Dirty nails

I've been in a muddle, to put it mildy. Since getting back to Cape Town on Friday 14th. Disorientated, resistant to being back, a changed person and stretched mind, yearning for another pond, pressured.

Friday afternoon saw me pass my last 'big stress' milestone for 2014. It's downhill and into the summer holidays on 12 December from here. While I recalibrate after five months of enduring stress, living on adrenalin, I've constant flashbacks from - the - past - twelve - months.

I've drawn up a constitution for myself. Based upon the lessons I've learned on this year's rocky and convulated path.

As the winter rains peter away to summer's nothing I dug my fingers deep into dark and loamy soil yesterday; my friend's garden became my solace yesterday, with two bottles of champagne, it's where I restored myslef, grounded myself, literally.

My words today right now feel awkward and inconsequential; putting them down feels as awkward and useless as peeling a potato with a cheap-plastic fork.

People have crossed my path these last few weeks, some I've allowed in, some I've observed over the half-closed stable door that's been scratched and scarred by over eager mutts, many of them my own.

I'm still squinting in the bright summer light, looking longingly over my shoulder at the retreating winter. As the city and peninsula is topped up to the brim with sun-seeking holiday makers from right across the globe, I've noticed the needle on the increasingly frenetic cyber dating sites move from 'dates' to ''right now': hungry people at the end of a long year; a sense of release is pervading everything (forgive me for projecting).

As for me, well I've slept. Hardly budged into the night. 

I'm leaving Woodstock at the end of January, I'll be giving my two months' notice next week, I'm happy now to go: my reasons are many. I'll be moving into my own place again, living alone again, seeking a resorative garden. Somehow.

A full circle within the much larger full circle.

Another coffee, another chocolate croissant down the hatch.

Writing of hatches, I open up the (other) hatches that have been battened down for too long: I can't see land yet, but I'm expecting The Dove to bring back at least a twig and one green leave, an olive one I hope, before end-year.

Yesterday.