the prize of the upward call

and lo, behold: december has skimmed by, swiftly, smoothly; a new year is just
beyond the rise.
it was, perhaps, a silly, spur-of-the-moment little resolution - this posting daily - but it has done me good; and here i am in the home stretch, with a festive finish in sight.
it should be an easy glide from here.

wondrous familiar

"let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom."
- marcel proust (french novelist and author, 1871-1922)

those mornings - every morning - we stood companionably in the chairless kitchen, sipping makeshift lattes and waiting for the toast to brown; we watched the man-next-door tend his greens beyond the steamy window; we decided where - more or less - to go, which cameras to take there, and which film to feed them with.
those mornings - every morning - we crossed our fingers for sun, checked the door three times, and smiled wryly at how everyday routine - transformed by simple friendship - becomes a dearly cherished ritual.

like the first morning

a few months back, i sat beside a man, a colleague, for an hour or two.
he was tough, and gruff, and very nice; he had a dozen tattoos.
he coughed a lot.
today, he died, 50 years old.
*
for many, this christmas will be rough, and raw with loss.
my heart goes out.

floating through the blue

"happiness makes up in height what it lacks in length"
- robert frost (american poet, 1874-1963)

this is - sigh - a little post, with a lofty picture.
and a lot of italics.
it's been a long day.

deckled edges

most of the old family snapshots tucked into my mother's letters are warmly familiar, but this one - which arrived not long ago - was a revelation to me.
i (perhaps because i had never seen it before) find it intensely intricate, and moving: beyond the homely length of checked tablecloth, the spacious sweep of lakeshore, and the tidy piles of melamine dishes, i see the concentration on my mother's face, and the total trust and adoration in mine. i am stirred by the delicate curve of her slender arms, and her tousled hair, by her innocent determination to do things the right way, and by her sheer and utter youth.
i have no memory of this her - i was just three - but this insight into this her delights, and touches me.

sancho and me

"much water goeth by the mill that the miller knoweth not of."
- proverb

i'm taking the easy way out tonight: i spent all day following a computer training (my eyes are now square, as we say here) and my lovely daughter in canada could do with a long-overdue pre-christmas email.
this, in case you wonder, is my screen saver, and has been for over a year. the calm pleasure it instills in me has me suspecting that i am even fonder of this flat little country, this home-away-from-home, than i ever thought i could, and would be.

a level of sagacity

this - on a lazy december sunday - is for bob, who loves dogs (especially his lainey), and who gave me some excellent advice the week before last.
thank you, mr. smith.
i took it.

against all odds

i mentioned this film - grungy old svemapan, expired almost 40 years ago - once before, and i may mention it again: i am so taken with its endurance of the decades.
in whimsical moments, i perceive these coils of celluloid as wise, wizened gentlemen, deemed done-for, disproving preconceptions and sell-by dates: they climb mountains, they swim seas and cycle into suburban sunsets.
in realistic moments, i know that i was just lucky - and am lucky, for there are two
more rolls waiting to surprise me.

into temptation

it was mid-afternoon when we arrived in cambridge, and we had just managed a short stroll and several frames of film before i - tsk! - got waylaid: by the sensuality of lush, by the nostalgia of marks and spencer, by the allure of next and monsoon.

we got back on track, eventually, but by then the day had dimmed, and the shutter speeds - as you can see - got slower and slower.
and slower.
taking a shopper like me into a city for a photo shoot is a risky undertaking indeed.

where the heart is

this house of ours needs a name, rather like snuggly toys need names, although my daughter has always called her beloved little bear "bear", and i'm not sure that "house" would be the most inspiring choice for a one-hundred-year-old-former-post-office in broek op langedijk.
"you could always call it 'dunroamin'", chortled my english companion as we strolled the southwold seafront, where the beach huts glow with a unique individuality. his irony escaped me, for what do i know of british banality and cliché?
*
i'm perplexed.
"finally!", perhaps?