Today I was sorting through my Mum's stuff ( she passed away a couple of months ago and had hoarded so much stuff dating back to her teenage years.) I came across a postcard I had sent her from Berlin around 1990.I was at a three day programme and waffled on about Maharaj Ji and she had kept the card. I cringed with embarrassment as I read it the way a " normal" person would and almost chucked it in the rubbish bag I was filling. Then I changed my mind and put it back in mum's big envelope she had marked " interesting letters ". Let history stand, I thought.
My mum loved poetry and ,although in her eighties ,could reel off reims of it by heart. One of her favourite quotations was:
"The Moving Finger writes;and,having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety or Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it "
( Fitzgerald. The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam )
