Tapestries

I didn't have time to write yesterday. It was very full and fast. We went to visit A on tour in York. J and I love travelling together, we spend a lot of time laughing and getting up to no good. This is one of many things I enjoy about being her mother. She is very funny and talks a lot about different things she's interested in. When we got to York A took us the the theatre so we would know where to come back to. Visiting theatres is often exciting, backstages are mazes and they all smell like History. Don't ask me to describe this, it just is what it is. J and I wondered in and out of shops in the shambles, watched a man eat fire and escape a straight jacket whilst rapped in chains- we later went out for food with the cast.

When we went back to A's digs on the evening, we walked through the city in the dark, it's one of my favourite things to do at night (walking through new cities). I wondered about the different houses and who was in bed, what their lives were like in York. The house we stayed in had 3 floors, filled with paintings and prints and poetry. The lady who owned the house spoke through her collections. I could not help but feel like we were friends. She had left a note and a banana on the bed for J. I liked her already. In the morning she left us a tray of star shaped biscuits, tea and cups. It felt a little magical; Sitting in the bed reading poetry and seeing the bare branches of trees through the condensed window. I began to think about the lady I wanted to become. The lady of this house who had scratchy woollen blankets like my gran, and mismatched cups continued to speak to me. In her bathroom, poetry and art covered the walls, bright yellow tiles, flowers and literature everywhere. Through these things she told me she was alive. She was listening. She was open to conversation. I spent time looking and trying to absorb this strangers messages. She had a voice to be listened to and I wanted to hear it.  

In the kitchen at breakfast I noticed some small collections of pebbles... And I knew then that I had to write to her and share these thoughts I had about how the tapestry of her life, had moved me. Her world was about stories and living and not about stuff and things. she was warm like the sun.