Turning 61. Life is still its old paradoxical self. (Why does the notion persist, that one day it will fall into order?) Taking it all in is the thing. Muskets and flowers. Trucks and colouring pencils. The presence and the absence of loved ones.
Have been reading Anne Salmond’s Two Worlds, coincidentally as Aotearoa reckons with the fact of 250 years since Cook et al turned up and bungled the first exchanges: nine Māori dead by the time they sailed on. An inauspicious start. Amends are made slowly; there will never be any laurels to rest on. There will only be doing better. And better again.
Spring flowers under gloomy skies. We hoist a swing in anticipation of the grandsons’ visit, and their parents … they’re in the country, but not here yet. Pangs. I swot up the road code for a class two heavy vehicle license. Passing the theory has proved the easy part.
Maiden, the film, is galvanising (98% on Rotten Tomatoes). Patently women have scarcely begun to unearth and exhibit their capacities in the world … in the case of the boat race, for determination, strategy, endurance, comradeship under pressure, courage. For a power-boost, women young and old, go and see it.
I was given a flowering Pulsatilla Vulgaris whose homeopathic signature is moping and weeping. A sweet reminder that it’s okay to do so — it’s only human — but ten minutes might be enough, okay?
Then it’s time to go back on deck, even if the deck’s slippery now and then, with ice or spume or tears.