There is so much to write about. It makes my thoughts confused. So, one, I decide to write more. Two, I must take one step at a time, talk about, write about one thing at the time.
Here I am in my little England: Familiar places, names, things, thoughts. Let´s sort it out. Use a pencil box, one box for the red, one for the green.
I hear voices – different accents. The open words, sounds like songs, british, indian all amix.
Here I am. This is Kenwood. I am sitting on a bench that is so closely surrounded by bushes, that I have to bend down to sit down. There is just enoug headspace to sit straight. People that walk past, just see a pair of legs on a bench. It is a private place in a public park. Here I am. I am writing. But I find it hard to shut out the noise, to meditate on what I am doing. Now I am here and I don´t know what I want. Doesn´t matter. I trust the process and I will find out. This afternoon I am at Kenwood, part of the Hampstead Heath loveliness. Let me start here.
Kenwood House sits at the top of a slope and is surrounded by woods. Looking down or up this slope is one of my favourite sights. The “House”, really a Villa, is almost entirely white and sits in a sea of green. This green slope invites you to stop and remain, to contemplate, picnic, look at the lake below, to be here completely and watch your children run, to experience the here and now and talk to the trees that have stood here forever. It is perfect and it will stay that way.
Everybody is so friendly. Everybody is happy. I envy the man that lives nearby since many years and teasingly scold him for never visiting Kenwood before today. How can you stay away? The thick hedge, a roof above our heads, protects us from the sprinkle of rain. So many children are out. It is summer and a week-end during holiday season. Why am I surprised?
Kennwood – simple joy and precious paintings. I stand in my favourite room, the long library. Books upon Books, leather bound beauties of varied great ages. I long to pull them out and start reading, but the sign says “Do not touch, no actually it says “Please do not touch.” We are in England. What is a book if it is not read?
I look out of the window and see my favourite slope and its trees, the bridge, that pretends, on the lake , the concert shell floating on the lake and remember the sound of music floating across the waters during the enchanting summer evening concerts. The smell of grass, freshly cut, will be expecting me outside, clean air to refill my lungs and recharge my soul. I look down that slope and I hope those before me were happy in this house. How can they have been anything else here?
Kenwood House and its paintings
Visitors wonder if the Rembrandt is real. Protection seems casual, but it is tight below the surface. In the painting he is an old man, his brush freed by wisdom. I like all the paintings of the children. They are so beautiful, sincere, real. Children of another century. Were they well protected? I want to hope they were. The women are regal, pretty, proud, serious. The men, some eyes so real, I think they will speak any moment. At one I wonder if he was a good man, if I could make him come to life, if magic were possible or if one day I will meet his reincarnation. Maybe I should remember his face. They write they don´t know who he was.
What do I feel? Could it be peace? It is good to be surrounded by beauty and harmony. Every piece of furniture, wall, floor, painting and wall covering is chosen with care and purpose for the mind as well the soul. Is that true? Maybe I am just dreaming. But maybe it is true. Maybe time and history have made all these objects blend and harmonize. They are messages from our past.
I walk past the politely nodding guards in their blue suits and wonder if they still see the wonder of the time pieces in all the rooms, as they see them every day. I envy them the location of their job.
I know Kenwood houses many secrets and rooms I will never see. Do I have to be an expert to see the collection of wallpapers? I don´t dare ask. Time to leave the premises. The last visitors shuffles out through the door, after purchasing delightful items from the shop. We try to buy a piece of this place to take home some of its magic. Will it work?
@Francesca
Letters From Britain 