We only live once, but we can have more than one life.
Second chances in life are there to be grasped. If you are stuck, unhappy or lonely there is something positive to do, You can start again !
Everyone deserves an Indian Summer in their lives, a window of opportunity to make a change.
I want to share my Indian Summer and tell the stories of others who have opted to open up a new chapter in their lives.Currently I am writing a biography of Laurie Lee entitled As I Walked Out Through Spain in Search of Laurie Lee. It will be published in Spring 2014 to coincide with Lee’s Centenary in June 2014. See http://www.laurielee.org
I am bi-lingual, speak Spanish fluently and am very interested in Spain. The phrase for an Indian Summer is “El veranillo del membrillo”, literally the little summer of the quince and hence the name of the Blog..
The quince is an autumn fruit: a bittersweet creation; it hides itself under a downing of pubescent white hair which is burnt off in the autumn; reaches a zenith of ripeness only in the occasional indian summer; is sour until bathed in salt water which results in an exquisite melt in the mouth sweet sensation. It embodies a mellowing stage of life, it is not perfectly shaped , it reflects a life lived, it has a faded charm, a hint of honey in its perfume. Many of these characteristics are shared with the author!
Laurie Lee, a favourite poet and writer, penned a lovely poem called April Rise that captured the annual renewal of life and second chances:
If ever I saw blessing in the air
I see it now in this still early day
Where lemon-green the vaporous morning drips
Wet sunlight on the powder of my eye.
Blown bubble-film of blue, the sky wraps round
Weeds of warm light whose every root and rod
Splutters with soapy green, and all the world
Sweats with the bead of summer in its bud.
If ever I heard blessing it is there
Where birds in trees that shoals and shadows are
Splash with their hidden wings and drops of sound
Break on my ears their crests of throbbing air.
Pure in the haze the emerald sun dilates,
The lips of sparrows milk the mossy stones,
While white as water by the lake a girl
Swims her green hand among the gathered swans.
Now, as the almond burns its smoking wick,
Dropping small flames to light the candled grass;
Now, as my low blood scales its second chance,
If ever world were blessed, now it is.