Miss 12 ... a belated Happy Birthday.

I've had the good fortune to share my life with Miss 12, and her mum, for so many years ... more time than most grannies get to spend with their granddaughter usually. 

So I'm grateful.

I had the fun of reading some of the same books I'd read to her mum when she was small.  We've devoured The Magic Faraway Tree but even better, we read the entire collection of Harry Potter together.  So many months of lying there, on my big old bed, reading our way through book after book over years, neither of us imagining a life where we wouldn't be hanging out together.

But life moves on and the end of my marriage really meant that I had to leave Belgium.  I reached England, and fell a little in love with it.  It was so easy, and the people were so kind.

My daughter followed, bringing her daughter, Miss 12.  And Miss 12 moved into my annexe with me, and we got to spend another 2 months together while my beautiful clever daughter worked in London, hunting for a job in the UK.

There was Miss 12 and I, having the occasional blast in the secondhand shops over in Cobham, and spending time with Cathy & Alex, and that delicious circle of Wednesday-evening-wine-drinking women.  And Marcelle and Leah, at their cafe in the little village of Oxshott.  And Kim.  And Lynne.  And Steve on the Chatterbus too.

It was a little extra time together that I hadn't expected.

Then she left again but it was good because my daughter has a really good job, up north ... and Miss 12, she's loving her new life.  The people are friendly, she loves her school uniform, and the school lunches are great.  The community has welcomed them in and they're really enjoying it.

Miss 12 has transitioned to English more easily than she had imagined possible.  She has lovely friends already, and they arrived in time for friendships to grow so she had friends for her 12th birthday party.

So it's all good.  I miss both of them but I'm really happy that they're so happy.  It was time.   It was more than time.

And here she is.  I got the photographs the other day.  Miss 12, in her school uniform, first day back in the new northern hemisphere school year.

We have this thing that we do, when we say goodbye after chatting ... it's about who loves who the most.  The last one to say it, wins.  Needless to say, our goodbyes are all about that particular competition.

But I think I can win here.  I love you the most, little Miss 12.  And I can block your reply ... cue evil laughterxx

Aperitivo and The Opera Of It All... in Genova.

I have these incredibly talented friends ... Peter Furlong, the fabulous tenor and his wife, Julie Wyma, a truly talented soprano.

Back in July 2013,  I was in Genova, enjoying aperitivo with an old friend called Simon.  He began posting, what I considered, dreadful photographs of me over on Facebook.  

His comments section came to life.  Our mutual friend, Veronica, warning him to be cautious about annoying me:-)

It turned out Julie and Peter were reading us in Berlin and voila, by the time Simon and I had moved to our second bar, the opera of it all was there on the internet.  What an opera:-)

I love them.  They make me laugh.  They did another short opera for Miss 12, an avid Dr Who fan, over here.

Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio ...

These stairs reminded me of the poem, by Ligurian poet, Eugenio Montale.  I love his poetry, like I love the work of Pablo Neruda, Hone Tuwhare, and Taha Muhammad Ali too.

I even hunted down a book of his poetry, with translations to English.  I've been told it's almost impossible to experience the full depth of meaning in translation but I love what understand of him.

Here's the poem I thought of today, when I looked back up at the stairs I had come down ... Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio… in translation :-)

I descended, with you on my arm…

I descended, with you on my arm, at least a million stairs

and now that you are not here every step is emptiness.

In any case our long journey was too brief.

Mine continues even now, no longer in need

of coincidences, reservations,

ploys, and the scorn of those who believe

that reality is what we perceive.

I descended millions of stairs with you on my arm

not only because four eyes perhaps see more.

With you I descended those stairs because I knew

the only real pupils, although terribly dimmed,

belonged to you.

(from “Satura”, 1971)

Translation by ©Matilda Colarossi

The Glorious Impermanence Of It All ...

May your journey through your own grief awaken you to levels of knowing, empathy, and peace that frees your own soul, opens you to love big, and allows you to embrace the beauty, the sweetness, and the unbearable, but glorious, impermanence of it all.

Seane Corn, extract from her article, Grief Transforms Us.

I didn't have too much to do with grief until my mother died, back in 1999.  And even then, it was as Seane wrote, describing a conversation she had with her father as he was dying: 'He held me once, not too long before that was physically impossible, and told me I would never again feel so ripped open. “Remember this feeling,” he told me, as I studied the new tumor on his shoulder that I could swear wasn’t there just hours before, “your grief will either consume you or set you free. It won’t feel this way right now because you’re in it,” he said, “but you will come through, you will heal, you will grow and you will be grateful.” I told him to go fuck himself and we laughed hard, until we cried, at the horror of it all and the beauty that we knew we would both one day come to understand. Me, as I struggled to let him go. Him, as he accepted he had no choice but to.”

And I know it is true.  When I am 'in it', in whatever the 'loss' is ... I can do anything I have to do.  I can give my first ever public speech at my mother's funeral, and I can move countries, and take jobs I never imagined taking. 

Being in that state, as your known world falls apart ... it protects you for a while.

This morning, after reading Seane's post, I was compelled to share it on facebook.  It felt a little like cutting open a vein but it was important too ... because I am learning so much about grieving out here in the world, about myself and others grieving for things lost.

On facebook, I wrote: My first ever public speech was at my mother's funeral. It was incredibly difficult but an honour too. I was glad to be able to farewell her in that way.  However I don't think losing the people we love, to death, is the only thing that we grieve. The longer I spend out in the world, meeting others who have lost relationships, families, homes and future plans, to divorce and relationship break-ups, the more I see that there is a huge need to mourn that loss too.

This loss is the loss of losing the love of, or for, another.  It's the loss 'normality' ... of inhabiting a conventional, socially acceptable space in the world, of 'owning' a known place in a community.

Try not to turn your back on those who have lost marriages and relationships.  It's another kind of loss, and there is a degree of shame and/or humiliation that, perhaps, makes no sense... whether you stopped loving, or someone stopped loving you.

Be gentle.

Cutting a Deal with Myself ...

The deal is ... if I work hard all day, then I can go wandering in Genova, about when the light gets interesting in the late afternoon.

I was out there today and it was glorious.  I started in the full blue of late afternoon and sat on the floating pontoon for a while.  Just enjoying the sun.

And I found this image on the way back through the port. 

My fascination with reflections started way back when I was a small child in New Zealand.  We used to head south, along State Highway 1 ... visiting Nana down in Invercargill.  We'd pass by the swamp area in Henley and, oftentimes, the world reflected was a perfect copy of what was above.

It didn't take much for the small child I was, with the massive imagination I still have, to believe it was simply another world.  An upside-down world. 

We hunt for reflections here ... my camera and I.  And Genova is perfect after rain.   The puddles here, they contain stunning visions.

And the fountain ... in Piazza De Ferrari has long been a source of inspiration.  A place to play.

Mmm, so that's what I did this evening.  I went out wandering, in this beautiful city I love so much.  Tonight, I have Amos Lee playing, the balcony doors are still open ... it's 21.18 and it's warm.

It's been a good day.

The Walking Cure ...

I have a to-do list that is a million miles long and so it is difficult to feel like I am getting anywhere with it ... but I think I am.

And so perhaps it was no surprise that, yesterday, I had to time myself out of life for a while.  It's intense out here.  Along with the joy, there's always going to be the small crashes ... big ones too.  Those moments when life simply overwhelms me.

I took the walking cure, making my way down to my favourite church here in Genova ... Chiesa di Santa Maria Maddalena.  Just for a while, I love the peace I find there.  And the beauty.

At some point I saw the light ... mmmhmm, and pointed my camera in the direction of it.  The photograph above is the result.  No editing.

I was still a little 'off' when I woke up this morning and so we went wandering again, my camera and I. 

I decided to take the funicular, up to Righi, after wandering the city a while.  I had a small glass of white wine when I arrived at the top, and studied my book on Genova, trying not to smell the divine lunches being served up around me.

And then, following an impulse, I chose to walk back down that rather steep hill to the city, on this very hot day, without a map ... as you do.  I was only lost for a while. I arrived at Castelletto and had no idea where I was. 

There are always kind people here in the city.  They discussed my problem and they showed me the bus stop ... I did the last of the downhill courtesy of AMT, the bus company here. 

Tonight's meal was simple.  Fresh tomatoes and garlic, from the tiny fruit and vegetable shop down on the main road, and pasta from a box of goodies I was gifted.  It was perfect.  No more mass-produced pasta sauces for me.  I'm a convert.  It seems anyone can whip up a simple little pasta sauce, here in Italy.  Even me.  Which reminds me, I must buy myself a mortar and pestle, as soon as I'm employed.

Tonight the balcony door is still open, it's so warm, and I'm thinking of staying up for the meteor shower.  I'm not sure.  I need to get myself into a rhythm now ... of working and walking in this beautiful city; that city once known as La Superba.