Up in the Willow Grove, some leafless bushes and trees are reflected in the little pool of rainwater that has accumulated on the level patch where grass and sorrel stand waving in the wind in summer.
It has just been raining, and drops are dripping from the black branches and making rings in the water. The rings quickly grow bigger and disappear. They come and go, and where they meet they hurry to merge into each other. You never tire of watching the lovely game played by the rain rings in the clear water, and for a brief moment you almost feel liberated from the infinite sadness with which you are burdened. But only for a moment, and then you are again in the grip of that boundless melancholy, standing there helpless on a bleak day among the weeping branches.
***
The desperation of these young years was profound indeed – nameless, for there were as yet no words to express it. But the sight of the raindrops’ agile game on the surface of the water can still today, paradoxically, produce in you a painful memory of the burden and gravity of the immense and unrelenting affliction of those young days.
But then there was everyday reality – you could always find consolation in that, and you always came back to it, often running, frolicking, in a kind of irresistible enamoured longing.
Everyday reality is today, yesterday and always.
Everyday reality is the smoke that rises at noon from every chimney and drifts away on the wind.
Everyday reality is a grey cat running across a road.
Everyday reality is plates on the table and hands that have taken hold of knives and forks. Everyday reality is the smell of steaming washing and soap suds from a cellar entrance, and of pitch and tar from a boat that is being repaired, and of carbolineum from a new fence, and of peat smoke and fermenting seaweed and lighted pipes.
Everyday reality is the rubicund fisherman Sigvald standing outside his privy buttoning his trousers while glancing briefly at the drifting clouds over the sea. Everyday reality is the little grocer Hans Olsen standing by scales that are almost in balance and holding two potatoes in his fingers.
Everyday reality is the disabled but always cheerful Juliane the sexton’s wife, who sits everlastingly on her window seat in the Coffee House with a crutch shiny with wear at either side, shaking her head with a smile at the funny old ways of the world.
Everyday reality is when people say, “Oh, how nice that it’s a girl this time when they’ve only had boys otherwise.” Or: “Good heavens, how Mrs Berg the headmaster’s wife is putting on weight.” Or: “No one in this town can make coffee like Pouline.” Or: “Good heavens, is old Rosenmeyer dead? Aye, I suppose we must all come to that.”
The sailmaker’s needle, the watchmaker’s magnifying glass, the shoemaker’s pricker, the smith’s hammer, the joiner’s plane. A lullaby in the twilight from a window standing ajar. A hearty yawn, a roar of laughter. Tender words in the dusk from two figures sitting on the great pile of driftwood out near the Bight. All kinds of chequered eiderdown covers and slippers that are left unused at night and carefree snoring and savouring of sleep, while the rain pours down the windows…
That is what Everyday Reality is in all its insignificance and power. It makes no claim to provide a solution to any puzzle; it only has its own excellent rhythm to offer. It’s a welcome brief rest during a long and difficult journey towards unknown and disturbing places.
It’s nothing to boast about, for it’s only ordinary, but everyone knows it and clings to it and loves it.