A Rainy Day in Belgie, and A Little About Shashikiran

Another rainy day, a better state of mind and I'm back, preferring the act of blogging over intensely disliking my name being misused in the blogsphere. But really, thank you to those who wrote to convince me of this. I appreciated it.

It's Alison's birthday today ... so the international gathering will consist of a Canadian, an American and a Kiwi ... and we all agreed that a nice bottle of red was the only appropriate multi-national cross-cultural type celebratory act worthy of such an occasion ... and so I am Brussel-bound later today.

My daughter is in the process of moving north and at last count, I had about 47,000 new grey hairs, from following her up the South Island in my mind. The bank is curious about my financial situation, eager to know when I'll be sending money their way, meanwhile Belgium is quietly insisting that I don't leave the country while I'm an 'in process'immigrant ... as they won't let me come back in for 3 months. Ahhh, the exciting life of a wandering one ... clearly the point is not to actually stop wandering, although Gert has one or two ideas about that.

Meanwhile, I can blog-wander and so, before starting my day, there's a few blogs that I enjoy more than a morning newspaper ... it's their writing voice, their stories, and the snapshot of life that they gift to their readers.

Shashikiran writes as his introduction: There is much I could have done. Realization comes in the forties. But I can start afresh. If I did not learn much before, I now can; if I did not play well, I can start now; if I wasted time on vain pursuits, I can change that now. I can do anything I want starting now. I can be happy now.

I started visiting his blog awhile ago, immediately enjoying his lyrical descriptive prose pieces about his everyday life in Bangalore, India; a place I know so little about. He also writes of his business and his preparation for a marathon in Phuket.

He wrote this recently: The Space Between Us Sometimes when I try to snooze longer, the old lady and her old maid in the house behind ours prevent it. Standing in their backyard, they trade news, argue over how clothes should be washed and utensils cleaned and the order in which to do them; the mistress tries to be imposing, but her voice is weak and the maid is stubborn. Today, the news is that the maid has a week’s leave from the other house where she works. They have gone to America for a week, she told her mistress. I have not seen these women, but their voices come up through the mango leaves, through my pigeon-ridden windows, into my bedroom, crisp and clear as the morning.

It's a lovely site and a place to wander while standing still.