We live at the junction of two small roads, marked by an apple and an oak that grow together. In front of our house is a triangle of grass and a white wooden signpost that you can only find in rural England. The sky is a not-too-glaring blue, a tasteful blue, not like the glaring, bold blue of Los Angeles, or the simmering, sexy blue of Greece, and small clouds float freely.
And striding into this world I wonder, how on earth did I get here? How do we find ourselves where we are? Is this intention or fate? I walk my dogs across the cricket pitch in the morning, my head full of work worries and the general existential angst that comes from having a madman as the president of my adopted country (what has he done now? is my familiar refrain every morning). And as I walk, I listen to the birds, the wind in the trees, marvel at the amount of blackberries, see how the bracken has grown since I was last here a few days ago, witness the jolly cavorting of the dogs, and everything melts away. This is what is important: to be in a place that feels like home, safe, and surrounded by the natural world, in its arms, connected to it, part of it.
"Do you think there is anything not attached by its unbreakable cord to everything else?"
-- Mary Oliver
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I hope you all have a marvelous day. #onlylove