Marginalia or memory
A reminder not to resign those passing moments of glorious fragrance to just marginalia
This week Beth asks us to think about the things that are hovering in the margins of our life. Things that could actually be significant if given more time and attention. Instantly I am so drawn to return to the subject of my failing hips that I am unable to move past it unless I give it recognition. Because since the onset of osteoarthritis in both of my hips I have become so much more aware of the many different things in our lives that we take for granted each and every day.
Yesterday was a crying day. The futility of trying to lift my feet out of my swimming costume standing up. Yes, I know I could have sat down, but this is my habit, so I didn’t actually think about sitting until afterwards. Hence the tears. Sheer frustration at not thinking about just sitting down. In the afternoon, just because. Then later in the day, sitting on my bed, wrapped in just a towel after my bath, my husband left the room without closing the door, which, now my 87-year-old dad lives with us, is likely to be embarrassing. It had taken me so long to get up and seated comfortably on the bed that I just couldn’t get up again to close the door. Bring on the tears and bring on my boy. He jumped up on the bed (where he is not allowed) so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and just snuggled in beside me, his paw on my arm, telling me it’ll all be okay. And I am crying again just thinking about it.
These things truly are in the margins of our lives when we have lived most of our lives without them being a thing at all. Once we are old enough to dress ourselves, we do it mostly without thinking. The same can be said for many simple, previously unrecognised pleasures that I cannot wait to return to.
As I write, a beautiful spring day is outside of my window. It calls me. This is why we moved here. To be outside. Walking. On our own, together or with our dogs. Drinking in the gloriousness of this beautiful Scottish countryside, so it can’t really count as marginalia can it?
I am imagining where this morning’s walk would take me. Left out of my house the verge is lush, filled with green buds springing into life. Tiny lambs really do frolic in the field. Then it is dark as I would turn into the tree filled avenue leading me to two a space that is like a drug to me. It calls me in the most ordinary of times. It calls me even more loudly since I cannot visit.
Like an addict with withdrawal symptoms, I am imagining the slight left of Sally’s Walk that takes me there. The path narrows as the banks either side overflow with the glorious vibrant blue of the Bluebell. Imagine it. Just green and blue, no space for soil, or branches. Even fallen pinecones are buried under those strong emerald green leaves making space for the spikes of cobalt, blue flowers standing proud.
The trees overhead have turned down the light, so you have to peer into the darkness to appreciate this beauty. Is this nature at her best? But no, wait. Can you smell that? Surely bluebells don’t smell like that. The smell is familiar, but it might surprise the uninitiated, because right here, in the middle of Sally’s Walk you can smell garlic. Is it garlic bread? Prawns Pil Pil? Nope.
This is my drug of choice: wild garlic. Oh, my goodness. Each and every time I reach this point I am literally forced to stand, stock still, eyes closed, and inhale that smell. Just let it fill my lungs, breathing it out just so that I can breathe it back in again. It is just the most heavenly smell. Heavenly. In amongst the bluebells are little bursts of tiny white flowers standing proud. Look closer and you realise that these clouds of white are helping the blue of the bells zing.
And now you have taken the time to breathe it in and out a few times you begin to catch the other notes in there. The bluebells, yes, you can finally catch what it is that they bring to the aromatic picnic, like another herb to your garlic bread. Of course, this is Scotland, so there is usually a damp earthy undertone, and that smell of wet wood. Oh, and wet wool because there are sheep playing underneath the gorse that is just around that little corner.
Take another step towards the corner and yes, just there, there is another delicate perfume hiding in amongst the big blousy garlic: the very delicate coconut of the gorse, with it’s in-your-face pops of zingy yellow flowers, and stabby green branches.
Oh, how I miss this. I miss it so much that today, I might just see how close we can get by car, and go armed with the strong arm of my husband just to breathe it in. But to the uninitiated, taking the time to stop and drink in these moments might be missed in the day-to-day rush to be there at the right time, not be late. But stop. Breathe in. Drink in those fragrant gifts to your memories. File them away just as you might file away other moments. But whatever you do, don’t resign those passing perfumed moments to just marginalia. Make them an integral part of your memory, if not the memory itself.
After a particularly bad day yesterday, I had resolved to do nothing other than write today, but now, with that heady smell of wild garlic summoning me from my memory, I really am tempted to go find it. With my sensible head on, I really should stay in, but who said writers were ever a sensible bunch eh? Watch this space. By tomorrow I might be thanking you Beth, or my husband might be cursing you, or perhaps both hahaha.
Thank you for reading. I really do appreciate you being out there.
Thank you for sharing your vulnerability in this beautiful piece. You have just reminded me to go and gather wild garlic this weekend, before it's done 😊
Do it - a drive to Torrisdale and a little stroll in the woods - or down the track to Saddell Bay where there is parking for clever people with blue coloured badges by the castle. And bluebells and garlic all waiting for you! And wave to the seagrass surveyors as you drive past!