At it again

Office chaos

We came home about midnight last night, so early up and at work today. Feels like my head is somewhere else, and the excitement over 600 new e-mails in my inbox is just not there!

I always hate coming home and adapting to regular routines. The thought of such a busy everyday life is not a good one, and I get hate the feeling that the holiday I looked so much forward to, is over, and there will be months before I can relax and just do nothing again.

But we had a great time… four weeks of very warm weather and sun. I got a great tan 🙂

Guess I’ll go to bed early tonight. And then, as a few more days pass, I’ll probably fit in again… 🙂

One year after

We’ve been stayng for two nights now, in this beautiful French city where I crashed on my bike 21 july last year. Yesterday my husband went with me to where it happened, I just had to go there again. It was ok… But it is crazy that this short upward hill has cost me loads of pain, two months off from work, medical expences and medicines, and quite a good dash of fear…
Somebody would maybe say that the last one is a good thing.
Brought my bike on holiday with the intension to get out every day, it did’t happen until we got here. Now we have been on the road for three weeks, and I have some excuses… We’ve been so far south, with so high temperatures, and crazy traffic, is probably the only valid one.
I have some catching up to do! 🙂


Acnowledgment, sort of…

Sometimes, if something very bad has happened, people just hide it away. I did that too. As I have written about earlier, I started remembering after he died. I don’t know how many years it took for me to understand that all these horrible things actually did happen. Still, if a flashback has sort of new content, I doubt that it is true. I think it just can’t be…
I have been very open about everything with my youngest daughter, and she discussed this with her cousin, my niece. Both of them are grown up. My niece then told my daughter about anmemory she has, of him, my father. Nothing very bad, really, but an incident when she as a child (she was seven when he died) had THAT feeling. That one, when even as a small child she knew, that this is uncomfortable, intrusive, wrong.
I am so sorry she had to have this memory. But it is also a relief for me.
It’s not me.
It happened. My story is true, my feelings are not crazy, there is logic.

Le tour – and we miss it!

I cycled this last year, Col du Tourmalet, up from the east side, down this hill to Luz St Saveur. Speed record of 78 km/hr. wow…

We’ve missed it this year, first time in seven years we haven’t seen any of the stages. Miss it! We don’t even have TV! Well, we have sunsets and sea, and nature and all kinds of other stuff I woudn’t miss… Wear a helmet when cycling, OK?

And this is BEAUTY!

Did someone sing you lullabies?

Slumber Cat Overhead

Now I only sing for my cat, she doesn’ even try to listen…(Photo credit: Taekwonweirdo)

I hope so. I always sang a scary one for my girls, they fell asleep with a giggle.
Can’t remember anyone singing for me.


Rest your drowsy cheek,
My girl, quiet on my
Prickling arm. Dream
Your dream of lapping
Waters cresting on this
Human form. The tides
Are breathing, you and
I, in your small clench
And my tight heart.
Tonight we fill the
Grave with stones and
Slumber in the summer’s
Dew. And all I make
Are promises which can
Not come true. I will
Not give you away, my
Girl, I will never make
You cry, nor morning
Find us far apart, nor
This hand gone away
From you.

Mike Finley

Between colours and reflection

20120624-224913.jpg I love this picture, both the colours and the reflection. And the silence. I took this picture in a large city, and there was nobody there, just the reflection. Someone was just here.
As we live on the countryside, and our sound “issues” are listening to the little lamb go from tiny ba ba ba as they call for their mothers, to BAAAH in august, before no one ever hears from them again, I can assure you that sound, is something I think about all the time when I travel.
When was the last time you where somewhere absolutely quiet. NO sound? Thats is a good feeling.
I once had the same feeling, on the ground floor at Les Halles in Paris. Quiet, just me on the escalator going up. For no real reason, I turned my head slightly, and there was a man, 20 centimetres behind me, with his hand halfway down into my bag.
I told him to please leave me alone. And he flew down the escalator in a hurry. S’il vous plait helps in France;) Strange experience.


Lemons - Zitronen

Lemons (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Just the word does provoke some feelings, can you imagine the taste? And the lovely yellow fresh clean colour?
Todays poem is to make you feel 😉

A Lemon

Out of lemon flowers
on the moonlight, love’s
lashed and insatiable
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree‘s yellow
the lemons
move down
from the tree’s planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
into the starry
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.

Post it

Post-It Note Art Collage (PINAP)

Yeah…  (Photo credit: Adrian Wallett)

Sticky notes are a pain in the… I think it is kind of an addiction. Every time I start a new package, I seem to go crazy, and before I know it, I have sticky notes all over. Then they are not much useful…

Have you ever tried different colours? To separate one subject from another? OMG… Even more trouble!

Hope you have a organised day! 🙂

Sandy beach

English: Pothluney Cove Beach in Summer

Beach in Summer (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Do you remember what it smells like to lye down on a towel on a warm beach on a sunny day? The change in smell from where the sand is wet, to where it’s dry? Well, some of you probably doesn’t live by the sea, and others are so used to heat, that they don’t regard is as a pleasure, like I do.

All those different impressions. Lying on my stomach, letting the sand run through my fingers. Closing my eyes, listening to children playing, someone doing beach volleyball, waves splashing on the shore. The smell of sun tan lotion. Eating sandwiches with sand… They got down too. Smelling the coffee that the grownups were having.

Sometimes I’d get some money to go for ice cream. I’d walk to the kiosk, feeling warm sand, almost too warm, between my toes. The coarse grass almost cut my feet, as it desperately tries to keep all the sand in place. My feet had wet sand all over.  I’d get ice cream for everyone, and run back.

I’d be tired as a dog, coming home again. My hair was smelling of sea water.

The smell of summer. Sand in my ears.

A poem and a flower

Twin flowers of Ipomoea acuminata

Twin flowers of Ipomoea acuminata (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve gotten to love these poems from Rabindranath Tagore. It’s not all that often I have the time to concentrate for long enough time to get the grips of poems. But maybe that is changing…
Enjoy 🙂

Brink of Eternity

In desperate hope I go and search for her
in all the corners of my room;
I find her not.

My house is small
and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord,
and seeking her I have to come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky
and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish
—no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,
plunge it into the deepest fullness.
Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch
in the allness of the universe.

Rabindranath Tagore