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@daily-wanderer
Day 71. 4.52pm. 12C/54F. Mud. It’s on my clothes, on my hands, and in my brain. It’s the going down when you passionately want to fly. It’s the coming home, finding out you’re not used to that feeling anymore. It’s the dark and the discovery that good things grow from it too.
Day 70. 2.26pm. 13C/55F. There’s a strong wind today, and the soccer T-shirts on the clothing rack are dancing up and down. A folding chair on the sidewalk is occupied by a big teddy bear, and further down the street an older man wearing an orange headdress, is sitting on a plastic rug. Tomorrow it’s the King’s birthday, and traditionally, already the day before people come out on the streets with all their old stuff —anything they can find hidden in attics and basements, from key rings and chainsaws to worn sandals and antique armchairs. To find something pretty, useful or valuable is an art in itself, and for many a fun way to spend a night, morning or even a whole day.
Day 69. 2.40pm. 14C/58F. After a week of constant blue, the sky has opted for fat, versatile and all-covering clouds. We buy peanut butter, apples and envelopes in the supermarket and later, at home, we prepare a pizza without cheese. In the backyard, I stretch horizontal wires across the fence. The honeysuckle bush is supposed to follow the wire, but you can never tell with plants. They seem to prefer the neighbor’s side. It’s out of my control.
Day 68. 11.44am. 24C/75F. Standing on the bank of the meadow, the Barnacle Goose raises its neck and looks down on me curiously. From where I'm sitting, in my small kayak, I hardly match his height. He is not at all shy, even though we are less than six feet apart. I paddle on, against the current, and reach another small island. It's low and flat like the other polders, but there are trees growing and further down I see some wooden picnic tables. The only way to get here is by a small boat. Parents take their children here to play in the small meadow, and teenage boys gather around the tables to eat chips and make burping sounds. I look at the edge of the field, where the water splashes against clumps of grass, and as always I'm astonished the land still hasn't been engulfed by the river. It has not been for seven centuries, ever since the villagers reclaimed the land from the sea.
Day 67. 4.12pm. 28C/83F. The Circle Part VI. You, patient follower who might have wondered why in the last 10 days I’ve named my posts ‘The Circle’: It all started with the shadbush in front of the house, and the endless seasonal cycle of bloom, berries, and bareness in the winter. While waiting for it to bloom, I thought it would be nice to work on the same watercolor for as long as it would take the tree to burst into a flower fest. Today is the day. The sky in front of the house is covered with white flower petals and the watercolor is finally finished
Day 65. 6pm. 19C/67F. The Circle Part V. We harvest the last batch of last year’s endives, which will be our meal for tonight. Virgin white they emerge from the dark clay soil, and we need an ax to chop off the roots. The weather is beautiful and for a moment I’m reminded of the city. I picture men in T-shirts and women in skirts riding on their bikes through the streets. Sidewalk cafes are packed and people try out their new sandals. ‘Have you seen my watering can?’ Our garden neighbor asks. I look up from the soil and reply to his question. Strands of white clouds move before the sun, but the air stays warm. High in the sky, a godwit calls, and I breathe in deeply. .
Day 65. 7.04pm. 12C/54F. The Circle Part IV. This is the fourth day I’m working on the same painting. The air has turned colder. The neighbor just bought a mobile home And my love arrived at my door. Still the shadbush is not yet in blossom.
Day 64. 10.24am. 17C/62F. The Circle Part III. I feel fear. For myself, for others. For this place, where I’m sitting right now, which is a safe place but in ten years it might not be. Fear of growing old, without having children of my own. Fear of loud noise, fear of people who have thicker skin than me. Fear of getting skin cancer, fear of death. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ And still, I enjoy sitting here looking at the sky. I feel happy when a soft breeze touches my cheeks, the same breeze that sends the lapwing high up in the air. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Tiny spring seedlings. They look lost in the ocean of dirt they’re trapped in. But they’ll never cease their attempt to reach the sun. Life is stronger than fear.
Day 63. 3.36pm. 18C/65F. The Circle Part II. When I was seven years old, a new girl arrived in our class, Vanessa. She didn’t have any friends yet and since I felt myself a bit of an outsider, we were drawn to each other and became friends. We both had very different characters. I was fanciful and dreamy and had a lot of ideas in my head, Vanessa was able to turn my ideas into something tangible. We worked on an extensive study about the universe and we issued a magazine: Maxi the caterpillar, to which our classmates subscribed. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ If I would have met Vanessa later in life, we would have probably not become close. She was a doer with a very practical mind, and I would have felt too shy to share my ideas with her. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ To be open and show your sensitive, imaginative side, takes some courage. But when I was seven, I never thought about these things.
As a child, you simply are, and you’re eager to express yourself, without any restraints. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ It’s funny how the name Vanessa popped up in my head today. Seemingly out of nowhere. I hope she’s doing well. ⠀
Day 62. 2.42pm. 8C/46F. The Circle Part I. The shadbush is budding. In a few days, the tree will burst into an explosion of white petals. Fifteen days of flowerfest and then it's over. The leaves will fall off and the tree will return to a sober state of grey and green. It's interesting how I've learned that everything comes to an end. And maybe it's true. But not for the tree. It grows further, and grows in circles. Flowers, leaves, berries, buds, and then flowers again. There is no end to it. It's me who defines the end and the beginning. That's why from now on, I will try to see if I can change that, if I can think in circles and find perpetuity.
Day 61. 2.46pm. 14C/58F. The boy with the huge red balloon in the supermarket, waiting to go home with his new toy. The letter I drop in the mailbox, and my distant friend who will be thrilled to hear the news. The old man on his folding bike, greeting me, he has still one mile to go.
Once, I flew from New York to London and while the plane was descending, for a moment we floated in empty, clear space, surrounded by big, fluffy clouds. The airplane did not touch the clouds, but they were there, all around us, they seemed like layers in time and space. And I, traveler, was waiting in the wings, but I could look ahead and see what was coming. I still try to do that sometimes, thinking in layers, as I walk from the supermarket back home. .
Day 60. 5.04pm. 6C/43F. After sixty days and just as many paintings, I’ve decided to pace myself and dedicate more time to other things I love to do. Therefore, I will no longer post every day here, but every other day.
From now on I’ll be posting my skies on Tuesday, Thursday, and in the weekends. Thank you so much for following me <3
Day 59. 2.06pm. 9C/48F. This is the first day that I hear the blackbird singing out loud. No hesitant tones at the beginning or the end of the day, but a non-stop, vivid and brilliant song that lasts all day long. And he won’t stop before the end of July.
I should jump in the air, clap my hands, fire a salute and dance!...to celebrate the return of the blackbird. But I can’t. Instead I stroll through the village with other things on my mind. The inside is not always in sync with the outside. I’ll leave it to the blackbird to celebrate and sing.
Day 58. 12.56pm. 10C/50F. I hear the beating of hammers, and down the street someone is sawing wood. It’s Good Friday, and people are starting to build their nests. A swan couple is paddling in the little creek behind the street, they stop when they see a dog on the edge of someone's backyard. The dog has spotted them too, and they are only 6 feet apart from each other. For a moment that seems to last forever, they look at each other silently, dog and swan. What do they see in each other? Threat? Or recognition? Then, a man comes out of a shed with a wooden lath on his shoulders, towering over the dog. The man greets me, and I greet him back. The dog leaps towards his master, and the swans paddle away. Whatever was between the dog and the swan, we will never know .
Day 57. 4:32pm. 7C/44F. The yard at the end of the street has turned into a sandy mess. What’s missing are two pine trees and a truck full of berry bushes. Meanwhile, 21 piles of black paving stones are carefully lined up in front of the yard, waiting to take over the remains of what once was a lush green plot. As I pass by, three geese are flying over, low, heading to the north. Their call echos against the walls in the street. It sounds like a lament.
Day 56. 12:58. 7C/44F. On a quiet day like this, while I’m walking through the streets of the village, I can’t really tell where I am.
I look at the neatly landscaped gardens, the exotic plants and clean driveways, and I’m reminded of the vacations I spent in Germany, France, or even Italy, where I walked through the same neighborhoods. I felt like a stranger then, yet in a pleasant way. I was welcome, and all I had to do was to look around me and take in the landscape without any knowledge or attachment. I could admire or dislike the scenery, with the sweet prospect of oblivion; I was just a passerby. Today, I feel I’m a stranger again, in my own town, and I’m grateful for it.
Day 55. 1.58pm. 8C/47F. The man is wearing blue overalls and the lines on his face tell the story of hard work in many cold winters. I estimate him having the age of 75. 'What's that?' I ask him, pointing to a big pile of moist dirt on his garden. 'Mud. From the river, to fertilize the garden.' 'How did you get it up here?' I ask, thinking of the deep, flowing water of the river, 65 feet away. 'With a shovel,' he replies, looking at me with his eyebrows raised. I look back at him, and then I look at his big, firm hands. I nod to him. 'Of course.'
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