In my house, I have been cooking risotto and making hand-made almond coconut macaroons. In my garden, I make way for the new by pulling out last year's dry branches, each handful crumbles and scatters a fine dust in the air that will be washed away by rain. Underneath, I notice the new growth, soft and thick leaves of mint. On the road this morning, I met the fox hunting. I am hunting as well, although I don't know for what. In the city, I wander, glancing in the side-yards and alleys and lanes.
I found this today, a poem called "Restlessness" by D.H. Lawrence*:
"I will escape from the hollow room, the box of light,
And be out in the bewildering darkness, which is always fecund, which might
Mate my hungry soul with a germ of its womb.
But oh, it is not enough, it is all no good.
There is something I want to feel in my running blood,
Something I want to touch; I must hold my face to the rain,
I must hold my face to the wind, and let it explain
Me its life as it hurries in secret."
It retrospect, I was searching for freedom, for a new language, for a place where I have not stood before but needed in order to see. I generally look outward, but when it comes, it seems to come from within.
*read the full text of DH Lawrence's poem at