Thursday Night

So, I think it's about time for this elusive 'proper blog'.

This evening I have contented myself, fully and wholly, with 'Garden Plants and Flowers Through The Year' and with trying to identify the stick-like flowering shrub in Croome Park (I now believe it was a young magnolia, duh). It is this happiness when confronted with early pinkness in an otherwise rain-dulled garden, or the satisfaction from time spent in the kitchen or behind a paintbrush and/or pen, that forms the basis of this 'proper blog'. I don't understand why this is suddenly such an issue: I am happy doing these things. I am happy cooking or painting or writing, and I love flowers, and this has always been so. So why the tumult now? Why the doubt? It seems that until recently I liked cooking only for myself and for my independence: I liked eating what I wanted, and being able to survive sans parents and all those other teenage girl desires. I used to draw my own angst, big bold abstract ideas with sunsets and drowning men and doves of peace chased by swastikas. And the flowers? It was a continuation of family knowledge, something I was doing for my nan who missed her beautiful garden.
But how true was all this? I find myself wanting to cook for other people, wanting to hold my own version of those gorgeous London dinner parties purely for the day spent in the kitchen and providing for my prospective guests. I now paint landscapes again, flowers and fruit. And they're more than just family symbols, too. I want something to grow under my fingers, whether in the flesh or in flat colour.

Maybe I'm growing up. Perhaps the old versions of these hobbies were expressing my adolescent selfishness: I'll cook for ME, I'll paint MY feelings and I'll fall in love with tulips for MY family. And I guess that would be a lovely, easy explanation: welcome, Lucy, to adulthood! Always the over-thinker, though, I can't accept that so simply. I have spent so, so long saying I hate all domesticity. I don't want children, apparently, I don't want to get married, I want to work for me and me alone. I wouldn't mind living alone. I'm going to get rich, get powerful and hire household help. And goodness, I have stuck to this for my entire life! The ideal, feminist lifestyle! Strong and single and still happy. I feel as though I'm lying to myself about that now, and have already accepted that in my future, I will most probably have children. And enjoy it, and get happiness from them and love them and be a better mother than I would give myself credit for right now. And isn't that a horrible feeling? The realisation that I am not this bolshy, contrary girl any more. I am independent (I should like to think so, anyhow) and I believe I am strong, but can I still be a 'feminist' as before with this new desire to bake cakes and set tables and sit and do watercolour roses all day? Can I still be as before, be myself, with this new leaning to domesticity and care (since when have I felt the need to care?!)? It feels often as though the rug has been pulled out from underneath my feet.

And, and - as if the world was trying to tell me something - within the space of a few days I have found the aforementioned book about garden plants, decided to re-read The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady, and now -today! today! of all days, when I've spent the week secretly hmming over whether I should perservere with this bolshy, stiletto thing even if it feels so much falser now - a favourite blogger of mine posted a link to something I have never seen before: The Simple Woman's Daybook. If I ever wanted a sign.. *rolls eyes*

Well, only time will tell if this is just a fad to fit into the current Victorian phase (and I know full well that all that silliness is only a passing fling), or whether I really am discovering a maternal instinct somewhere deep in this coal-like heart. :P I think I'm going to ride it as far as it goes, and will take advantage of a peaceful-by-tradition weekend for indulging my fancies, and bake. Aha! I also found incense sticks in the bowels of my room - lovely, lovely!


This would have been in my diary, written with pen and paper and for my eyes only. See how it's missed? I did, however, go to Croome Park today with Josie, who was as lovely and hilarious as ever and buoyed my mood as only she can do. I am looking forward to the weekend: the return of Katy, the possible night out on Saturday, the gathering on Easter Sunday for pizza and computer games. What a peaceful time.

BB, Lucy
xxx