Mild winter, extreme translation-related stress, course weekends, a gleaming Christmas with a fragrant Christmas tree, lots of time curled up with a book, existential anxiety, choir practice, eight-hour industry work weeks, kind-of poverty.
New experiences: an overnight stay alone in an empty hotel in a blizzard, distributing Christmas packages to the poor, acting as private interpreter for an ambassador.
A winter of worries - work, health, money. Apart from a gleaming Christmas and a few fascinating course weekends, I'd rather forget most of it.
But mountains have been moved for me. It's time to live, listen to the birds, and write sometimes.
I have washed puppy pee from my jeans and sang I see a red door and I want it painted black...
Science and princes with ancient table manners, glamorous dresses and food ...
A yellow light flashing, a steel door gliding open by itself. Shouted loudly come out and play ...
Oh ye'll take the high road and I'll take the low road
and I'll be in Scotland a'fore ye
I cry for the loss of love when what I really mean is the loss of warmth. Love is found in the sun. Late bloomer, they said once. What about never-bloomer?
I'm already in eternity, just a few more bumps in the road before heaven opens up.
Clutching a double-shot cappuccino like a lifeline, trying to focus on a book. Listening to the Eastern-European guys ...
A gentle hand steadied me.
... on a quest for God's love and an easy breath.
... obliquely through the dandelion clocks around us ...
Pandemic restrictions have been lifted and I can go to church again, if I want. I don't know if I want.
"Let's go to France this summer and explore castles and drink red wine," a friend said.
December is another planet than June.
They say there might not be enough electricity this winter, and is there a good way to finish this blog entry? No, there isn't.
There was a woman, once. This is not my story.