Thursday, September 15, 2005
Still close
Leaving the house, on a morning like this morning, fresh after rain, I can smell the air, the trees, the weather, as I walk down the street. Just a faint breath. Here, where the inner city meets suburbia, the natural world is elsewhere, but still close. Behind a curtain which waits to be pulled aside.
Sometimes, like this morning, when I smell the air, the trees, the weather, and then turn away, round the corner to the traffic-clogged main road, and plunge into the city - sometimes I stand still on the pavement and think of what’s behind the curtain and think: no. Then I force my feet to keep on walking. ¶ 6:43 pm
Leaving the house, on a morning like this morning, fresh after rain, I can smell the air, the trees, the weather, as I walk down the street. Just a faint breath. Here, where the inner city meets suburbia, the natural world is elsewhere, but still close. Behind a curtain which waits to be pulled aside.
Sometimes, like this morning, when I smell the air, the trees, the weather, and then turn away, round the corner to the traffic-clogged main road, and plunge into the city - sometimes I stand still on the pavement and think of what’s behind the curtain and think: no. Then I force my feet to keep on walking. ¶ 6:43 pm
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I so often have that sense, though I hadn't thought of it as being the natural world, in particular; just the other world, the real world -- being so close, so close.
Beautiful post.
Beautiful post.
There's a sense of magic everywhere here, that curtain so inviting. If we could pull back the veils of life, yes. But then what? What would we do with such enlightenment? Ah, there is work to do, a life to live, we must go on...
See how rich such simple images you throw out are?
I am reading you, every post, even if I don't click in so you can see me on your sitemeter (if you have one), or leave a calling card. Things here haven't settled yet. But I'm still around.
*hugs xo
See how rich such simple images you throw out are?
I am reading you, every post, even if I don't click in so you can see me on your sitemeter (if you have one), or leave a calling card. Things here haven't settled yet. But I'm still around.
*hugs xo
And under the skin, the bones, and under the bones, the cells, and under the cells the molecules and under the molecules.... space. Pick your illusion to live with, the infinite lies inside us.
Thank you. Beautiful.
Thank you. Beautiful.
How interesting. I read your comments and thought, oh, I didn't make myself clear, I was just talking about wishing I spent my days somewhere closer to nature than the centre of London. Then I thought: or was I? and returned to the feeling I'd described, and realised that it probably was indeed a momentary awareness of another dimension, only exemplified or symbolised by the scent and feel of the air and the trees on a fresh morning. So thank you for making me realise that!
Brenda, I hope things settle when they're ripe to settle and that you're doing ok with the uncertainty in the meantime. xx
Brenda, I hope things settle when they're ripe to settle and that you're doing ok with the uncertainty in the meantime. xx
Jean, you make yourself perfectly clear. It's that clarity that allows people to see all the nuances that the author herself need not be conscious of to bring to life.
I read this and felt sad that we couldn't trade places for a while. Sometimes, living out here in the hills, I do feel a sudden longing for urban landscapes...
I read this and felt sad that we couldn't trade places for a while. Sometimes, living out here in the hills, I do feel a sudden longing for urban landscapes...
And i was reminded of Tom Montag's Sept 18 post about a book by Kathleen Moore, where she talks about wildness being in each of us. Why is that such a radical idea? It's so true but so hard sometimes to get in touch with.
# posted by 
: 9:14 pm
: 9:14 pm
Hi Jean, I'm poring over your recent posts after some time away -- for vacation and other things. It's so good to return to this site and find as always the lovely, nuanced photographs, the paragraphs of fine autobiographical prose that express what many people other than you are feeling. I particularly like this photo's geometry, vertical and obliques lines which make it look like a minimalist painting -- minimalism with a heart. PS about a different post: Handel is my favorite composer.
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