Displacement Therupy.

I really do think that writing is a wonderful escape , at least for me it is. Things were rather taxing this week, so much so that I lost the desire to keep the house from becoming a hovel ,hoover up all the dogs hairs and empty the bins . I went back into the world of George 2nd who features in my new book, and thought what a very undervalued man he was, I feel a great sympathy for him; he left very little correspondence, because he didn’t answer letters properly and sent them back with the reply scribbled on the bottom. What little there was of him was destroyed by his son George 3rd when he died, so he is a challenge. But he did great things, which will be within the pages of Summers Grace.

Little glimpses of heaven are rare when you live in a big city, even if it is leafy suburbia. They must come from another source, which does not need panoramic skies and swooping sunsets. One of these happened when my son went to the piano and sang a John Dowland song called Flow My Tears, probably written in about 1598. He uses his voice in the same way he played the flute when he was at it nine hours a day, like a part of another person who only comes out through the brilliance of music, it always moves me, and half the beauty is he doesn’t really know where it comes from. This was also evident in our local church, where two operas were staged by both professionals and amateurs. It was breath taking. People like Dowland knew that life was not about happiness and they learned to make a kind of beauty out of sadness. I am working on it.

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