tamarjacobson

… which started back here:

Descriptions of purely inner musings are self-obsessive and irrelevant to anyone else. Andy at Older, But No Wiser.

… and continued with Andy:

But something I read at your place, Tamarika, made me wonder whether that joining up of worlds always has to be in a single post, or whether the weaving might not take place just as effectively across a spectrum of posts and the conversations which arise out of them?

… and I replied:

Yes, yes, Andy. I think that’s true for me, certainly. The weaving takes place across and through all of my posts and comments all over my blog all the time. In fact, I think of it as one long tale of my emotional, imaginative, psychical, cyclical, realistic, physical, and spiritual worlds/life – whatever – all the time. So that, indeed, even though it might be considered self-obsessive, navel-gazing, it can be relevant and connected to others too. By knowing me, by identifying with pieces that are themselves or the external world of society really or virtually …

For we are, all, connected.

During our anniversary the house was full of flowers. Daffodils of course, the symbolic flower of the day for us. Freesias that were ordered for the table at the romantic restaurant dinner, and then a bunch of carnations and such as a gift just because the day was the day. It was all so pretty and festive. Wherever the eye fell there bloomed another flower. After a week they all started to wilt. That’s what happens with flowers. It’s the nature of things. They herald the aftermath, the clean-up after the party, or the farewell-it’s-over-time-to-move-on-to-the-next-thing. Sometimes I try to salvage a few remaining live flowers and create a new arrangement to last just a few more days, but they always look different somehow. Not quite right. Like holding-on-to-the-past-too-long …

Celebrations are like that. The build-up, the festivities, and then, the clean up and move on. Cyclical. Come and gone.

Not quite gone though. For they leave behind a trail of memories that stay with us, sometimes, forever. My old friend, Mary sent me an e-mail once after we had danced together all night at a conference. She wrote:

tamar

memories are moments that refuse to be …

ordinary …

A year ago at Tamarika: The gift of early childhood