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It probably only makes sense to a nonlinear fool like me to compare the rumpled newspapers next to Les Pierres wood stove, you know, the old gone-by news about to be burned but still salvable if smoothened out, still legible, although with some gaps, maybe, to the wrinkles in our new boy’s baby face we so diligently observed when we visited last weekend to bring cuddles and build bonds, loosely predicting the lightning-fast significant growth to come. The association made me realize this darling dog to be has rather big shoes to fill, leaving it up to me to provide him with all the narrative he needs to succeed, having already pointed him towards this ramp to my heart that knows no return.

Living through almost a full year of fallaciously convincing ourselves our dog years were over, forcing my sorrow to slowly expand into agony without actual physical pain by simply letting time pass, opened up pathways of which I considered the entrances to be long lost, richly populated by all the old companions I deeply cried for when they flew, some many years ago, under different constellations that now feel like completely separate lives.

This world, which of course largely draws breath from my imaginative faculty, started to coincide with the Martin Johnson Heade paintings I studied closely online, his sunsets over salt marshes, because of its romantic derivation and the colorful similarities with our view at Les Pierres. This for me proved to be the easiest and most desirable environment to assume my once loved ones to now exist in, the forever connected ones.

In my other world, the real one, where puppy wrinkles and kisses appeal to that exact same sense of fulfillment, I can still perceive these helmsmen, somewhat disguised but very recognizable, like when Rebel and Saffron take over our sofa in a not very feline but dramatic Golden Retriever way, reenacting what Fos taught them to be customary when giants share a tiny house and space is scarce: you claim what’s yours, no matter the stretch.

No more newspapers to burn. When Mec comes home, he’s bringing Brownie, Chanouk, Nicky, Amber, Saartje, Gini, Pien, Baldr, Stella, Iddy, Ziggy, Stardust, Fos.
And then some.


Trying to make ones life sustainable is more than a personal choice and almost automatically leads to a multitude of decisions you have never even thought of before. On this website we share what works for us, or woefully no longer works, obviously without claiming the same for you.

We hope that our journey towards a supplementary comprehensive celebration of nature’s beauty might just clear a pathway forward for you too, perhaps challenges a revealing reconsideration, or simply provides for an equally indispensable diversion.

 

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