Every part of this country is sacred to my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove has been hallowed by some fond memory or some sad experience of my tribe. Even the rocks, which seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent shore in solemn grandeur, thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people.
—Chief Seattle, SUQUAMISH

Home with Eden on Facetime. The car is tucked in beside my flat and that suits me well. Lise is away for another night.

They say Rains are coming. Severely.

IN HERE tonight it is cosy and all is well.

Its quiet and I have TV and heater and a book to read – on Kindle.


First, we try living in the now just in order to stay sober — and it works. Once the idea has become a part of our thinking, we find that living life in 24 hour segments is an effective and satisfying way to handle many other matters as well.

They – the vague THEY – think I have to regather life now. I may never do so. If I am to remain longer ,then I shall need deeper attitudinal changes and I don’t know what they are.

So I may not regather life. I may well not go on with the Struggle. I may be ended already and just walking about as my Father did.  All my prayers are whisperings. All my dreams are shimmering. I am in no great misery but I am almost non-existent.

The prayers rise from the de-sire deep within me someplace – or maybe from the stars far away. Sometimes in words and sometimes in images and very often only as a presence – a feeling. They are carried in these pictures and they whisper to me with delight and pleasure.

The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore. – Vincent Van Gogh

And now in the dark hours

I am free to swim in the memories

Free to be with him

Free to smell and see and touch


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