space

From where we stayed in Switzerland, my world very quickly started to look different. Out the window, there were rolling hills cascading from imposing mountain peaks, winding dirt roads, gondolas cycling up and down, the occasional smoke from a chimney. Twice I watched a DHL van steadily make its way up the hills. Closer to us, we were surrounded by cows, cats, dogs, foxes. A brook ran not 50m away from the house. One temperamental afternoon, I found myself standing in the middle of a literal cloud. One evening, I watched my dad take a pencil to paper, sketching this storybook scene.

Still, no matter how spectacular the environment, the humdrum of life goes on. On Saturday, the kids spilled out of their homes to mow lawns and rake up hay. Our neighbour tended to her garden almost every evening. Dogs were walked, laundry hung, bills delivered. And after a day of mountain gazing, we still always found ways to annoy and be annoyed with each other. 

I often tell people that I am a wide open ocean kind of person. I like roaring, thrashing waves that threaten to engulf you. Put me in the mountains and I am lulled by its idyll — after all, from where I sit, it looks like I can pluck off any cabin I want and put it down somewhere else. Homes have no foundations; trees have no roots. I am surrounded by age old rock and somehow impervious to its permanence.