All Things Considered

Valentine to My Mother

 

 

Fairer than younger beauties, more beloved
    Than many a wife,
By stress of Time’s vicissitudes unmoved
    From settled calm of life;

Endearing rectitude to those who watch
    The verdict of your face,
Raising and making gracious those who catch
    A semblance of your grace:

With kindly lips of welcome, and with pleased
    Propitious eyes benign,
Accept a kiss of homage from your least
    Last Valentine.

By Christina Rossetti (1876)

I've a Lot of Time for Clocks

 

Whilst contemplating the tick-tocking and half-hourly bong-bonging of our new clock (shown right), I was reminded of a quotation in a recent article in the Guardian. Apparently, the 18th century artist Philippe Mercier* once complained: 

'People put a pendulum clock on every mantelpiece; they are wrong; what a lugubrious fashion. There is nothing so sad as to contemplate a pendulum. You see your life slipping away and the movement warns you of all the moments which will never return.'

Antique clocks in particular are especially good at reminding us of our own mortality. They bear the marks of prior ownership, reminding us that they've ticked and tocked their way through lives lived long before we were even born. They signal the passing of time, but remain relatively unscathed by it if they are well treated. Assuming that they are cared for properly, they will still be ticking, tocking and bonging long after we've shuffled off this mortal coil. 

But that's part of their fascination for me. Where have they been? What have they seen? What stories could they tell if they could talk? They've witnessed births and deaths, celebrations and times of hardship, and they've chimed in countless New Years. They've signalled the times for dinners to be served, babies to be bathed, young ladies to go to bed, young men to go to work. Men, women and children have risen, dressed, left the house, returned to it and gone to bed because their clocks told them it was time to do so.

They regulate most areas of our lives and have been doing so for generations. They mark the passing of time, the movement of present into past; every moment of every day, their ticking signals the creation of history. And they do all of this while we pay them little attention, aside from the cleaning and oiling they get every few years. I don't feel sad when I contemplate the swing of an antique pendulum... I don't dwell on thoughts of my own mortality and mourn time lost. I'm too busy being intrigued by their history and impressed by their unselfish reliability.

Now, if you'll excuse me, one of our clocks just bonged six o'clock... It's time for dinner.

 

* In the Guardian, Amanda Vickery refers to Phillipe Mercier, but I think she must mean Philippe Mercier (1689 - 1760).

Four Years on... It's Still Good to Almost Die

 

Did I ever tell you about the time that I almost kicked the bucket? Of course I did, but it's that time of year, so I'm going to tell you again. It happened at the end of January (2007), and it came as a complete surprise. Mind you, sudden almost-deadness, I imagine, is no worse than expected almost-deadness, except in that you have time to pack for the latter. Anyway, around this time of year I find myself becoming increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of my own mortality, that of those close to me, and the fact that your whole world can be turned upside-down in the blink of an eye. It's a yearly re-grounding for me; the reminder that I should never take a single thing for granted. It's a reminder of what's important.

It's so easy to get bogged down in the nonsense of daily life, to become entwined in conflict, or obsessed with work or money. It's easy to forget that while you're worrying about what will happen next week you may expire some time during this one. Death and taxes; the only two things you can depend on. I've just completed my tax return; I'm hoping not to die any time soon.

I was fine. Life was ticking along. One minute I was watching TV and eating a tube of Pringles, the next I was in hospital fighting for my life. So many things that had seemed incredibly relevant to me just hours previously ceased being important... permanently. There's nothing quite like a few days in an emergency assessment unit, wired up to beepers and with tubes sticking out of everywhere there's a place to stick them out of, to rid you of any preoccupation you might have with the size of your bum, I can tell you.

Almost popping my clogs was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I consider myself very fortunate. I don't make resolutions at the New Year. I don't have to. I don't think I'm ever going to be able to enter January without remembering that there might not be another one, that I should make the most of what I've got and never put off until tomorrow what I can do today, because tomorrow may never come. I'm grateful... perpetually. It's a nice place to be. So, four years on I can say in all honesty that it's still good to have almost died.*

*That said, I don't recommend you try it at home. Not without supervision at least.