THE GREEN GREEN GRASS OF HOME

Posted on 18 May 2007

The green green grass of home

I’ve been home a week. The grass is a rich green from all the rain I thankfully missed. I had to take this picture of how Rob cut the grass. He couldn’t bear to cut the flower-weeds so mowed around them – you would never know that we live in the beautifully manicured, fancy area of West Vancouver – and, for some reason, his leaving the flowers endeared him to me.

I am still a little fuzzy after travel and doing my usual nesting and cleaning. Although I have spoken to a few friends and family members, I am most often alone (especially as Rob is working strange hours). As my trips pile up – last year I was in Europe for five months – I see that friends are in touch less often, not because (I hope) they’ve forgotten about me but because I am no longer a part of their day-to-day life. In some ways, I feel lonely but, in others, I am happy to have this time to think, to catch up on all the little things that gather – like dust and paperwork – when I am away from home.

I still think of Vancouver as home, as the place where I am most comfortable though Rob and I talk often about selling, about retiring east, about adventure, about being excited about the rest of our lives. Before we know it, we will be dead. I like the hardness of the word “death.” It means no nonsense: it is going to happen and, like Oliver, I don’t want to feel as if I’ve just visited this world. I want to roam, taste exotic food, drink wonderful vintages, dance to exhaustion, sing, write a book, love and be loved passionately. I want to die knowing that I followed my natural bent. I want to be at peace.

Wow, where did all that come from? My last day in Paris, I spent several hours roaming the Montparnase cementary where the remains of Baudelaire, Sartre, Beauvoir and many others lie. I wonder, in the end, how each felt about his or her life.

Sculpturer

Film Maker

My Heros

My motto

I love the last one that says “My work is my prayer.”


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