The back garden flooded with pure icy water from mountain streams. My small dogs splash like otters, yelping and doggy-paddling around in mad circles. There are African harrier hawks perched in trees at the end of the garden and clouds scudding fast over the valley. I could live on the beauty of this landscape. The wild bean that sprawls all over the garden and throws up purple pea-like flowers, a delight to me. Red pelargoniums, deep purply-red bougainvillea.
Red-winged starlings in a flurry at the top of the loquat tree, divebombing the fruit suddenly sweet and ripe, that benign yellow. Newborn weaver birds tumbling off the stoep wall as they learn to fly.
Bowls of green-yellow apples piled high around the kitchen. Last autumn’s apples stored over the winter, a neighbourly gift. And what to do with all the apples? A puree or apple sauce perhaps, some kind of apple crumble. Sweet and crisp but not interesting, generic apples. The abundance I so often take for granted in my life, that plenitude.
All my recovering friends are sober and thriving, so emails fly back and forth. I love days when it feels as if we are all getting better and making sober lives a reality. Even the unmanageable work on my desk seems less daunting and I plunge in again after sneaking another quick glance at the Chilean miners emerging out of darkness, a miracle, good news in a world starved of hope. Lives restored to literal and metaphorical sunlight, the bravery of those who go down into that dark deep shaft to lead out the trapped into freedom..