Sparrowland

These flying mice of the sky abound here.

Their sounds are more than one - a whole bird world - and the children look the same but different to the parents.

I feel heavy, like lead - want to be in bed.

My daughter slept with me, I didn’t sleep.

My dreams were fraught and I am still landing on my feet. This tea is cloying in my mouth because the milk is old.

The rain continues to fall - not Riven-wood, but River, Rain-Wood. Chuckle, chuckle.

It’s Kung fu for the first time in a month and I’m nervous to go with out Sara and her girls - want to be with the family of families. I actually miss them - these souls who make our every second Sunday a ritual joy - a process: kung fun, coffee, fries and chats over more coffee in there beautiful German, passive house.

Ah, good neighbours who call on you for help and you in return - thats the community we are building here - family by family - strand by strand.

Back to the blasted sparrows. Laura used to love them at cafes where they ate the crumbs on table and floor - I prefer them not. But they belong here too just like the multitudes of my heavy-type feelings - the everyday kind, nothing special - rare or unique. Love the everyday and you will love most of yourself - just like these sparrows are hinting at with me right now.