Sunday morning in the flat in Bath. Writing on the sofa, looking out at the trees on the hill past the river, sunlight in long stripes on the carpet but the sky undecided between grey, white, a little blue. Still in here, because I didn't open the door/window, and not much nmovement in the nearby trees. Cars only occasionally passing on the road behind me. This has been a Summer of absence, a Summer of compulsory change, and the imaginary landscape seems to be littered with fragments of chrysalis.
That kind of muted Sunday. I wonder if this is true. Change is rarely the change you expect, and it need not be welcome. But at some level, you can see that it's been there, waiting for you, and the challenge is to engage with it. That conversation the other day. No - living well does not guarantee a happy ending. The reward for work well done is more work. The role of the deepest belief.
That kind of muted Sunday. I wonder if this is true. Change is rarely the change you expect, and it need not be welcome. But at some level, you can see that it's been there, waiting for you, and the challenge is to engage with it. That conversation the other day. No - living well does not guarantee a happy ending. The reward for work well done is more work. The role of the deepest belief.