Home to the sunny windiness (is that a word? it should be) of springtime in the mountains- one day in a black tantrum, the next in spasmodic, ebullient sunshine. I have unpacked. My laundry is NOT finished (nor is it ever really like to be). There are new bits of the world decking my walls. I’ve finished three books (this is my particular form of coping with jetlag) and am hot on the heels of the fourth. These are, in case you are wondering, Mysticism, by Evelyn Underhill, which it has taken me two years to finish, Reading the Classics with C.S. Lewis, also awhile in coming, but entirely satisfying. I now have my own self and C.S. Lewis composed reading list for the next oh, thirty years or so. Finished my first Dorothy Sayers mystery, and found my instinct that it would be great plane reading to be entirely right. And am now hotly pursuing the completion of Wendell Berry’s Standing By Words. Reviews will follow. Someday.
In the windblown aftermath of this journey, I find it far easier to sort pictures than memories – to pick the photos most poignant to my heart, draw out their color, crop them the slightest to bring the essence they embody to the fore. It’s one of those hands on arts that works quietly on my brain, letting an unthinking action allow my thoughts to form. For now, here are a few of those photos, random glimpses of a country which sparked a healthy, and unexpected affection in me. A few of are events and friends. More are just the still-lifes that blinked up at me with particular allurement as we walked a dozen streets/markets/gardens/airports. Hope your springtime days are renewing whatever winter lingers in your heart and garden.