Back in Genova, and loving it.

I'm back in Genova and it is so very good to be here.

The journey began with a 4.30am alarm, a 5.25am tram in cold early morning rain, a 6am airport bus, a 9.25am flight, Milan.

A bus from the airport, lunch at Milan Central Station... where some charm was showered upon us by the lovely chef there.  A train to Genova, then a taxi, as we were slightly exhausted.

Out again and off into the ancient heart of the city to visit with Francesca and Norma where a  wine-tasting at Le Gramole was confirmed for tomorrow, then a stop at the Bio shop for fruit and vegetables. Back to the delicious apartment we have here, then out for the best pizza ... in the world.  Truly. 

A walk through the storm, thunder and lightning, the rain had mostly stopped while we were out walking, down the port and back here to unpack and work a little.     And here we are, working behind shutters closed over massive old open windows.  The noise is reassuringly Italy at night.  I miss these sounds when I'm back in Antwerp.  People are talking and laughing, sometimes shouting... alive, out there on the streets a few floors below this beautiful apartment in an ancient building.

Sometimes I feel so extraordinarily fortunate.  I am living a life that is rich in stories and full of good people.

It's so good to be back here.

Hero, Family Of The Year

Miss 10 slipped a note into my pocket last night.  I'm famous for losing notes slipped into my pockets ...

This morning she appeared here, so excited, did I still have that piece of paper?  I wasn't sure.  She looked sad.  I wandered over and looked.  It was okay, I hadn't 'cleaned' my pockets, without thinking.

She had written 'Family of the Year', Hero.  I had to hand over my keyboard.  She's in love, with this song, and like me she plays favourites on repeat. 

She's delicious ... and needless to say, I have it here, playing, on repeat.

This and That & Everything!

 

If I ask you what you did, saw, heard, smelled, touched and tasted yesterday ...'

Alan Watts, The Book: On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are

The extract was longer but perhaps this is enough to remind us to leave some time for our senses to do their work ... to smell the flowers perhaps.   There are more quotes from his book here.

These days find me rushing, like a mad woman, through life.  Cleaning, organising, packing, remembering, searching, sometimes finding. 

I am so tired I will probably sleep all the way to Italy on Wednesday.  Meanwhile the Belgian bloke is having a shoulder scan, this week I hope.  He's been in pain for far too long now and physio isn't helping at all.  It seems he has either torn a muscle or ... he needs something for inflammation of a joint somewhere in there.  We'll be so glad when he can use his arm again, and sleep without waking when he turns.

Jess has broken her finger.  Ignoring it didn't speed healing and so she's 'limping around' in terms of what she can do with that ridiculously painful middle finger.

Miss 10 has taken to lolling about and generally enjoying her summer holidays. And Sander is crossing Belgium 5 days per week for work, as usual.

I suspect, if we sat down together and talked of what we noticed yesterday, we might just be a small group of grouchy stressed people who noticed not much at all ... except Miss 10 who may have noticed things. 

I talked to my Dad this morning.  I wanted to wish him well for his hospital tests on Tuesday but, in good news really, his tests were on Monday and he had come through the actuality of them really well.  It was lovely to be talking to him as he had worried me with talk of having to go off his heart medication for the test.  He's staying at my sister's tonight.  They didn't want him to go home alone.

And so the new website needs fine-tuning.  There are emails to write and to reply to.  I'm behind on my writing course, yet again ...   I'm in and out with the laundry, packing ,and ironing while searching for some really important notes I had made.

But I did finish the family portrait series of shots I took last Sunday.  I'm so pleased with the results.  They were another really special family full of adorable little folk, as seen below.

 

Reading & Writing My Way Back ...

Sometimes I get so caught up in issues close to my heart that I lose my own way.

And really, I know that at any given time, in any given century, there are 'bad things going on'.  I would be naive to imagine otherwise.  And I do understand that I know very little of the facts of those 'things'.  I know I need to understand that an absolute 'truth' doesn't really exist.  No situation is black & white.

Perhaps the best is to seek a series of narratives from different sources, accepting that truth is in there somewhere ... in different ways for every soul involved.

I had to find a way back from the sadness that set in after spending days reading of things so bad and so sad that they slipped in under my skin ... like tics perhaps, quietly poisoning my peace of mind and stealing my sense of beauty.

I found my way back tonight.  I've been lost in other, rather beautiful, worlds for an hour or more, since discovering Jodi's blog - Practising Simplicity.

She 'introduced' me to Katie and Reuben's - House of Humble.  And they led me over to Inked in Colour by Sash.

And finally, I felt like wandering across this after-midnight-silent room, to pick up my beautiful shawl, having this sense of finding my way back to myself some.  The Russian tailor made the changes I asked him to make to the shawl and it's quickly becoming this beautiful thing that makes me smile whenever I wear it.

Martin Luther King said that, 'Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.'

I believe this, so strongly, but I also see that I need balance.  When I speak out there's a sense of standing some place alone.  I want the world's eyes to turn to this topic that seems so important to me but in pursuing that desire to share, to speak out, hurts me. 

I grew up watching The Diary of Anne Frank on television.  It was screened, at very least, annually.  And we studied her story ... more than once, in school.

For a long time, years really, watching that movie I would to hope that someone would speak up for those people trapped in that holocaust.  But no one seemed able to so effectively.  The excuse used later was, we didn't know.  And so it is that periodically I am compelled to share information that asks people to 'see' and to 'know'.  To help bring about change. To stop really bad stuff happening.

But the slope is slippery and the deeper I go the further I am from that place, that creative space, where I prefer to be.  I love being a photographer, observing and capturing without interfering too much.  I love writing ... telling stories the way I imagine them.  And I believe, so strongly, in justice for all even as I understand it's impossible.

Periodically I step into the ring and challenge peoples desire to turn away, not to see, not to know. 

And afterwards, after the sharing, I have to find a way back to way I prefer life to be.  The women I discovered tonight pulled me back onto those paths that involve flowers and fruit trees, beautifully captured, along with so many stories. 

It's good to be back from that other, much sadder, much harder place for a while.

Hoping For A Belgian Win In The World Cup Tonight.

Meet the team.  Belgium's Red Duivels - aka the World Cup Football team.

The story of the photographer and this project is over on Fans of Flanders.

The game begins in 15 minutes.  People wearing 'the colours' of Belgium have been streaming by, on their way to the nearby park to support the team with like-minded souls.  Apparently beer glasses were joyfully thrown in the air last time, Belgium had scored, so no one seems too worried about possible rain. 

It's been muggy all day ... we're absolutely 'in theme' for Brazilian weather here.

Let's see how it goes.

Mourid Barghouti, I Saw Ramallah.

An extract from one of my 10 favourite books ever.

I am reading an old blog of mine.  I can't help wanting to bring these things forward from 2005 ... 2006, just so I don't lose them again.

For an exile, the habitual place and status of a person is lost.

One who is known becomes anonymous, one who is generous has to watch what he spends, one who is merry gazes in silence.

The fortunate ones are looked upon with suspicion, and envy becomes the profession of those who have no profession except watching others.

Europe, where I lived for years, was full of them, from all the Arab countries. Each one had a story I cannot record, perhaps nobody can record.

The calm of the place of exile and its wish-for safety is never completely realized. The homeland does not leave the body until the last moment, the moment of death.

The fish
Even in the fisherman's net,
Still carries

The smell of the sea.
Mourid Barghouti from, I Saw Ramallah.