Gå til innhold


I woke up today and made a cup of tea. It’s a little after 4:30 AM when I do this. It’s dark outside, but I look anyway. In another couple of months the sun will be shining through my kitchen window, even at 4 AM. Then, in another couple of months, the sun will have been up all night.

This morning, after I stared out of the window and after I made tea, I took a seat in the re-covered wingback chair in my living room. The living room joins the dining room, which amounts to two antique Bergere chairs, a pecan wood credenza, my grandmother’s 100 year old dining table, and two bookcases. One of the bookcases holds the poetry. The other bookcase holds a few of the art books and a modest collection of Easton Press editions. There are old editions of Turgenev, Henry Van Dyck, Richard Jeffers, and a 1961 four volume set of early writings from The Spectator. The wingback is centered between a moulding panel that divides the living room from the dining room. The panel is 10.75“ wide. I know this because I measured it. I measured it because I was curious. It’s important never to do anything out of boredom. Boredom is the domain of dull children or the near dead.

In November, M wrote to say it was cold in the North. What she wrote specifically is, “Just wanted to let you know that it’s beginning to get freezing cold outside up here! We also have a snow record now. It’s been 100 years since it was so much snow in November.”


Perhaps light is the first thing that appears when I think of this place, light, the way it textures the world here. True, I see places where I have camped and fished and walked and drank coffee. I see cairns and logbooks. I see the ocean, piles of snow, sea eagles, otters and hillsides re-born into shades of lavender and crimson. I see faces. I see all of these places and things, and I see them permeated by a peculiar light.