I know I have been quiet, but there is not a lot for me to say right now. The weeks are full and long: a jigsaw of work and errands, sweetness and sourness, ordinariness and love.
I bend beneath the mountain of all the pieces which refuse to fit, no matter how hard I try to force them, and scramble hungrily towards the pockets of fresh air that come in moments and at weekends.
Moments like this are precious. They are my own and belong to me.
Some people lie dormant in my memories, silent and slumbering for months in between, yet ever ready to spring forth without good warning. I remember suddenly when I stand browsing a shop window or if I switch on a specific television program , accidentally. I find them sitting beside me in the lounge of some airport or at home on an evening where the place is filled with just me.
What is it like coming home? For me these days it is the same journey: to the paintings I have hung , to the furniture I have arranged and the rooms I have uniquely dressed with small external pieces of me. Also to the scattered reminders ( a shoe out of place, and crumpled throw rugs) that are the detrius of a teenage life burgeoning with her newly chosen signature – that are not my choices, and all the familiar scents. It is coming home to furniture I bought and will keep for years, until it is too worn or too old ( although the pieces I have chosen and which I favour are those which will pass on easily to another generation). It will never be furniture too lacking in style to be acceptable.
It is a home whose lines are firmly drawn, whose boundaries had set in without me noticing. I have a family I love dearly and close friends I have known for years, and books on my bookcase I have owned for years and a collection I keep adding to, and sharing. Most days I long to be close to it all. Most days it makes me happy.
I have missed you all, during this time I ran out of any energy at all except what I needed to get through each day.