old sink from the apartments above my Aunt & Uncle's Boathouse

There’s been a great deal of deep, generational change these past six months. It’s as if after the earthquake of Arab spring, a fault line appeared in our collective psyche and widened, so that summer seemed to be full of the process of ‘moving on’ – at least finding acceptance that moving on MUST be done (Ghaddafi is STILL trying to come to terms with this, somewhere in Libya). On a local & personal level too, this shift towards a new reality is everywhere.  Festival of Northern Lights (for whom I am lucky enough to work), 24-years-old, has taken the long road to independence from the municipality that birthed and nurtured it.  Our dear family Y is in the process of moving, after decades by the river, to brand new digs at Victoria Park – this will change the face of our small city considerably.  Soldiers return from Afghanistan; our 5-year-old construction zone becomes a house.  A cottage that has been in the family for 40 years calls out to it’s new owner, who must still wait until the time is right for our family to leave.  Neice, Nephew and Daughter return from off-continent travel, inevitably changed “I know way more about myself now.  I know how my life needs to be”.  Another Nephew falls in love.  I learn a little more about how to be who I am, at 48.

For me, impossibly, the summer also somehow contained the polar opposite to that deep, slow transformation-  a veritable Raging Nahani River of tasks and commitments and obligations, crises and panics  My dear god – the work was overwhelming, full of cul-de-sacs and mis-steps, crossed wires and booby-traps.  I’ve rarely experienced a longer period like it, and I’m thankful to find myself here now that things seem to have leveled out, safely on the far dry shore.  Only lost a couple of teeth – it could have been much much worse.  That Nahani.  Whew.

It feels very good to be back in the safety of September routine, where school schedules, teaching schedules, work schedules and 2-day-weekends provide a sane containment for what can be done.  It’s good to be writing again.  It’ll be good to step into daily morning practise again.

I woke this morning at 5:30am, and started writing under the gibbous moon, who had Jupiter (?please correct me – anyone) beside her for company.  Slowly the colour seeped back into the world, the crickets stopped and the birds awoke, raucus.  It’s cold – I can smell autumn – and feel autumn in my fingertips and toes now, so I will take that as my cue, and finish.

happy Friday, all.





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Categorised in: Art The cordwood house- 2006-2013