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Bearing witness to the bloody miracle

There are no specific rules with which Ivory and I guard this gentle harmony we prefer to escort our day to day dealings with, which in itself is kind of surprising if you consider my personal partiality when it comes to being vocally opinionated, painfully paying tribute to being bluntly Dutch, but then again so is he, thus bearing witness to the bloody miracle we don’t actually fight more often.

In the real world, away from the fairytales running Les Pierres, my garish opinions got me in trouble more than once, because they so seldom leave room for a different morality to vanquish, no matter how hard I try to keep an open mind, chasing away friends that could have stayed close.

I realize this global pandemic has left us with hearts drunk on shadows of social solidarity and much idealized worldly progress, an internalized hope that we all might have finally learned from our previous abhorrent recklessness, enough to let common sense prevail.

In this clouded circumstance a text message from my eighty-eight year old father, decoding why he still hasn’t even opted for a vaccine yet, is more than enough to throw me off balance and get my high horses running, full steam ahead. And then there’s Ivory’s remark about getting back to our once ordinary habit of inviting people over again, maybe starting with this Dutch friend who owns a holiday home nearby and just openend a shop in a local village, when all I can really think of is how and why she got here when all Covid signs are signaling red and the general compelling advise is to stay put, to please stay put just a little bit longer.

I have to admit to being wonderingly investigating my own lack of initiative. This legendary rebel I proclaimed myself to be, securely founded in beliefs and opinions gathered, might have turned into a meek sheep, a development that will for sure take some getting used to.

It’s about a year ago I wrote down that if I were to be a tree, this is where my roots would be. All I can say is that from these roots, dedicated to this budding Spring, an intense discernment arose. For once in my life the imposed rules are not to be kicked against, but to be cherished and celebrated. Sorry.

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