I woke up this morning in a bit of a funk. I'm not sure what it is. The Husband's taking a while to recover from this lurgy, and is, I'm afraid, behaving like a 2 year old. I'm trying not to treat him like a 2 year old.
That was my "meditation" as I lay in the bath, by candlelight, this morning.
In the winter, it's a candlelit contemplation of the "broken heart" made from abelone shell that hangs the wall my behind the potions.
The funk didn't lift; it got heavier.
I went to see my friend who's packing up. Finally. It's been a long journey since Paul died in October 2020.
It was, and will continue to be, bittersweet having some of his bowls for sale on my market stall each Saturday. I will also have a stock of Nina's book, All Fired Up. I thought I'd done a proper review after it was launched and all I've done is poorly reference it here. I shall have to remedy that. Especially as I have a signed copy and use it often.
She been gone from the village for more than a year, contemplating her future. She's made big decisions, sold the pottery and is starting a new journey in Johannesburg. I'm sadder than I thought I'd be. The twice I've been to the pottery since she's been back, it's felt awful: the chaos of moving, ruthless throwing out and resigned grief that will never end. And a lot more.
I have pots I'm giving away. I can't take them and I don't have the heart to throw them out. Please choose some?
I chose a fifth to turn our quadruplet of little white bowls into quintuplets; I often use them.
This one chose me.
Although this is not one of Paul's pots, it was wood fired at the pottery - he often collected wood from our plot. Nina and I have often talked of, and shared, food and preserving conversations. A couple of years ago, she tried to make kimchi. It was, in her words, an interesting experience. We stood one day, chatting and munching our way through tasters of the immature product....
I've been toying with fermenting vegetables and just never seemed to find the right receptacle. And there it was, on the floor, covered in dust, waiting for me. When I said what I thought I'd like to use it for, she said:
You'll just need weights. I just threw some out.
We nattered, took the bits to the car and then she said
Oh, wait. The weights.
They are Paul pieces. I haven't decided what the first ferment will be. I do know that from that first effort, and when I look at that pot, I shall think of them both.
When I left, I said -
I'm not saying good bye...
We agreed: it's not good bye. I am much sadder than I thought I'd be.
Until next time, be well
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Photo: Selma
Post script
If this post might seem familiar, it's because I'm doing two things:
@artywink
@hive.blog and Canva.