Just seconds ago I wrote a long blogpost around these pictures. And then, just when I wanted to do some last editing before publishing, everything I wrote somehow was gone. I considered for a moment to throw my laptop out of the window, to stamp with my feet on the ground like an angry little child or to just forget about this whole blogpost after all. But instead I decided to take a deep breath and do the grown up thing: tell you what I was writing about after all and make the best of it. So here I go.
I wrote about how I was sitting in the garden yesterday, listening to the little voice of my youngest still lingering in the air after he was lifted on his grandfathers bike to go for a ride with him. They were going on grand adventures, no doubt, riding through pastures and finding unexpected playgrounds along the way. I was alone, which doesn’t really happen that much lately with all the caretaking that happens around me. Although I wasn’t really alone, because I was kept company by at least a dozen different birds, trying to sing the loudest at once, and lots of littler creatures buzzing and scrambling around me.
I spoke about how I wandered into the kitchen, finding the strawberries that were sent to my by Chris’ grandmother. I thought of countless options to cook or bake with them, imagined the strawberries sprinkled with balsamic and herbs, baked into muffins or sliced on top of a cake. But instead of getting out my kitchen supplies I hopped into the garden again, taking a handful of strawberries, to climb on the picnic table, where I sat sucking up the juiciness, dangling my bare feet above the ground, enjoying the sun.
I told about how I thought back about watching Madame Bovary the other night. I vaguely remember reading the book ages ago, but a while ago Chris brought home a box of costume dramas, knowing how I love watching those. I didn’t really enjoy this one though and I am trying to remember whether I thought the heroin was as tiresome in the books as much as she was to me in the series. Yet, after watching the series, I turned to Chris and said:”That could have been me, you know”. He answered:”I realize that”. I was not talking about the unfortunate ending, mind you, but I could relate to the longing and the searching for real love and passion, something that kept me restless for a long time, years ago. Until I found him.
I sat there, on that table, for quite some time. I thought about how I want to record the singing of all those birds, to let you enjoy their music too. It’s such a delight to wake up with. I wrote letters in my mind, to different people I love, thinking I really should put them to paper one day. I envisioned a jumpsuit I want to make, later, and Sarah in her dress that is ready to be finished in my sewing room. I smiled, there, alone in the sun.
I wrote about how I licked my fingers while putting the strawberries back into the refrigerator. Just as I closed the door I heard a high, loud voice approaching from the distance. They were back. Had I been sitting there for so long? Then I shrugged, it didn’t really matter. I decided long ago that daydreaming is a very useful way of wasting time.