I find it hard to let things go. Living in the countryside, where we are acutely aware of the seasons, the transition from summer to autumn feels more like a farewell than a hello.
To feel changes this deeply is both a blessing and a curse. I think that writing has always appealed to me because I get so attached to the things I care about. Writing, whether it’s a letter to a friend or a novel, ensures experiences are repeatedly felt. It gives me the opportunity to re-evaluate events, often in the light of newfound wisdom. Such was my voracious appetite for life that I had to become a writer, so I would get to live at least twice.
There have been times when I’ve been angry at myself for devouring life with such ferocity that I’ve choked on it. And sometimes I feel empty when the places, objects, people to whom I have formed attachments to are no longer in my possession. But a recent conversation with a friend about an everyday object made me rethink my perspective.
Whenever my friend Graham comes to stay, he uses the same mug; it unofficially belongs to him. Because of his fondness for it, I decided to give it to him. But he didn’t want it. He said the mug was only his while he was staying at my house, where he’d pick it up like an ongoing conversation.
For Graham, the mug ceased to exist when he wasn’t visiting; he never thought about it. And because of this, he was unbothered about whoever used it next; he accepted the mug had a life of its own without him, even though he felt an attachment to it. I found this philosophy refreshing: he was happy to be a custodian rather than an owner.
Since swapping a city life for a rural one, I have been confronted with temporariness much more frequently. The deep valleys and ancient woodlands have existed in a timeline that I am unable to comprehend. But because the valley looks different in each new season, we are reminded there is movement in life, even if we choose to stand still within it. And no one knows this more than my friend Wilf, a farmer in his mid-seventies, who has never left the valley.
Sometimes, when I’m out walking, I see Wilf sitting outside his shed having a break from his endless chores. Holding a cup of tea, he marvels at the undulating landscape, muttering: “There’s nothing as magnificent as this view.” It is very much his view; from the particular vantage point of his shed. He has an attachment to it, as we do with the things we love. And sometimes I sit next to him, sharing it.
At the Long Barn, where I live, the views of the valley belong to me; I have a panoramic view, including of the thunderstorms and snow coming in from the east.
Both Wilf and I, and everyone else who lives here, feel that the valley belongs to us. And in a way it does: we all have a unique view of it depending upon where we are situated. But like Graham and his mug, we understand that when we are no longer here, the valley will remain. No matter how much we cherish our views, we are merely custodians rather than owners of this patch of countryside. One day it will be someone else’s turn to enjoy it.
It’s funny how an unremarkable mug and a magnificent valley can teach us the same lesson. I should already have known it, really—because, like all avid readers, I feel that certain books speak to me exclusively, and yet I know others have their own relationship with them. That doesn’t sadden me, just as I needn’t be saddened by the fleeting seasons, or mugs that are no longer in my possession. I must strive to be a custodian of everything I love, acknowledging that I can’t hold onto anything forever.
