I am staring out of my bedroom window waiting for the inspiration to hit me.
I am sure that I must have had a few interesting thoughts this week; but at the moment, they are just out of sight.
I am gazing, instead, at the triangle of roof gardens and back-walls that are hidden behind the terraces of South West London and always make me smile. There is something intimate and collective about the convergence of houses that shrinks a City which often feels far too big. I guess this happens to lots of things when they become familiar, rather than unknown.
If I could string words into a sentence, I’d share my week here. I’d write it into my memory so that the magic is not taken for granted, nor lost; and because sharing is another thing that brings the world closer together, I am beginning to understand.
I’d tell you about the urban circus that I saw last wednesday. About the artists who flung themselves into the air and then caught each other as they rolled. About the man, framed in firelight, who spun and danced in a giant hula hoop, and moved so powerfully and lyrically that it made me want to cry. About the strong beats and sharp movements, infused with a passion and danger that electrified – and united – the audience, and took my breath away.
I’d tell you, too, about my baby nephew. About how I visit my sister sometimes before work and hold him, while he’s still morning fresh and bouncy. About the fact that I can feel him fighting back now, as he grows stronger; and how he rubs his face on my jacket because he hasn’t quite learnt what to do about an itch.
It is, like the circus was, amazing to watch, though in a very different way.
If I wasn’t scared of mixing big and small, I’d keep writing and tell you about a guy that I’ve met and how I have been humming under my breath and waking up with a smile. I’d write about the tree outside my window at work that formed small sharp buds a few weeks ago and is now in full flower. I’d describe how humbling the London marathon was to watch; and how intense it felt to also watch the stories that went past. I’d write about walking up Lavender Hill last night as the sun set over London and how beautiful it was to look north over the sloping terraced roofs –
And I do not write about these things that colour my life.
I shy away from the personal and aim for a conclusion. I take for granted the everyday and the things that don’t automatically fall under “miracle”. I am a little scared of the repercussions of sharing –
Yet it is this sharing, I am beginning to realise, that both shrinks – and expands – our worlds.