Buried in work, scarcely able to think about life out there beyond the writer’s desk. Planted some sprawling lilac-flowered rosemary, more sage, a broad-leaved fragrant thyme, herbs able to withstand the solid wall of heat we expect in February.
Watching the convulsions in Egypt from a distance, social uprisings met with ruthless suppression, protests that may only be understood or evaluated in retrospect. Chilled to think of museums burning, the loss of ancient beauties, the young lives at risk.
Ongoing concern here about Nelson Mandela’s health, impending sense of loss.
And summer in full glory, a last showing of roses and canna lilies, marguerites and salvias even as the grapes are harvested in the vineyards. Flashes of cadmium yellow from Cape canaries darting among the olive trees. Chorus of frogs each evening.
At night I dream of holidays on the Wild Coast near Qunu where Nelson Mandela was born, the huts on the grassy conical hills, the stormy oceans and fossil forests, the Nguni cattle wandering on lonely beaches in sea mist. Magical places I have known.
Friends doing well in sobriety, reaching those little milestones that once seemed impossible: four m0nths, five months, six weeks, two years. Sobriety is charted in celebrations we never take for granted. Every day rescued from despair and oblivion counts for something.