Spring is so very definitely happening. The neighbour's Magnolia has been flowering for a few weeks but Friday was our second 20 celsius day. I am daring to hope that that long grey winter is over. It wasn't particularly tough except for the unrelenting greyness of the days.
My pharmacist told me that 80% of Belgians have a Vitamin D deficiency ...
I'm in Genova in a few weeks and truly looking forward to getting back to that exquisite city full of people I really enjoy spending time with.
Until then, it's all about continuing work on the website, about rewriting my photography workbook, and enjoying the sunshine when it appears.
What is peculiar, even a little bitter, about living for so many years away from the country of my birth, is the slow revelation that I made a large choice a long time ago that did not resemble a large choice at the time; that it has taken years for me to see this; and that this process of retrospective comprehension in fact constitutes a life – is indeed how life is lived. Freud has a wonderful word, ‘afterwardness’, which I need to borrow, even at the cost of kidnapping it from its very different context. To think about home and the departure from home, about not going home and no longer feeling able to go home, is to be filled with a remarkable sense of ‘afterwardness’: it is too late to do anything about it now, and too late to know what should have been done. And that may be all right.
Riding the tram to Miss 10's school today, I found myself wondering how many of us make a point of never buying anything we see advertised ... or is that just me?
I don't have a credit card, a dishwasher, or a clothes dryer either.
Choices we make.
I've been quiet lately, reading a lot of 'stuff'. I feel like I'm preparing for my next leap, something that merges my photography and my passion for writing.
This video had me in tears this morning ... the courage of these guys. Their humour and intelligence in the face of incredible horror ... it wasn't the most uplifting way to begin a day and yet, in another way, it was perfect.
People become stories and stories become understanding ... I've been misusing this promise of content on this blog for a while now. I have an idea for a new project. I only need the strength for it. I think that strength is coming.
I found singer/song writer, Sam Hunt ... He reminds me of stories I've heard of weekends planned by my best old forever friend. I sent her a link. Over on facebook I wrote, A former college football player, who majored in philosophy, lives in Nashville now ... He says things like, 'You can't contrive a great song. Some part of the song has to come from an honest, genuine place'. I like his music ... this was the one that grabbed me. Made me think of Fiona and Barry.
Sharon Olds said something beautiful about sometimes thinking of her poems as instructions for how to put the world back together if it were destroyed.
From Amy Heppel's interview, with Paul Winner, from the Paris Review where she said so much that was wise and beautiful.
Saturday, I reread this book and realised all over again, how beautifully written it is while remaining a tale so powerfully written that it destroys me each and every time I read it. Mornings in Jenin, by Susan Abulhawa. It's worth seeking out.
Meanwhile, I'm enjoying this song by Andrew Belle as I listen to music here ... reading and writing, taking notes, enjoying the weekend ... at last.
Saturday night, and here I am ... listening to my hour-long video of a dawn chorus I recorded back in New Zealand. It seemed insane to wake that early, at the time but now, I'm really glad that I did. But it's always been easy to wake early in NZ.
And I found the video of me driving through the Homer Tunnel too but it needs downsizing to load here and so, tonight we'll make do with a photograph of the road home to my most favourite house ever.
I loved living out at Broad Bay, Dunedin. Madly, truly, deeply. I loved everything about it really. The winding crazy road home. The proximity of the water. The huge selection of beaches. The birdlife. The air.
