The pleasures and trials of life at the bottom of the world

This morning, my second day back, I am vibrating with the tiny joys and sorrows of being here and not waking in the US summer this morning.
The sorrows:

That I cannot walk over and read aloud to my father, whose hurt eye was more hurt than we thought and who is now supposed to rest and heal for more than a month

That I have to schedule calls with my mother weeks in advance to be sure that we’ll get time together;

That I didn’t buy regular Cheerios and now the kids are Cheerio-free for another four months;

That I didn’t see all the folks I didn’t see—and that I won’t see them, either, not any time soon.

The joys:

The sounds of my chickens, the blooming of my new camellia, the shoots of spring bulbs;

Stepping back into my work life here with a workshop yesterday and hearing about the impact of the leadership development programme Keith and I are running and how it is rippling through the organisation in powerful and beautiful ways;

Waking in the middle of the night (just a little jetlagged) and finding that my room had turned into a planetarium and that my walls were made of stars;

Walking home from throwing the ball for the dog and surprising a flock of gold finches who rose into the sky, yellow breasts sparkling in the sun;

Seeing the South Island emerge from the morning mist slowly, slowly, until it was so hulking and solid that I could hardly believe it was ever missing at all;

The promise of dinner with Melissa on the weekend;

Holding hot tea in one hand and Naomi’s hand in the other as I walked the kids to school this morning, our conversation punctuated by the rhythm of the sea, the music of their laughter, the song of the tuis in the trees.