Tuesday 28 April 2020

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.







No comments:

Post a Comment