let snow fall.

Where did my writing days go? My brain is now 30 years old and has lost much of its energy and the creativity that once felt so effortless. I used to write and write, and probably most of it was drivel I'd rather burn than read again, but at least I wrote. For every 500 words there were a few good ones strung together nicely, so it was always worth it. But now. But now, but now...

It's April and there are still bits of snow left on the grass, below the bottom-end of the fence where the sun doesn't reach. There's a small pile of cat poo that confirms my suspicions he's the culprit behind my dug-up daffs. I'll have to plant some more lemon thyme and hope that keeps him at bay. The lavender pots are also waiting to be planted, but I'm asking them to be patient. I'll wait until the thermometer creeps past 0 for good, and then I'll plant them in a neat little row. Come summer I'm expecting bees and some good scents wafting through the air (assuming we're still at West Royd Avenue - the landlord has put the house on the market).

I'm disappointed none of my spring flowers have made an appearance yet, apart from the three crocuses (only one surviving after an incident with a ladder). I planted 200 bulbs in the autumn - could it really be that none of them will come up? Do I have grounds to request a refund? Do I just accept I'm a poor 'gardener' who grew up in LA and actually has no idea what she's doing? I have soaked apple seeds chilling in the fridge (the instructions told me so), tomato seeds in a small tray that are definitely NOT coming up, and a few pathetic lavender plugs that I was too impatient to nurture indoors and so have suffered the consequences of my shortsightedness - ie, the harsh winter which has left them stunted and scraggly. Oh, and my orchid is discoloured and not blooming anytime soon.

I'm reminded of two things. First, God is an unfathomably creative and powerful creator. I try with all my might to grow these things to no avail. Yet He has created an entire natural world that is beautiful and happily exists - grows, dies, grows and multiplies again - on its own without any effort from us (obviously without taking into account human interference, agricultural innovations, etc - you know exactly what I mean). Second, people > plants. Like Jonah pouting over the kikayon I oughtn't to get so worked up over my plants (as good as it is to enjoy them). I should be caring for and loving people with even more energy and compassion than I give to my plants. People, not plants, are bearers of God's image and are so precious. Huw and I went for a walk yesterday in the Southern Washlands Nature Corridor and there was a young boy sitting by himself, right by the weir over the rushing water. We were both really struck by the sight of him looking miserable (perhaps he wasn't - he might have just been thinking or wanting some fresh air). Huw wondered if he should see if he was okay, but the boy pulled up his hoodie and looked like he just wanted to be left alone. We left him in peace (we weren't worried he was in danger - the weir wasn't that steep or fast-moving), but he brought to mind many of the people, young and old, we've come across in our time up here who have been lonely, angry or just plain sad. We need to look up and out of ourselves and our comfortable home and nice-ish garden to the people around us. 'And the Lord said, “You pity the plant, for which you did not labour, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night and perished in a night. And should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than 120,000 persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?"' Jonah 4:10-11.

prague once more.

 Back in Prague for 48 hours, I wonder if Europe has at last lost its magic. I remember the excitement of those early adventures - seeking out every last lane and footpath in Durham, hearing Welsh with delight as Phillip and I ended a long car journey in Caernarvon, gleefully dodging buckets of rain in Barcelona and wondering if my camera's memory would last the day, let alone the week. The details were overwhelming - the beauty, the history, the languages, the people (NO a la guerra!), the food, the secrets that seemed to be around every corner. That day in Provence Bryan and I stopped by a farmer's market, then drove until we found some rocks by a clear blue river to have a simple but gorgeous meal of fresh bread, cheese and olive oil (he had salami too - I was still vegetarian then) - nothing seemed better and as things 'ought' to be.

Footage of Greek riots and endless news - no longer news really - about the recession and demise of the Eurozone drive it home that Europe has had its heyday. The buildings are in constant need of repair, the water mains are antiquated and these beautiful old city centres have become entire wonderlands catering for tourists who arrive by the coach-load. Horse-drawn carriage tours, caricature artists on the bridge - the whole lot. Overpriced restaurants and souvenir shops abound, and I wonder where the 'real' people are.

But I guess this is reality now - tourism is a reliable source of income, so why not bend to that? To what end should we resist culture becoming commodified? Marionettes, garnet jewellery and Kafka postcards - they lap it up so they keep getting produced. Fair enough. I shouldn't be so arrogant to think that they have sold out - everyone has to make a living. It's nothing but pride that makes me shudder when I hear loud Americans - oh I'm so much more cultured, I'm so sensitive and tuned-in - they don't really understand or even try to. I'm not a tourist - I'm a traveller! You know exactly what I'm talking about :o) What is it about aesthetes and intellectuals that make them (us) so proud?

Because the fact is I'm sitting in a lovely little cafe in the Staroměstská (because Prague IS beautiful! Why would I wander around the bleak suburbs?), it's full of Brits and Germans and all the staff speak English. And I'm glad they do because I don't speak Czech and they make really good hot chocolate.

So I'm going to pay, put my sunglasses back on and wander through the streets discreetly taking photos on my phone and trying to blend in as much as possible (good luck to little Asian me!). I really must stop being so cynical and just enjoy being here.

By the way, the photo above is of the escalators in the metro. I liked the colours and starkness of them, and every fifth step was numbered. I don't know why.

grace

As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. Psalm 103:15-16

Elizabeth... went to a window to enjoy its prospect... Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight... 'And of this place,' thought she, 'I might have been mistress!' Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Odd pairing, but both came to mind this weekend. Huw took me to see the house that he has found for us to live in after we're married, and it's not easy to be humble and thankful for God's grace toward us. Of course we have a house! We can afford it. We need space and comfort. We want to entertain. We forget that we don't inherently deserve anything, and that the very word 'gift' assumes a giver and receiver – whilst enjoying good things, we must remember that we are the latter and not the former.

What does one look for when searching for a home? A good location (convenient, quiet, safe, good neighbours), space (spare room, storage, front and back gardens) and aesthetics paired with convenience and comfort (paint colour, wallpaper if applicable, condition and cleanliness) – including, of course, a nice view if you can afford it. Now Mirfield is not the rolling hills of Derbyshire, and 30 West Royd Avenue is certainly not Pemberley. It sounds obvious, but it's surprisingly easy to forget. Already I have my eye on a wall that needs repainting, a bit of front garden that needs replanting and other such visions crowd my mind.

How easy it is to make a building a castle, and to crown yourself mistress. We must naturally have a longing for belonging and permanence – eternity even – perhaps knowing instinctively that death was never part of the original plan. But Christians are aliens on this earth – I must keep knocking that into my head daily – and we must remember that our true home is yet to come and isn't in green English countryside. Huw and I will only be in Mirfield for two years, and that will be good for us. Good for me especially – I get so attached to things and enjoy being queen. But it will be good for us to learn not to be rooted in things that don't last.

The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever. Isaiah 40:8

So rather than dreaming about a lulling, pleasing picture of a green lawn and bright blooming flowers, perhaps I should spend more time looking out of our lounge window now. We have a clear, unobstructed view of the Royal Free Hospital and we hear sirens half a dozen times a day. I always think what a nuisance they are, but really I should be grateful! A daily reminder that our days on earth are few, and that not one should be wasted or taken for granted.

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

yayoi kusama @ the tate modern

i've been seeing a lot of depressing art these days. above: a letter from georgia o'keeffe to yayoi kusama, on display at the tate modern. i love kusama's passion and commitment to her art - if i were half as committed to my so-called 'art' i might actually call myself a writer. but as someone once said, baking a cake once a month doesn't make you a baker so i guess i can't call myself a writer anymore/yet. the thing that made me sad about kusama's art was that it felt so obsessive and escapist. maybe most art is? maybe her need to escape japan and the various ways in which she felt repressed helped to feed her art - in fact, i'm sure it did. but can art ever replace human relationships? we're all born with holes in our hearts, and i'm not convinced art, in and of itself, can fill it. not that she didn't have meaningful human connections, but her alienation from her family and her self-admittance into a psychiatric institution kinda got me down.

the last bit of the exhibit was a blacked-out room covered - walls, floor, ceiling - in mirrors and filled with thousands of tiny little hanging bulbs that slowly changed colour. it was beautiful.

home.

april 2012 update: maida vale is no longer home! it was a good year. alice moved over from new york, and we shared a lovely flat with a strangely dark blue carpet. she's since moved back stateside, and i've relocated back to nw3.

maida vale was: quiet, anonymous mansion blocks. sometimes i'd sit on our little grated balcony four floors up and watch the lives being lived through the windows of the [posher] block behind ours. hundreds of windows, hundreds of souls eating, watching tv, ironing, trying on hats. we named some of our neighbours and made up the stories of their lives. ben and danielle lived across from us for a few months, then mysteriously disappeared and were replaced by a family with a little girl and a cat. the cat came over to visit a few times and reminded us of our last home together in irvine. there's something so wistful about saying goodbye to an animal.

maida vale was: canals. i loved running up the canal as far as i could, imagining if i kept going i would get to birmingham and beyond. the houseboats were so brightly painted, and spoke of an entirely different world with its own language, inhabitants and secret places. i occasionally exchanged words with them, and wondered what it might be like - coming and going and mooring as you please, making homemade jam and chutney to sell from your deck, learning how to fix a motor. they inspired a story of mine once.

the water is murky now, and hides all sorts of discarded rubbish. it's sad to watch it flow slowly under the bridge, and remember the life vein it once was. thousands of miles of canals still criss-cross the uk, and the paths alongside them where the animals pulled the boats are used now by cyclists and joggers in their lycra and nike tops. no more horses, no more 'legging' through tunnels. why is nostalgia so appealing?

maida vale was: olives and other bits of deliciousness you could find in the local delis and bakeries.

i miss our place and the quiet, leafy streets of w9. but it's good not to have to depend on the 46 bus anymore.

goodbye putney.

you've stuck by me through it all: the recession and numerous closures on the high street, the emergence of a mexican burrito stand (only one more and i would've had a free one...) and the opening of a tk maxx! oh yeah. bargains galore.

i will miss the writing on the walls. the bricks above foxtons muse: 'time like an ever rolling stream,' and near the thames you can spot 'time and tide wait for no man' above eye level. i'll miss watching the tidal patterns as i cross putney bridge, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. i'll miss counting the carriages on the district line trains running across the next bridge over. i remember well my lunches in the graveyard behind st mary's, the grouchy librarians and the always-crowded-no-matter-what-time-of-day pavements.

goodbye putney. it's back to hampstead now with its yummy mummies and baby gap sales!

venturing south.

if i had an endless pot of money and my choice of neighborhood, i might very well pick rotherhithe. something with exposed beams that overlooks the thames.

there is something mysterious about the old wharves and faded paint on the bricks. something that goes back centuries, to a time of exploration and discovery and slavery and shame. a time when pineapples were seen for the first time, the squawks of tropical birds echoed through the fog on ships coming up the thames estuary, and subdued lions and bears were brought to jamrach's emporium. rusted pulleys droop empty and useless, beams that might have once extended to docks or ships now hang in the air, vulnerable and shiny with a recent coat of paint.

imagine the river hundreds of years ago. the heartbeat of the city, the country. a lifeline of ships, goods, food and artifacts from abroad. the starting point of so many voyages and explorations. now it is neatly banked by high walls. boats full of tourists zip up and down, from westminster to london bridge.

still, i bet there are hundreds of stories still waiting to be discovered under those waters.