Definitely not the cruellest month...

Stavanger, Thursday 30 April

Not a cruel month, as T.S. Eliot pronounced in melancholic mood. Here in southern Norway it bred starry-petalled wood anemones out of the leaf-thick ground, and shining golden lesser-celandine. At first the anemones were white, rolling across the sloping woodland floor like scattered stars. After a few weeks there followed the delicate mauve variety (my grandson called them "lavender"). Day by day the dry twigs grew fatter, then softly uncurled, willow and hazel, and then the blossom unbudded: wild plum, blackthorn, pear and wild cherry. I have lots of photos recording this wonder. Never before have I had the time (or place) to observe Spring's soft unfolding, day by day, like this.
So, although for many this April is, alas, the cruellest month (yes, I read the daily obituaries published on my laptop) I spend a lot of time pondering on the intangible. Death and resurrection. Indeed, a mystery. I suspect I will never find the words to express my hope and my certainty. The tongue cannot speak nor the ear hear nor the eye see nor the heart imagine. Metaphysical meditations...

On Wednesday evenings I join the Skype link to a group from the English Reformed church in Amsterdam (also know as the Begijnhof church), and together we read from the Bible, exchanging ideas, swapping insights. We are, not surprisingly, now reading from the book of Acts, which describes events in Jerusalem immediately after the death of Jesus. The minister (pastor) acts as "guide" and shows us links to other passages in the Bible and invites us all to comment and respond. It's a very democratic (good word!) gathering; I am always learning more. Really, I am so happy to have studied the things I have, so that now I find I can appreciate what 50 years ago was still puzzling to me. This is an encouragement to those who feel they are a little young!
Which reminds me: on one of my walks around the little lake here, I heard young voices singing from a nearby hillock, and turning to look I saw two little girls (reminded me of my granddaughters) standing on a small grassy knoll and imitating windmills with their arms, whilst they sang, over and over again:
We are the world, we are the children...
I waved to them and they waved back. And went on singing.

Here is David (I trimmed his hair last week, quite pleased with the result! He ponders on the eternal nature of numbers, i.e. his book on Magic Squares).
 
I still haven't re-discovered the method  I was using a year ago, to transfer my pix onto this blog, but I'm confident time will unfold all, ha ha.
Tomorrow all seven of us set off, heavily laden with boxes of food, to deposit David and me in a hytte (Norwegian for log cabin usually built from pinewood) far from civilization. There, with only the company of trees and small glacial lakes, we shall go for healthy walks in the adjoining nature reserve, listening to the birdsong and the wind in the branches of the firs.
No intrusion from the outside world, no whisperings of developments concerning the latest onslaughts of the coronavirus.

This is Vreni and me, a couple of years ago, on Zurich station, where we again met briefly this year in mid February. We haven't changed very much!

Spring in Stavanger, Norway

And now in age, I bud again;
After so many deaths, I live and write.
I once more smell the dew and rain
And relish versing...

(George Herbert, 1633)

Stavanger, 28 April 2020

It is morning. The waters of the lake are smooth. No wind blows.
Birdsong bursts into the still air.
Time to get up. 

We came here on 5 March, a visit to stay with our daughter and family, already arranged in 2019, before any whisper of a pandemic. We came prepared for four weeks and have been here now for eight. As we arrived, European borders continued to close. Being Dutch citizens, we could have returned to Amsterdam, via a circuitous route, but almost all our friends and family urged us to stay in the relative safety of southwest Norway. So we did, and adapted to a different style of living.
The house is large, space enough for the seven of us; the back garden runs down to a lake, Little Stoka, and it became a daily delight for David and me to walk round this lake, watching spring life return to the bare branches. I have a wonderful time taking photos.
Each day, provided it's not pouring with rain, we amble and stride (alternately!) along the path that climbs and dips through the wooded country surrounding our "borrowed" home.
I think of the Portuguese word saudade: the longing, the nostalgic melancholia, for a place, or a face, that one misses, and may never see again. Because, never before have I been so aware of the transience of life. Although no one I know well has died from the effects of covid-19, the daily published lists tell me that thousands have. Lo, in our life we are in the midst of death.
And Easter has come and gone while we were living in lock-down, and there were few to share the shout: "Christ is risen, he is risen indeed", although life was unlocking the leaves and spreading the shining six-petalled faces of white wood anemones and glittering lesser celandine in great swathes between the tangled tree roots. Glorious beneath the uncurling tips of branches and beside the uncurling fronds of ferns.

Well, I have taken many beautiful photos as we wandered along these wooded ways, but of course, not being a great laptop hero (!!) I can't remember how to transfer them to this blog. Which is a pity. I will try just one, and inquire from some of the younger generation around here, who will doubtless be able to help me instantaneously! 
I meditate on time and age, and listen to the wind.