“But there wasn’t a real dragon,” said the mother. “It was just a story I made up.”
“It turned out to be true after all,” said the little boy. “You should have looked in the matchbox first.”
“That is how it is,” said the lion. “Some stories are true and some aren’t…”
Frances MacKeith was one of the most influential people in my childhood.
I didn’t speak to her often and she was already an old lady when I knew her, but through her strength, integrity, generosity and bravery to stand up against wrong-doings (even when they didn’t seemingly directly affect her own life), she was an unsung hero.
Frances was one of those people who give you the childhood naive belief they might live forever. She was a protester and a Quaker until the very end. Her spirit shone brightly, making what could’ve been a weak or frail body, look as if she had all the strength of nature in her.
What a wonderful woman. The world is less without her.
Lauren Laverne played Born To Be Wild on the radio this morning. I played violin and sang back-up for it at my first ever gig when I was 13. We also played this.
I didn’t tell her about her kindness, her softness, her intelligence, her beauty.
All I really remember clearly of her now, those soft things.
“
| — | Loss. |
For a moment, upon waking, he had no idea at all who he was. It was a tremendously liberating feeling, as if he were free to be whatever he wanted to be: he could be anyone at all - able to try on any identity; he could be a man or a woman, a rat or a bird, a monster or a god.
And then someone made a rustling noise, and he woke up the rest of the way.
“
