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Written by Claire


60代半ばにさしかかったクレアさんは北部イングランド出身で以前は図書館に勤務していました。約20年ほど前に 視覚に障害があらわれ、10年ほど前にまったく見えなくなりました。毎週2日通う視覚障害者のデイセンターでは、 クレアさんは不思議な人気者です。ふんわりとした人柄のせいでみんながやすらいだ気 持ちになれるからだと思います。

Toys and treasures

September 2013

おもちゃと宝物           下記の翻訳を参照ください。

When I draw back my bedroom curtains in the morning I find two little friends sitting on the window sill; these are two teddy bears called Easter and Little Bear. Easter, I remember, is honey coloured, wearing a pale blue knitted jacket and a scarf to match and he did have a beret, but over the years he has lost it. He was given to me at Easter time by a dear friend when I had to give up my job because I was going blind. She thought he would keep me company in the years to come, which he certainly has.

Little Bear was brought back from the sea side for me by another good friend. He is very soft and cuddly and he is wearing a jacket with a hood.

On the window sill in my living room I have a music box which is a replica of a Victorian storage tin. It has Victorian scenes pained on the sides and when the lid is wound up it plays a delicate little Christmas tune.

Further along there is a greetings card with Braille writing in it and when it is opened wide there is a beautiful recording of a blackbird song. This is so melodious and so cheerful to hear first thing in the morning.

On the opposite wall I have a painting which my daughter brought back from India many years ago. This colourful Indian scene shows a magnificent elephant surrounded by many figures and it painted on silk. I have an Indian friend who lives in Mumbai, so this painting reminds me of her. I haven’t seen her for many years but we still write letters to one another.

Back in my bedroom, I have another painting, a print, hanging on the wall by my bed. This is an El Greco “Mother and Child”. El Greco has always been one of my favourite artists. You can imagine my delight when this was given to me as a wonderful surprise by a sweet friend, it will always be one of my treasures.

Tucked away in my chest of drawers there are other little things which my daughter brought me back when she travelled the world. From Morocco there is a small perfume flask, smooth and silvery, which fits into the palm of my hand. A fine chain is attached to the stopper which, when opened, releases a faint fragrance which I imagine is from the ancient mysterious East.

In another corner nestles a small oblong papery box, this is the home of a little group of tiny wooden figures all standing in a row. Each fragile figure holds musical instrument and is dressed in red and gold robes; for this is a village band from Rajasthan, India. My little band is so fragile, each figure being no more than 4 cm high, so I have always kept them in the box which I take out from time to time to delight any little children who come into my home.

I have had some of these treasures for over twenty years, when I still had my sight, so in my mind I can still see the shape and colour of them and delight in the memory of where they came from and who gave them to me.


おもちゃと宝物                             2013年9月

朝、寝室のカーテンを開けると、窓の下枠に座っている2人の友だちが現れる。イースター(復活 祭)とリトルベアと呼んでいるテディベアたちだ。

イースターは記憶に違いがなければ蜂蜜色、うす青い毛糸のジャケットを着て、それに合ったスカーフもまいてい る。いつのまにか、かぶっていたベレー帽はなくなった。イースターは、わたしが失明のため仕事をやめなければ ならなくなったとき、大切な女友だちがプレゼントしてくれた。ちょうどイースターの頃だったので、そう呼ぶこ とにした。友だちはきっと、目の見えないわたしのなぐさめになるだろうとイースターをくれたのだった。そのとおり、イースターはずっとわたしのそばいにいる。








A Retreat in the Surrey Hills



On a golden autumn morning in October we drove in a friend’s car through the busy London Suburbs, heading for the Surrey Hills where we hoped to find a peaceful retreat for a few hours. The car sped on and on, the texture of the surface of the road changed, as did the rhythm of the wheels and I knew that we had reached the motorway. Cars seemed to be whizzing by in all directions, sirens were wailing in the distance, everyone was busy dashing somewhere to do something, it was, after all, Saturday morning. Eventually we turned off the motorway into winding country lanes where we bumped along leisurely, while my friend described the scenery to me. I could see in my mind’s eye the arched trees meeting overhead with points of sunlight glinting between the leaves. I could see the cattle grazing in the green fields and the sweep of the Surrey hills. After a few false trails we came down the main street of the little village of Shere, with its quaint old houses and shops on either side and a little stream running through it. We drove straight through the main street, then branching off after five minutes or so we passed through the entrance of our destination: the Harry Edwards Healing Centre.

In the 1950s and 1960’s, Harry Edwards, a well known healer, had established this centre where the work is still carried on today.

This, however, was not our reason for visiting; we wanted to enjoy some peace, quiet and meditation. We first went to a wooded area where there was absolute silence except for the occasional cry of a bird or the cracking of a twig beneath our feet. I already felt body, mind and soul relaxing into nature’s arms. We wandered on into more formal gardens with worn stone steps leading nowhere, high hedges with little doors giving onto other enclosed secret gardens, with the sound of water hidden somewhere. After more twists and turns we found the house itself and went through the entrance into the main room where very unobtrusive music hung in the air and a few people sat and murmured to one another. There was a written invitation to help oneself to tea or coffee, and biscuits with all the ingredients laid out ready: cups, kettle etc. My friend made two cups of coffee which were very welcome after our journey and our walk in the fresh country air. No one approached us or questioned us; it was strange, as though the house had been waiting for us all the time and we belonged there at that moment.

After a while we quietly left the room and found a little chapel which again was waiting for us, hushed and empty. Here too was an air of stillness and peace, a feeling of looking down the avenue of the years, at one with the past, present and future. We sat for a long long time in profound silence and slipped into our private meditations. At last we stole out, I was sad to leave, feeling that I had left a gentle healing presence behind and wondering whether I would ever return. We emerged into a beautiful October afternoon to explore the gardens further. I settled on a stone bench in a secluded corner beside a pool with a fountain, where the endless tinkling of the water, combined with the song of the birds, lulled me into daydreams and meditation. We could have stayed until the sun went down but hunger drove us to leave this lovely oasis of peace to look for food.

It took some readjustment when I entered the old village pub which was buzzing with the chatter of diners, with the clatter of plates, the tinkling of glasses and the waitresses bustling around. I felt as if I was returning from another world to pick up the traces of the old world again. A good meal, a glass of wine and a cup of coffee soon brought me back to earth again. We strolled up and down the street where I explored the old buildings, feeling the ancient stones, the wooden beams and the little windows.

I must admit, I did long to be able to see this little village. It seemed so idyllic, something from a painting; but I hold a picture in my mind and I will treasure that. Feeling very refreshed, but a little weary, we returned to the car and set out on the journey home.









Our grand day out in London  by Claire White


It was Easter Saturday. The air was heavy damp and chill, I boarded a talking bus accompanied by my daughter Kitty; it was our grand day out in London.

The bus wound its way through the London streets passing legendary place names such as Camberwell Green, the Elephant and Castle, the Old Vic; then moved on to Waterloo Bridge, where I could imagine the old Thames rolling along through the throbbing heart of the city. When we arrived at the Strand, we left the bus and made our way to our favourite coffee shop where we enjoyed cups of strong coffee and nobly turned our backs on the delectable cream cakes listed on the menu.

Eventually we left that tantalising smell of coffee and wondered out among the crowds enjoying their Easter break and found our way to Covent Garden. I could hear a magician, seemingly performing wonderful tricks as the voices of the children around him responded with cries of astonishment and bursts of laughter. In another area I heard the sounds of strange music floating across the piazza – Was it pipes? Was it a fiddle? I don’t know. However, the biggest Easter surprise was yet to come. Scattered around the whole of Covent Garden were about 250 plinths each bearing a beautifully decorated Easter Egg about 2 to 3 feet high. The designs were so varied and, I am told, very colourful. I felt around the surface of many of them while my daughter described their detail and colour. One which was decorated with scrolls of gold was standing on a nest of gilded twigs and had a bluebird perched on top. Another had an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves, and yet another was painted to look like a red letterbox. There was an egg with a modern abstract design, one with a pretty pastoral scene, and many, many more. I stroked a large soft white rabbit who was selling booklets describing the exhibition which was in aid of charity; I hasten to add that the rabbit was actually a young lady in disguise. The whole thing was a fascinating, tactile experience for me.

By this time lunch was calling, so we strolled down to the Aldwych looking for a likely restaurant. Each one seemed extremely busy and quite noisy, so we began to despair, and then we came across a fairly new American Jewish diner which was quiet and had empty tables, so in we went. The soft jazz in the background, the bar counter with stools and the wooden tables and chairs made me feel that I was dining out in the centre of New York. I enjoyed a bagel filled with smoked salmon and cream cheese, coleslaw with caraway seeds, salad, and red wine served in an unusual glass which was squat and heavy, being ideal for me as it would not be easily knocked over. We sat for quite a while chatting and enjoying the atmosphere.

Afterward, tired and full, we decided to find our bus stop where, happily, we waited only five minutes before our bus arrived and we sank gratefully into our seats for the long journey home. It was a delightful day, our grand day out!

P.S. The sun did shine on Covent Garden later that afternoon.


ロンドンでの贅沢なおでかけ           クレア・ホワイト




 それからすばらしいコーヒーの香りを名残惜しみながらお店を後にして、復活祭の休みを楽しむ群集の中に混じり、コベント・ガーデンの方へ向った。そこではマジシャンがすばらしい手品をしている様子が、彼の言葉や彼を取り巻く子供たちの喚声や笑い声からわかった。またほかの一角では風変わりな音楽が流れ広場を横切っていた。管楽器?それとも弦楽器? 私には判別のしようがない音だった。しかしそんな意外な音も、そのあとに体験したことに比べるとまだまだ小さな出来事だった。コベントガーデンにはあちこちに、復活祭のシンボルの60センチもあろう大きさの美しく装飾された卵が250個もそれぞれの台座に置かれてあった。それぞれのデザインが個性的でカラフルだとキティに教えられた。彼女が1つ1つのデザインと色を詳しく言葉で表現してくれるのを聞きながら、私は手でその表面をなぞった。いくつかの卵をそうして見てあるいた。1つの卵は金の渦巻き模様でてっぺんにブルーバードがとまり、金色の小枝でできた巣に置かれていた。それから、花と葉っぱの複雑な文様のもの、赤い郵便箱にみせかけて作られたもの、抽象画のような装飾、牧歌的な風景画の装飾、などなど、ここにはとてもあげきれない。そのうち、私は大きなふかふかした白いウサギがチャリティのために展覧会のパンフレットを売っているのにさわった。おっと、このウサギが若い女性の扮装であることを付け加えておかなくては。ともかくすべてが心引かれる触覚の体験だった。




My world is peopled by ghosts of whom I am unaware unless they speak or touch me as they move around my darkness in a confusion of babble and movement, sometimes comforting and sometimes frightening but always stimulating my imagination to conjure up scenes of remembered light and colour. When out walking in the street or in the shopping precinct I suddenly here raised voices, my heart beats faster; is it an argument with a fight about to break out? Is it high spirited teenagers?  Or is it just friends calling to one another?


通りやショッピングセンターを歩いている時、突然に大声を耳にすると、心臓がどきどきする。揉め事があって喧嘩がはじまるところなのか、ティーンエイジャーが興奮して話しているのか? もしかすると、友達同時がお互いを呼び合っているだけなのか?

I need to be constantly alert to be aware of my surroundings so that I can, in some small measure, participate in the life of the world. The alternative is to retreat into inner solitude and to cease to engage with people and events. This is sometimes tempting and seems to be the easier and less tiring option, but in my better moments I thrive on the challenge of living life to the full as far as my limitations will allow.


Blindness can be an isolating and lonely condition, so many things are denied to us, the blind. We can never gaze into another’s eyes; never see the responsive smile or the look of surprise, the exchange of an understanding or sympathetic glance, the expression of sweetness or love. The advantages are that we are oblivious of the angry scowl, the hostile glare or the discontented face. I realise that unconsciously, people’s voices produce a picture in my mind which may, or may not, bear any resemblance to reality. I once travelled with a taxi driver who asked me if I had any sight at all, and when I replied “No” he told me that he was tall dark and handsome. I answered “Are you really?” He said “No, not really, I’m little and ginger and fat!”



Beauty is no longer in the outward appearance but displays itself in the beauty of the soul, the generosity of the spirit, the compassion and concern in the attitude, the sweetness and gentleness of the voice, the sharing in joy and in sorrow. I can still share in the pleasure of a friend’s new dress, necklace, shoes etc. I see with my fingers, through the special feel of velvet, the shape of a glamorous shoe and the smooth stones of a pretty necklace. I recognise many people by their voices or even by the aftershave or perfume which they use. I value the people in my life and although they are unseen they are very special and necessary to me.



My treat at the gallery (下記の日本語訳をご参照ください)

As we crossed the threshold of Dulwich Picture Gallery I breathed in the hushed atmosphere, the smell of carpet, and a sense of space which always thrill me when I enter, museums libraries, or art galleries.

My friend glimpsed a separate set up with stools, easels and canvasses ready for an art class, which stirred up childhood dreams of living in a garret and becoming a great artist.

The rooms were small enough to feel intimate. My friend described the shape of the room, the colour of the walls, the ornate gilt frames and odd pieces of furniture, such as the carved wooded chest, and an old grandfather clock.

Then, through her eyes, working together with memory and imagination, ‘I saw’ the silk, satin and feathers of Gainsborough Ladies…the beauty of Muted English Landscapes…and stepped into the frosty air of a snowy winter morning.

I felt very excited as we stood in front of Rembrandt’s painting of A girl at a Window. I could ‘see again’ the young woman full of life in a white nightshirt, leaning out from dark background looking out into the morning life of the street.

For a few hours I had been transported into other centuries, and in the conception and fun of going into the paintings through the eyes of my friend, I had completely forgotten that I wasn’t actually seeing the paintings myself. I shall be going back.







Walking in the Park on a Windy Day(下記の翻訳を参照ください)

It had been a noisy night with the east wind poking her bony fingers into every keyhole and crevice, rattling windows, lifting tiles and sending tree branches crashing down to earth in the darkness.

The next morning, I went for a walk in the park with a sighted friend. We entered the park by crossing the river Wandle over a little old bridge. I felt the rough stoned surface, then my finger tips discovered a series of ornamental panels each of which enclosed a beautifully sculpted terracotta rose, which delighted my inner eye.  My feet traced the rise and fall of the bridge, felt the hard ground of the path, the soft cushion of the grass, and then I knew I was in the park

The boisterous wind had calmed to a healthy breeze rustling in the tree tops. Beneath my feet I could feel the fallen branches, leaves, fruit and flowers strewn in the grass and I heard the chugging of the tractor which I was told was collecting and disposing of the larger fallen branches and debris.

We wandered through a grove of trees feeling the tremendous girth of the old horse chestnuts, the toughness of the ancient yew tree, the prickles of the monkey puzzle tree, (I don’t know the real name of it), the delicate drooping leaves of the willow and discovered a lime tree, a sweet chestnut tree, which we had never seen before. We picked up from the grass, conkers, helicopter seeds from sycamore and limes, smooth chestnuts, cones and put our treasures in a bag to take home to go into the Autumn bowl on the sideboard. On we went by a little lake, where I could hear the duck and her chicks, and the children splashing in the water.

We continued along the path, down a little grassy bank and between two sweet smelling rose and lavender bushes until, as the noises of park life receded, I knew we were approaching the Grange where hopefully refreshments awaited.

The air grew still as we entered the building and left the capricious wind outside. The clink of cups and glasses and the muted murmur of voices announced that we had arrived at our destination and I was guided to a seat. While my friend was buying the drinks I investigated my immediate surroundings. My chair had tubular metal legs and was of a modern design and I ran my fingers over the cool glass top of the circular table. I had been to the Grange often but not for some time, gone were the comfortable sofas and armchairs, the rather battered wooden tables, the carpet and the window seats. The familiar scene had dissolved and I had to create a new one in my mind. My new surroundings were composed of glass and steel, clean sharp lines and sophistication and style.

The bowl of a cup was put into my hands releasing warmth and a delicious aroma of coffee which promised refreshment and a long friendly chat. I was utterly content.

That night in bed I thought over my day as I often do. I had “seen” the park, I had “seen” the bridge, the trees, the grass, the water, the transformed bar of the Grange, but in actual fact I had walked in darkness in the ongoing night of my blindness. I had seen nothing; the images in the park had come to me through my friend’s eyes, and through touch, sound and smell together with imagination and memory. My perception of the world may not be as others see it or as it really is but perhaps I find it more mysterious and beautiful and my delight in it is great.












Reflections on a mirror(下記の翻訳を参照ください)

The mirror first impinged upon our lives more than 20 years ago when we discovered it propped up against the wall in the corner of a deserted basement of a department store. Immediately we felt there was an aura of misery and magic surrounding it. Although it was new there was a sense of age about it, of timelessness, as though many scenes of life had passed in front of it and been reflected from its surface.

My daughter Kitty and I were both drawn to it, gazed at it, touched it and coveted it. The mirror was large, oblong, and would have happily graced the chimney breast above an imposing fireplace in a stately home. The frame was a maze of greenish gold leaves which could have been borrowed from an ancient laurels leaf. The mirror itself was uneven and seemed to give back a slightly greenish, indistinct reflection, but we still longed for it. We walked away, moved around and came back. We gazed at it. Then we walked away again, sauntered around and came back. We checked the sale price then checked our resources – which should have been spent on something far more practical – and decided to buy it.

Then our troubles started. This mirror wasn’t going to pass smoothly into our lives. It was heavy, very very heavy. We couldn’t carry it. We didn’t have a car. The assistant didn’t have a bag large enough to cover it, so it was wrapped in a piece of old paper. It was shunted to the delivery bay where we stood outside and rang for a car, praying that it would have a boot big enough to transport out mirror home. We were now beginning to think that perhaps we had made a mistake.

Home and having struggled up the stairs with our purchase, there it was propped against the wall. There it remained for many months, inconveniencing us, until Kitty moved into a bedsit and the mirror went with her. However, it was too heavy to be hung up without special fitments, so once again it was propped up against the wall surrounded by her belongings in the crowded room. Sometimes it had a brightly coloured shawl thrown over it, or dried flower standing in front of it, or it accumulated a covering of dust, but it was there to stay.

Kitty moved from house to house, from flat to flat and the mirror moved with her and was propped against another wall. One bright morning, a new boyfriend, with the expertise, mounted the mirror on the wall above her fireplace and for the first time it surveyed the room form above. Its glory was short-lived, for soon it was on the move again to a new home in Cambridge, where it was propped against the wall. After a few more moves in Cambridge it is now waiting what we hope will be a more final journey back to London, where, after being hauled up many stairs, it will be mounted on the wall in a place of honour reflecting the comings and goings of the inhabitants for many years to come.







Janet’s Kitchen(下記の翻訳を参照ください)

It was a dull dreary day, it was a Monday, pavements were wet, walls were damp and chilly winds prowled around.

I had a hospital appointment and my friend Janet offered to take me in her car. I thought to myself “It will be difficult to park, we will have to tramp the hospital corridors to find the right department, and the wait will be long, so long”.

We arrived and, miraculously, found a parking space quite easily. This happened to be near an entrance, which happened to be near the department we were seeking. There was hardly anyone in the reception area, so within minutes I was ushered into the consulting room. Twenty minutes later we were walking out of the hospital back to the car, our visit was over.

On our way, Janet suggested that I may like to go home with her for a pancake lunch. I’d tasted Janet’s pancakes previously – I readily agreed.

On arrival I was ushered into Janet’s warm bright kitchen and the dark world outside receded. I settled in a corner, on a comfortable cushioned seat by the kitchen table where Janet’s teenage son was happily sorting out the ingredients. The special pan was oiled and prepared, and the mixture was stirred to the correct consistency. We were ready. Amid Janet’s tickling laugh and Ben’s chuckles pancake making began. Pancakes sizzled while a delicious smell filled every corner of the room and plates were transported backwards and forwards from cooker to table, and table to cooker.

The fillings were laid out on the table too: cinnamon, sugar, honey, lemon, and my favourite – maple syrup. Soon we had all enjoyed two or three pancakes each, accompanied by hot mugs of tea or coffee and were well fed, happy and warm. The cat hovered around hopefully, but I don’t think pancakes came his way!

When I put the key into the front door of my flat and let myself in, I felt wrapped in the warmth and cheerfulness and companionship provided by Janet’s kitchen. Happiness.









Christmas in Lakeland(下記の翻訳ご参照ください。)

My daughter Kitty and I boarded the train on an icy December morning.  We were bound for the Lake District where we were staying for Christmas at Honeysuckle Cottage in Bowness, Lake Windermere.  As we neared our destination the scene from the carriage window was transformed into a magical snowy winter landscape. We left the train at Oxonholme where a car was to meet us to take us on the final stage of our journey. However we were told at the station that the road to Windermere was impossible and there would be no chance of car there that day. Fortunately at this point our taxi driver arrived and informed us that the snow plough had just gone ahead and cleared and gritted the road to the lake. We made slow but sure progress through the countryside which spread out on either side of us presenting a living Christmas card.

Finally we arrived at Honeysuckle Cottage where we unlocked the door and stepped into its warmth and cosiness and where an invisible hand had decorated the hall with a lighted Christmas tree, placed candles in the hearth, a wreath on the door and with other festive decorations set the scene for our Christmas day.

We spent a peaceful contented week in our new home while the snow drifted down day by day and silently settled on the peaks and fields around us. Each day we pulled on our boots and rapped ourselves in hats and scarves and coats and set off for a little adventure in the snow. On such morning we wondered down to the lake and caught a boat to Ambleside where we disembarked. We tramped through snowy lanes boarded by dry stone walls and hedge rows with scarlet berries peeping out through their snowy blanket. All was silent except for the winter birds calling out in the frosty air. We finally reached Ambleside where we were greeted by a cheerful snowman nearly as tall as myself wearing a woolly scarf and sporting a carrot nose and eyes and mouth of coal. He looked as though he had come to stay. We had a delicious hot lunch and a glass of wine in a restaurant called The Priest Hall which had been an old church building of some kind. We set out on our return journey, nearing the Lake just as the snow began to fall again and in time to catch the last boat home having made a round trip of about three miles.

During the week we walked by the Lake, went down the lane into Bowness, enjoying coffee and lunch and engaged in a brief snow ball fight in a tiny terraced garden. In the evenings we listened to music, especially carols, also radio and television, read our books and chatted. The time slipped by.

On Christmas Eve afternoon we attended the service in old church in Bowness decorated with dried flowers and fruits where the children formed a circle around us, each carrying a lighted candle stuck into an orange. It was a sweet service and for me a perfect prelude to a Christmas day ending with a torch-light tour of the nativity scene around the crib which was still empty awaiting the birth of Christ.

On Christmas day early in the afternoon a car arrived to take us the four miles to a hotel high above the Lake. We closed our front door and entered into a 1920-30’s world where there was a big open fire place with large comfortable armchairs beside long windows looking down the slopes above the fir trees. After a glass of champagne we were rushed into a dining room where we enjoyed a long leisurely Christmas dinner accompanied by fabulous party hats, crackers, trumpets etc. At six o’clock a car arrived to transport us back down the valley, back to Bowness and to Honeysuckle Cottage.

On Boxing Day we walked by the Lake, had a lunch in an almost deserted bar and packed our bags ready for our journey next day. Our Christmas retreat and my first Christmas holiday away had ended and we both agreed it had been a magical Christmas which could never been repeated.











When I look back down the years, I glimpse a slim little girl with white blonde hair, pigtails flying, mischief in her eyes, being scolded by our Grandmother. She picked the forbidden fruit in the garden, stole spoonfuls of delicious pudding laid out in the kitchen for dinner, entered Nana’s silken bedroom and approached the sacred dressing table where she used the best nail varnish to mend a broken toy.

Her mother and father did not seem to have a happy marriage and Susan was caught in the middle. At the end of her unsettled teens she left home and family and reached out for a new life of adventure in Australia, New Zealand and finally, Canada where her next 20 years were hidden from us.

In her forties, Susan returned to London declaring that she could no longer bear the hard Canadian winters. Once again, she was bravely faced a new life, doing secretarial work for a legal firm and eventually settling into her own little flat.

She was still the same forthright, sometimes, disconcerting character but she had wonderfully transformed her life. She was widely travelled, well read and had through her experiences gained an amazing amount of knowledge in many fields.

She had gathered around her in Canada and in London, a wide circle of lovely talented friends. Altogether she had no close family of her own, she was a loyal and devoted companion and daughter and had developed into a very remarkable woman.

Susan died at the age of 65 on October 25th, 2009 after bravely fighting cancer for 2 years. I feel daily loss and pain deep inside me. I have shed a few tears but I feel that there are many more to come. Goodbye for now, my little cousin – until we meet again.








An Alien land  

In an alien land take me by the hand and lead me through this strangely darkened land where flowers no longer blossom where stars no longer shine where shadows are my substance only where my night is long so long the night of the rest of my life.

In my blindness I move through an alien country. I walk, I talk. I stand, I sit. I eat, I drink. And the mysterious world revolves around me. My heart reaches out to you a foreigner in a land where people, culture, language, food, landscape are all different. You may not feel that you are a part of this tapestry of life, but eventually you will be drawn in and you will add threads of viverency and colour to the picture.  Our joys and sorrows become intermingled as we laugh and cry together. We walk on the summer grass and we slide on the icy winter pavement as season follows season. Remember that you in your strangeness, I in my blindness follow the same path as everyone else. Lift up your head and smile for we are all the same but different and every human being on earth in every time and place is special.