Tuesday, July 13

de garre warm wijn

Yet it was an old place, even then, for the oak rafters and beams were already black with age - as were the panelled seats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables between, on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of pots of scarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the bright note of colour against the dull background of the oak...

...the weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for two days torrents of rain had deluged [them], doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth.*

4 years ago and some months, I drew this while sitting in de Garre, a very old pub in Brugges, Belgium with Tim, enjoying a glass of hot spiced wine, with tiny flat almond cookies and a circle of peeled lemon studded with cloves, listening to violin music. You never know when an unexpected experience like that is just around the corner ~ in de Garre's case, around the corner, and down a tiny alley of cobblestones and crooked staircases...

I could go for an unexpected moment like that right about now.

I love looking back through my journals, seeing where I've been, gathering old ideas to polish off and freshen, and wondering where I'll be in years to come. I generally keep my journals positive, capturing butterflies of thought and experience; writing down the gut moments. I journal as a catch-all when I travel (a good excuse to go) ~ whereas my journaling at home consists more of quotes, plant pressings, tea drips, thoughts, lists (my life in lists!), wishes.

I often will write out a page or more of difficult feelings, angers, injustices ~ and then carefully tear it all out and burn it. When I flip back through my journals, I'm inspired and curious, instead of cringing and reliving old tangles. It feels freeing to see the torn edges inside, where I set something down, and then let it go.

*The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Baroness Orczy