It Stings

This patch of sky, earth and houses once was my only view on the world. I stand in my mother's garden (a slightly grand name for what is essentially a patio) and gaze upon these rooftops with a strangely hollow feeling inside.

Today is my aunt's funeral. This is my home town, Hastings (although I sometimes refer to it as 'Stings). Everything changes and yet somehow stays the same.

A friend showed me this poem today, and it seems strangely apt:

Please Bring Strange Things

Please bring strange things.
Please come bringing new things.
Let very old things come into your hands.
Let what you do not know come into your eyes.
Let desert sand harden your feet.
Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
Let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
And the ways you go be the lines of your palms.
Let there be deep snow in your inbreathing
And your outbreath be the shining of ice.
May your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
May you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
May the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
May your soul be at home where there are no houses.
Walk carefully, well-loved one,
Walk mindfully, well-loved one,
Walk fearlessly, well-loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
Be always coming home.

---Ursula K. Leguin


How many seagulls can you spot in this shot?