According to Juliet, nothing at all. She’s besotted with Romeo for who he is, not what he’s called. But she’s in denial. She’s Capulet, he’s Montague, their names spell “enemy” to their feuding families, and this will be the young lovers’ undoing.
Her philosophical premise, “That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet”, is persuasive. But in my reality, names – and their meanings – intrigue me. Am I alone in this? Why else do parents go to such lengths to find the right epithet to suit their uniquely exceptional baby? It’s not just what’s in fashion, or a matter of honouring a grandpa or aunt by association, it’s what seems to capture the essence of how the new arrival in the family presents or who Mum and Dad hope their tiny person will become.
I was christened “Rosemary”, which means “remembrance”. My peer group lightened it to “Rosie”, friendly and warm. People whose first language is other than English – from Afrikaans to Portuguese – have proffered “Rose”. Each suggests a facet of me, and I answer to all. I don’t know which you, dear reader, think pick of the bunch, but it was a real dilemma how to introduce myself on this, my writer website.
At least my surname – “Livingstone” – suggests someone both vibrant and dependable, and who could complain about that?
What came to me easily, however, was a title for the website itself. Les choses en rose are “things, or life, seen through rose-coloured glasses”. The world may seem to be darkening, but I choose to highlight the beauty and kindnesses that shine the stronger against that backcloth. There’s a nod in the name to Edith Piaf’s famous song “La vie en rose”. First sung by “the little sparrow” to post-war audiences in 1946, it spread like a flame internationally …
When we fall in love with life, everything appears brighter and more beautiful. And there’s even a pink Bordeaux wine that goes by the label “Les choses en rose” … Salut!
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So here I am, a shy person given to hiding behind my poems and fiction, stepping out from my persona – rather as an actor must when the performance is over – into the public eye and trying not to be scared of it. It’s only fear, and, like my shadow, it can’t hurt me.
The plan in this blog is simply to share some positive thoughts with you, from the island of Terceira in the Portuguese Azores where I now live. It’s a rope I’m throwing out to the world alongside submitting my first novel – a historical mystery with secondary romance and a pinch of magical realism. More musings to follow.
An old friend from the newsroom during my South African sojourn, when he heard I’d repositioned myself here, betwixt the Atlantic Ocean’s eastern and western shores, observed: “It’s a portal.” A changed location and priorities, certainly. New friends. But more than that, a hint and sense that there’s a further destination – or dimension – waiting, still to explore.
Warmest – Rosemary, Rosie, Rose …