Curtains that once hung in my grandma’s house now hang at our bedroom window, creamy yellow and covered in wildflowers. On the windowsill, a small wooden ornament made out of an old pepper grinder with a twisted copper flower inside, an early handmade gift from Ben. My favourite navy sweater hangs on the clothes rail, a hand-me-down from a good friend with much better taste than me. On the end of the rail sits a straw summer hat with a flowery blue ribbon, a gift from our next door neighbour. My brother’s precious guitar on long term loan in the corner. A recipe book, one I use often, sits on top of the wooden drawers, a parting gift from my previous next door neighbour. Inside the drawers, three pairs of cosy alpaca socks, all gifts from the sweetest of friends. The dressing gown on the brass hook on the back of the door, a Christmas gift from my parents. It goes on and on. And the house itself, what about that? What hands gave their sweat, skill and patience so many years ago that I could lie here now? What gifts from the earth as brick, slate and lime to keep us sheltered and warm? And what about me, this life? How did I get here? My parents, yes. And their parents, yes. But back and back and back and back, why any of it? How any of it? How everything in such perfect balance?
There are always challenges, yes. But simply lying in bed one evening you can be touched by the entire universe. It can break your heart, really.
Love and courage,