Broken winglish

"The wild and windy night 

that the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears 

Crying for the day
Why leave me standing here

Let me know the way."

- The Beatles

I woke up in a bad mood. It's been just over a year since I arrived in London, and I realised today there's been a lot of unexpected work to do.

A year ago, I was sat on an airplane from New Zealand returning to London, watching 'Yesterday' by Richard Curtis. I seem to have lost the blog I wrote about the movie, but to make it short - I felt I had reached the end of myself, and at the time, it was incredibly difficult to keep any faith about what the future held, so of course the movie caused me to burst into tears.

I remember the long way back to New Zealand, arriving at the airport and waiting for what felt like an eternity after a massive cock-up in catering via my airline, Norwegian, where a fault had seen us driven off the plane after we had only just boarded. I still recall sitting in the airport terminal at NYC, lost in transit as I contemplated my life decisions.

Finally getting on the plane, and then arriving in New Zealand, and then heading back to London and sitting at McDonald's in Angel feeling very sorry for myself indeed, my world seemed to unravel further. I thought I had reached the end of myself several times. The thought entered my head unendingly: Is this all there is to life?

My adult world has consisted of entrances and exits, arrivals and departures. 
Today, I got a layover on my daily walk through Hampstead Heath. God interrupted my usual programming, and I revisited my past for a moment.

She had a tattered, stained houndstooth check jacket and brown knee-hi tights. Her hair was uncombed.

I often speak to Teresa on the Heath, and another friend on my journey, Malcolm, who is never seen without his pet terrier. 

Teresa has bright eyes and a spritely step. She sat down next to me. I noticed how many people stopped and smiled when they saw us together (could be the height difference.) She told me her father was an artist in Franco-era Spain, but died young before she was born.

We continued to sit and chat and were joined by the smiles of Heath people and their dogs, including an inquisitive Weimaraner. Two other women joined us and they already knew Teresa, but she has Alzheimer's and didn't remember them. They told me she always sang at mass back in the day. We sang a few bars of Ave Maria together and they went on their way.

The sky was darkening and I told Teresa I would have to carry on with my day

Teresa then invited me back to her council flat near Gospel Oak. I wanted to make all sorts of excuses as to why I couldn't go. But once again, God was calling me to step into the lives of others.

I chatted with Teresa and scolded her for not wearing her mask. I was apprehensive about heading to a council flat. As we walked, Teresa started singing songs from the catholic liturgy, which I knew from my time volunteering as a musician in Wellington. We sang in the streets: 'Sing a new song unto the Lord/ hallelujah!'

Teresa reminded me of my singing tutor and departed friend, the late Sister Winnefride. I sensed Sister had sent her to me.

I headed to the house to be with Teresa and help her make lunch. She got waves and hellos from all the people in the council flat, from stately-looking imams to little school children entranced with her petiteness. I felt nervous to enter the flat even though I had my mask on as there were so many people around.

Two old gents were sitting at reception. One noted she "hadn't combed her hair today." We got upstairs to Teresa's purple door, and she opened it to what was a surprisingly cosy, compact flat.

There were pictures on the wall of Teresa's husband, who I had learned was Welsh and who had passed away many years earlier.  He was older than her by a decade when they married. He had brought her out from Spain after they met there. She spent her formative years at boarding school and had clearly learned during that time to create attractive weaving and cross-stitch which was displayed around the room.

She searched through pretty, feminine china in her cupboard to find plates and cups in which we had instant coffee. She was so tiny she could hardly reach the shelf. She kept repeating the same two questions - what I wanted to eat and where I lived. 

There was a picture of her and Prince Charles on the wall, as well as a portrait of her mother completed by her father and numerous cross-stitch complete and incomplete, complex and intricate.

She ate chicken and I wrote my phone number in Spanish for her. I sang 'Panis Angelicus' and she joined in, remembering the words and music clearly despite her Alzheimer's in the recesses of a mysterious mind.

I started to sing de Falla - Jota ' dicen que no nos queremos.' Then Carmen's Seguedille. We hammed it up for Solo Mio. I made it to Durufle's Pie Jesu before I got emotional.

We broke bread and shared coffee, a song, and dignity. But I was mortified when, upon leaving, she starting spitting in the courtyard. 

Another eventful online moment occurred just this past week. My cousin Laurie sadly passed, after a long battle with pneumonia and diabetes. Watching your separated parents on an eye of God webcam avoiding acknowledgment of shared grief and connection? Only one word for that - surreal.