38.
October

Some of my old friends who read this journal may often think how I can amuse myself here without the onset of cabin fever and culture starvation. Well, I’m peculiarly excited by this bank crises and listen to plenty of the news, English, American and European. Roll on a new way of seeing and being, I say.

Here, I listen to other things, too. To the voices of the wildness around me, to the villagers’ conversations; I tap in to their reality and it is little different than mine, I find. I listen to myself and think of those many miserable, self absorbed years which I should have given over to so much else.
I can go back to my native home one day, or not…but meanwhile here is something essential in my pre occupation with soil, sounds, sunlight, seasons and solitude. Forgive me; I still think of you where you are. Familiar places. But I’m here for the time being. Finding myself is not a phrase I like at all, but I’m comfortable with my adventure and my bit of place, just for the moment.

There are still shooting stars to see, tawny owls to accompany and figs and walnuts to fill a bucket. Walking out at night the muffled, breath like shriek of the barn owl makes me jump. No wonder they were always thought of as witches.