Posted by Tania Kindersley.
My sister is home from the south. The sun is shining. We sit on a bench and look at my delphiniums and speak of our father and our childhood. There is the absolute comfort of going through the thing together. I don’t take that for granted, for a single moment.
I do 1414 words for my writing workshop tomorrow. I have all my notes from the last three years; I could just as easily use those. For some reason, I am starting from scratch. I have no idea why. It feels like an imperative and I am following it, blindly. My fingers tap tap tap over the keyboard; Amy Macdonald is singing a brilliant song about this pretty face don’t work no more; the Pigeon is slumbering at my side. I smile at paradox: I am going to go into a room tomorrow and tell my students to trust themselves, flaws and all, and all the while I am lashing myself to produce the best ever workshop they ever got. Theory and practice, I think; and all the gaps in between.
Here is what the world looks like today:
Last night I had a dream that someone moved the burn. The Victorians did actually do it, some time in the 1870s. This is about three quarters of a mile from its natural course. In my dream, I shouted: but where will the mama duck swim? It was so vivid that I had to run down this morning to check it was still there. It was:
This is my favourite photograph I have taken for a while. Sun on salvia, what could be more simple than that? I don’t know why I love it so much, but I do:
Pigeon, most gracious in black and white today:
And the dear old blue hill: