This place - fondly called The Ranch - requires utter acceptance of the seasons. Winter is long. Not as long as in some places, but it is a long stretch of writing, refining, editing, teaching, structuring, waiting, watching. Now that the cherry blossoms have fallen and the wisteria is almost out, it’s time to get out paint brushes and start cleaning out the portico, sweeping, brushing, cutting, tidying. I do enjoy the physical side, the lengthy exhausting preparations for summer, new scents on the air and the birds are back. A new chapter of hope.
During Covid restrictions I did a lot of soft renovation - painting and rearranging and chucking out - as we all did, and find that after years of kid time this house has come into her own. It’s imperfect. There are a lot of rough edges. But all my West African art is happily spaced about and treasured, the colours have fallen into place; I have far far too many books and it’s time to reread many of them. The garden still needs a lot of work but it’s lush and inspiring, just about manageable. I’m home. But it’s also home for others. Kids return, family members. Writing guests come and each one wonderfully finds his or her writing niche, becomes productive - it’s so good to see productivity and creativity happening here.
Soon the mud will be baked dry and the roses wilting and the grape vine leaves bursting forth, and I will be watering tomatoes. Seasons to be.