Last night a friend and I went to a function at the library. A local author was reading from her newly published book of poems, accompanied by a local string quintet playing classical music. I wasn't sure I would enjoy the poetry reading. It seems to me that poetry is a lot like Longfellow's little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. When it is good it is very good indeed, but when it is bad it is horrid. I needn't have worried. It turns out the poet was excellent, and her reading was filled with creative expression.
It wasn't the poems that made the evening for me though. It was the music. And not because it was expertly played on instruments worth more than my home. It wasn't. In fact, most of the pieces were what I would call "sweetly out of tune" and the majority of the instruments had that "rent to own" look about them. It brought back fond memories of the many music recitals I sat through when my kids were young. What made it so memorable was the obvious love the musicians had for their instruments, and the simple pleasure they got out of performing on them. It is what every parent who has invested in music lessons for their kids hopes to see at the other end. A love of music.
That expression - "sweetly out of tune" - popped into my mind again this morning as I sleepily slipped on my jacket to go walk Fergus. I looked down and was greeted by this sight.
I would challenge anybody to make poetry out of that. Old hand knit socks, flannel pyjamas covered by my ancient bathrobe, my old blue field coat and beat up Lands' End moccasins. Oh. And one wee dog.