Janiveer

"The blackest month of all the year,
Is the month of Janiveer”

I talked in my last entry about Edith Holden's "Nature Notes for 1906". Ever since I did, I have been thinking more about it. This year would be the 101st anniversary of Holden's wonderful journal. I briefly considered starting a nature journal myself as a sort of amateur tribute to Holden, but decided that it would probably be so awful and so sparse, that it would be more of an insult than a tribute. However, I have started to take more note of nature around me.

For the first time in two semesters, I took my old bus route to work. As I was on the bus, I was paying close attention to nature, re: my resolution to make mental “Nature Notes for 2007”. However, I discovered that most of nature seems to be buried under snow right now. The best nature note that I can think of goes, “Today seems unusually warm for as harsh a winter as this. The snow still coats the ground, and icy pavements make walking mildly dangerous. Took the bus to work today. Was strangely delighted at the lack of humanfolk up and about at 8:00am. Most trees, except for the pines seem to still be waiting for the first touch of spring warmth. The pines themselves seem to be cheerfully withstanding the cold and frost. Was struck by the fact that not a single species of fauna was discernable all the way from Mortensen to campus via. Welch.”

See… hardly as romantic as cycling to neighboring towns, walking down riverbanks, and collecting violet leaves. I don’t think I am “Nature Notes” material, though I must say that when I typed that bit out, it seems infinitely more interesting than what I was actually experiencing. Maybe the artist in me is springing forth again. But Edith Holden and me… no comparison! Also, I doubt that there is any comparison between the flora and fauna of Warwickshire at the turn of the last century and those of Ames at any time in history. However, in my single-minded and relentlessly-enthusiastic fashion of sticking to resolutions, I shall try to continue and persist. Maybe, come spring, the bleak prospect will look much better!

Suum cuique pulchrum est

To each, his own is beautiful. (Cicero)

Something rather strange that just occurred to me...

Over the weekend, I watched John Le Carre's "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy". I have always loved Sir Alec Guinness, and ever since I saw "Edwin", I have been positively fanatic about him. So, I bathed in "Tinker, Tailor...", and was happy :)

I was collecting data for a research study this morning. It was all self-report and questionnaires, and all I had to do once I got the subjects started, was to wait for them to be done. So I took along "Rumpole..." to read while I waited. I was reading "Rumpole and the Hanging Judge" - the hanging Judge being Mr. Justice Fennimore Truscott, a fiendish man who jokes about murder trials and orders muffins for tea the day he sentences someone to be hanged; and who years later, has a twinge of guilt evoked in him by something Rumpole says. John Mortimer, who wrote “Rumpole…” wrote "Edwin" too... and the main protagonist in "Edwin" is Sir Fennimore Truscott, the hanging judge, albeit in the role of a rather endearingly stubborn and doubtful father played by Sir Alec Guinness. Now, is that a coincidence? I wonder...

I feel now, about my repertoire of literature, both poetry and prose, as an adult would. Gone are the days of my experimentative past: childhood, and adolescence, when I would read anything that I could lay my hands on. I think I have now started to trust my own reactions to the written word. I still like what I have always gravitated toward. My preferences in literature remain unchanged. I think I am at a point where, for the most part, I am satisfied with reading books which come from this small, select domain. I will of course make the occasional foray into the world of literature hitherto unexplored by me, for I am convinced that gems exist there too. But those that shine most brilliantly and appear most beautiful to my eyes, are those that are closer home... the tomes that resided on daddy's bookshelves, and replicas of which now do on mine. So I am not surprised about that strange coincidence after all. I love both John Mortimer and John Le Carre, and since the casting decisions have fortunately placed Sir Alec in both "Tinker, Tailor..." and "Edwin", there might be similar, complex undercurrents of preferences that lie somewhere other than me.

Over the weekend, I also managed to read some poetry. In a burst of semi-feminist enthusiasm, I decided to read a female poet for a change. So, I read Christina Rossetti. One particular part of one particular poem seemed especially poignant. It reminded me of Edith Holden and her "Nature Notes". It also reminded me of the wonderfully pleasant summers of my childhood.

"... some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, ..."

That reminds me of the summers I had in Hyderabad. It was a simpler life, slower paced, more trusting, and happier. The days were too hot to do anything of particular value, but I used to read a lot, take wonderfully refreshing siestas in the afternoons, and in the evenings, when it was cooler, my sister and I would play on the terrace. Drowsy… languid… perfect words to describe those summer days. And I hope, and perhaps even know, that summers will be like that again. The thought is such a happy one, that it keeps me going through all the harshness of the winter about me.