Horatio - Stone of Heart & Hope

“’Hope is the thing with feathers”

Before lockdown, all dressed
up and ready to go.
I taught English for 39 years. For most of those years, I had a faithful classroom companion. My pet rock, Horatio. He became a legend. If you ask him for his story, he will maintain a stony silence, but I feel compelled to speak on his behalf and on the behalf of all unrecognized treasures that give us hope.

I love stones and rocks; I have always had a passion for them. I can remember as a little girl of seven or eight, spending a Christmas holiday searching a lush Uvongo tropical garden searching for the perfect stone. There were banana trees, frangipani and hibiscus hiding ants and geckos. I adventured like a little Durrell amongst them until I found my stone, it was beautiful. The smooth surface was cool in my hand, solid and telling me stories. I washed and wrapped it. I can still see the paper, green with tiny silver stars. On Christmas morning, I gave my mom her gift. She put 
Social distancing - watching birds
and reading poetry.
it next to her and we opened the rest of our presents.

We were a large family, mom, dad, four brothers and I, all competed for attention. Once all the presents had been opened, it was time to clear the lounge floor. It was my job to pick up the discarded wrapping paper. I gathered the paper, but there was a heaviness in the pile. Under its shiny, green, star paper, was my rock. I’m not sure why that moment has stayed with me, it was just a rock. I think I understood then, in a very childlike way, that I didn’t see the world others saw it. What was treasure for me didn’t always have the same meaning for others but it could still be mine.  

Many years later, a rock was given to me by the mother of a dear friend. He wasn’t wrapped or named, simply put into my hands with his stony, eggy shape fitting into the curve of my palm. I was a young teacher then and it was back in the day when pet rocks were a thing. He came to school and took up residence on my desk. I named him Horatio Hornblower after C S Forester’s naval captain. I have no idea why, it just seemed to fit.

The story around Horatio grew. He was a failed rock star who had his own version of ‘Rock Around the Clock’, but Bill Haley and then that wannabe, Elvis, had taken his shine. Like many rock stars, he spent years being stoned. He refused to eat and battled with anarocksia. At night, I would sing him ‘Rock-a-bye baby’. You get the idea.

Horatio lived a dangerous, swashbuckling life. He was often kidnapped and held to ransom. I would find a note on my desk demanding a free period or cake for the class in return for his freedom. I was sent photographs showing Horatio in precarious positions, on a stove, under a saw and even on a beach, tanning and threatening not to come home. He went to a Valentine’s Ball and had scarves knitted for him and fashion outfits made. At times, for the safety of the class, he would be confined to his cage. The wooden cage was made by my grandfather, who always supported me in my madness.

Beneath his hard exterior, Horatio has a gentle heart. Beyond the fun, Horatio served a purpose and that was to give a timeout to those who needed it, including myself. The girls knew that if they asked to take Horatio for a walk, they would be allowed to leave class for as long as they needed, just to take a breath. Horatio has been on many walks and I don’t think his purpose was ever abused.
Horatio was a symbol of permission to find a quiet space in the midst of distress or noise. No explanations were needed; no explanation was asked for when Horatio returned. Everyone understood and just let the person be.

Emily Dickinson
We all need to take Horatio for a walk sometimes. This seems especially important now as we spend prolonged periods of time shut up in our homes. The silliest things can make us smile and bring us comfort – share your treasures. Have something that signals a timeout. Even if you are in a small space you can have a shower or go out and just sit in your car and be quiet or listen to music.

I took some time with Horatio today. He was reading an Emily Dickinson poem, ‘Hope is the thing with feathers’. I thought of the little girl wrapping stones, finding treasure where there was none. As I look back over my life, I’ve found treasure in the most unexpected places. Perhaps trasure will come from this terrible time.

The biggest treasure that we can find for ourselves and then for others, is hope. Hope, as Dickinson reminds us, asks nothing of us, but like the birds, is ready to be found.

You have permission. Take a moment to find a place of hope. When you have found it, share it with someone else. Even if it’s as small as a smile or a silly post on Facebook.

 “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers -/ That perches in the soul-/ And sings the tune without the words-/And never stops - at all-“…

It never stops – at all.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Now is the Time for Courage

Image
A new year beckons. Before you know it we will be challenged by another 1st of January.  It's time to effect the change for which we yearn. Along come all the hopeful resolutions that briefly see the light of day before dying their usual death. Don't make resolutions - again I spoke to a group of people recently and asked them if they had made resolutions for 2020, many of them had. Most were horrified when I told them to ditch their grand plans as they would cause more stress than they were worth. The 1 st of January is like some magical line in the sand – there is a vague hope that we can step across the line and suddenly be all the things that we haven’t been for the last X number of years. The right inspirational moment Things that need to get done, get done. If you amputate a finger while cunningly carving a radish to decorate a salad, you don’t sit on the couch waiting for the right inspirational moment to go to the closest casualty room. You put your finge
Read more

Tear Ducts, Onions and Chillies

Image
I’ve had a blocked tear duct for at least two weeks. It looks a little like I’m keeping a giant Easter Egg under my eye. I’ve checked, there’s no Lindt or Geldhof surprise waiting for me, which is a pity. I refuse to visit the doctor for something as puny as an eye duct. When I go, I like to tick off things like back ops, neck fusions, foot reconstructions or the odd skin graft on the troublesome head. Eye will not admit defeat to something the size on a pin prick. I have tried various methods to unblock the duct. Using my powers of deduction (see what I did there?) and Google, I set about finding a solution. Dr Google suggested a hot compress. I heated up a face cloth and reclined on the couch in a tragic pose, calling faintly for tea. The compress did nothing. I’m still hoping for the tea. The next was to try an eye solution. I poured drops into my eye. Nothing helped. Julia did mention that the drops were so past their expiry date that Noah may have dropped them of
Read more

Have The Conversation

On Thursday, I was invited to discuss my poem Black and White with 90 Grade 7s. The poem is about my second mother, Johanna Rapule. At the end of the talk, the girls asked a number of questions about the poem but there is one that has haunted me ever since. ‘What would you say to Johanna if you could speak to her again?’ The easy answer would be to tell her that I loved her. The real answer would be the deep regret that, although she knew my hopes and my dreams, I never knew hers. Growing up in apartheid South Africa, it seemed normal to have Johanna living in the tiny khaya at the bottom of the garden. It was normal to have her cook and clean and iron. I was five; my world was shaped by adults. As I grew up, visionary teachers, like Maureen O’ Gara, awakened me to the injustice that kept Johanna in her place. As a student, I protested and waved placards. We ran from the police down the streets of Benoni. We wrote angry poems, smoked furiously and drank too much wine.
Read more