Sitting, quiet, mesmerised by the flicker of candle flames and firelight, it seems odd that a few hours ago I was caught in the craziness of the city and all its sounds and now ... peace and quiet contemplation.
It is only when I am here, at home in the valley, that I know and feel the differences in sights, sounds and even smells and they are stark and raspingly different. Walking barefoot, fetching water to flush and wash with, feeling secure with doors and windows open and when the gate is left open, the joy of chasing the cows from the garden with a Giya! Priceless and precious moments seemingly snatched between commuted hours in taxis and living in the city sustain me when I wake at night blinded by street lamps, neon lights, sirens and city sounds.
The soft smell of the sea breeze revives me when I step over and past overflowing litter and bins that draw those who need to eat, even if it is our throw-aways. Quick chats in elevators and glances at strangers who live a wall away mark conversations with neighbours when at home as worthwhile. Thinking about how rushing here, then there, seems so futile... as I turn another spade of rain-damped earth where soon a garden will grow.
No roses yet, just shoots and little bits of promise at home, while in the city the flowerbeds at the flat foyers seems almost plasticly placed to please.
Soon I will reverse this and have only glimpses of the city left, while views of home will be everyday but never commonly so.
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