156-page, attractively jacketed, handbag-sized book by Anne Morrow Lindbergh (1906-2001). It thence accompanied me into the garden on a sunny afternoon, and I readily consumed it in a single sitting.

A meditative work from a different era (published in 1955), but no less relevant for that, the author reflects on solitude, serenity and the passage of time while exploring wider themes of love, relationships and womanhood.

“This is what one thirsts for, I realize, after the smallness of the day, of work, of details, of intimacy – even of communication, one thirsts for the magnitude and universality of a night full of stars, pouring into one like a fresh tide.”

Lindbergh’s lyrical observations are delicately woven from her time spent alone in a small cottage beside the ocean. As she collects seashells from the shore, in her imagination each one becomes a thoughtful metaphor – a tangible reminder of life’s gentle rhythms and the value of embracing simplicity. The shells are not merely souvenirs but vessels for deeper reflection, inviting her to consider the necessity of inward attentiveness amidst a world brimming with outward demands.

“One never knows what chance treasures these easy unconscious rollers may toss up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind; what perfectly rounded stone, what rare shell from the ocean floor. Perhaps a channelled whelk, a moon shell, or even an argonaut.”

Rather than offer remedies for the overburdened mind, however, Lindbergh – a woman of striking dualities (wife, mother of five, aviator, poet, public figure, private thinker) – invites a gentle rebalancing: a return to the elemental, the spacious and the soul-nourishing. Her prose is uplifting, encouraging readers to embrace impermanence and the beauty of pared-down living.

“[…] these are among the most important times in one’s life – when one is alone. Certain springs are tapped only when we are alone. The artist knows he must be alone to create; the writer, to work out his thoughts; the musician, to compose; the saint, to pray. But women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves: that firm strand which will be the indispensable centre of a whole web of human relationships.”

Gift from the Sea is less an instruction manual than a tidepool of wisdom that continues to shimmer amongst the shingle of the modern world – and like a vibrant shell left behind after the tide has gone out, it is a keeper, destined to receive a permanent place on a shelf in one’s home.

“[…] one of the wonders of Woolf’s novel [To the Lighthouse] is its seemingly endless capacity to meet you wherever you happen to be, as if, while you were getting married and divorced, it had been quietly shifting its shape on the bookshelf.”
– All the Lives We Ever Lived
Katharine Smyth

Speaking of keepers, this summer proved to be a season of literary lighthouses, from the unlightable beacon in Moominpappa at Sea to Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, via a truly outstanding book with Woolfian roots, which will remain with me long after the warm weather has passed: Katharine Smyth’s All the Lives We Ever Lived, an extraordinary memoir that blends personal grief with literary exploration.

After the death of her alcoholic father – her closest confidant – the author turns to Virginia Woolf’s 1927 novel To the Lighthouse as a lens through which to understand loss and her complicated memories. Part biography, part personal narrative, Smyth draws parallels between her life and Woolf’s characters, especially the Ramsay family, to illuminate her own emotional journey. She revisits her childhood in New England and her time at Oxford, where she first read Woolf’s novel with her father – their shared love of literature becoming a bridge across time. Ultimately, it is a love letter to her father, to Woolf and to the healing power of storytelling. It will surely rank as one of my standout (if not my outright favourite) books of the year.

“The nice thing about gorging on paintings at an art gallery, as opposed to say, gorging on tarts at a patisserie or baguettes at a boulangerie is that there is no remorse, no waves of nausea, that so often accompany those other indulgences. There is just no such thing as looking too long or too hard at a painting.”
– ‘Meet Mme Marval, A Feminist Fauve’
(Beverly Held, Ph.D. aka ‘Dr. B’)

I’ve been charmed in recent months by American art historian, Dr. Beverly Held’s Musée Musings, an occasional, “idiosyncratic”, thoroughly enriching (if a tadge irreverent) guide to what is happening in the cultural quarters of Pa-ree – other parts of France and Europe, too (see, for instance, Noodling around Normandy and Berlin Beckoned me Back).

From grand exhibitions in the Louvre to temporary retrospectives at the Petit Palais, the good Dr. B escorts us through bastides and along neo-baroque hallways, sharing her considerable knowledge of historic buildings, prehistoric caves and truffle farms, all the while introducing us to intriguing works of art.

An enthusiastic educator, Held’s posts are a miscellany of chat about galleries, museums, books and her general meanderings, and the website cum journal is brim-full of colourful photographs and lively accounts of her escapades. I always look forward to receiving her updates in my inbox.

“I’m not a fan of licking a cone as I walk, but taking dainty spoonfuls of ice cream from a cup, doesn’t seem as offensive, so that’s what I did as I made my way to the Chateau de Versailles.”
– ‘The Merry Month of May’
(Musée Musings)

In late June, despite various delays (including a cancelled train due to somebody wandering about on the line), I squeezed in another stopover in Liverpool with Mrs Jotter and friends – but for one night only on this occasion. We nevertheless managed both a theatre visit and a ‘Clink & Court’ tour of the Victorian prison under St. George’s Hall, exploring the old cells beneath the Crown Court that once held the accused before trial. Dim and austere, these subterranean chambers housed petty thieves and notorious criminals awaiting their fate. I was last in the building to attend a registry office wedding upstairs, so this was a remarkable glimpse into the city’s penal past, revealing the human stories behind the grandeur of one of the country’s finest neoclassical buildings. It was an hour well spent.

More recently, we headed off to London for a few days as part of my ongoing birthday celebrations – instantly morphing into excitable tourists let loose in the big city. Our itinerary included a visit to Buckingham Palace, which briefly opens its doors to the public during the summer; a wander through Covent Garden Market, where we settled at pavement cafés to enjoy the atmosphere and lively street music; and a stop at the Moomin Shop, which added greatly to the fun – though I was eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, ushered out for my own good.

Along the way, we fell in with a lively group of pearlies (i.e. Pearly Kings and Queens) outside the Actors’ Church on Bedford Street. One of them broke into an impromptu rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ (to me), which, if I’m honest, was a little embarrassing. The day’s serendipity continued when we met a charming gentleman celebrating his 91st birthday who, it turned out, was one of the original market traders – he delighted in showing us his name inscribed on an official plaque. Then, to round off our adventure, we unleashed our inner teenagers at an ABBA Voyage concert. In short, the trip was a joyful whirlwind from start to finish. A perfect end to summer.

Why not let me know what you’ve been doing with your days, or better still, compile your own Three Things-type post.

Categories: Three Things

Tags: ABBA, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Art, Covent Garden, Dr. Beverly Held, France, Katharine Smyth, Literary Lighthouses, Liverpool, London, Moomin, Musée Musings, Paris, St. George’s Hall, Tove Jansson, Virginia Woolf