There are periods of
time that become
important to memory. They are good or bad. Either way,
they are amongst those things that frame a mind. These histories are
like hedgerows, that lurk there in the unexpressed regions as though they
were ghosts or sentinels, while we live in fields.
I use the analogy of
a hedgerow because while a person can look at this or that particular
plant, a hedgerow is more like a jumble kept in shape by the sheering of
those devices necessary for orderliness.
hedge is I think, beautiful to look at, but it is sterile. A
monoculture, and those who own them tend to be cruel in their
convictions. They will root out the objectionable, which in the
perfect hedge means rooting out everything else.
A hedgerow, on the other hand is filled
with subtleties that make convictions almost impossible. This, in
extreme cases, might make it difficult to reach the front door in the
morning. There is always the chance the stairs are absent.
Yet a well managed
beech hedge is one of the great wonders of the world, and I allow this
stature because somewhere in the fragrance that is a living thing there
has to be one uniformity that prevents the world from tumbling.
Granted some might reflect here upon something like a constitution, or a
parade of soldiers, or something equally ill-defined like democracy, or