Gods, the most beautiful day.
A slight case of overheated or something this early noon and my head was spinning enough to drive me out of the house after an unsuccessful attempt at nappies.
A kind Mr. Pyke pulled on shorts and a funky t-shirt and off we were, the main mission in my head was to find work gloves thick enough to withstand the rosebush. Other than that, we were directionless.
Five minutes out and we were passing the hospital community activity grounds, a strange hollow percussion emanating from them.
Turning in that direction we continued our amble, and with each step an additional flailing arm would appear, sometimes a leg where an arm should be, white garb, rythmically flailing limbs...
Hey wait --
That looks like Capoeira...
And by then we'd wandered in through the gate, Tibetan food stall to the left, Brazillian food stall to the right, Capoeira demonstrators urging us to join their club for training sessions, showing off this graceful instrument, or that echoing drum.
And to see them move, oh, all trace of nausea faded at their grace.
Up towards Roncesvalles, we found gloves and hemp rope for macram� hangings for the plants still out on the balcony, iced tea and berry drinks and a polish-Christian rock band playing in the grass where the speaker's polish accent reminded me so much of ...
Of something that felt like home, only it couldn't have been. There I was, on a strange streetcorner in a city where I've never lived before, leaning up against a beautiful man on church grass, listening to some young man in a green t-shirt tell stories of how he discovered his god, in polish that I recognized
and for some reason I got the strangest sense of being somewhere I was supposed to be.
We wandered along other streets and their explosive plants, New Orleans-like balconies staring out at us in their shy purples and greens and whitewash.
Back home, I wandered into the garden to cut what my aching arms would let me, and after about an hour's pruning, when I called to Mr. Pyke to help me find the plant food...
A quick ransack of the basement and suddenly the backyard was filled with tools, gloves, sunshine, Mr. Pyke, and so much...
joy.
Watching him crouched beneath his rosebush, pruning it with the same tenderness with which he eats Sydney's head every morning
watching him yank ferns from the ground that my muscles were too weak for (while I hacked at yet other clumps of unwanted plantlife with a roofing axe)
watching him effortlessly carry a bag of dirt out back so that I could replant a few houseplants...
A bag of dirt that I couldn't even lift and had to kick repeatedly to just push it up against the balcony.
It's funny, because I'm not all that weak a little girl, and the irony of this sentence being so lighthearted rather than a vitriolic slur is a surprising thing,
it's funny because, yes I am sore today, and yes Mr. Pyke is stronger than your average computer geek
but for a second there it felt exceedingly strange to have to ask someone to lift something for me, repeatedly, for the first time in my life
and it didn't bother me.
It didn't matter.
I am covered in mud, my nails are cut to the quick and black underneath and my fingers seem permanently stained, my legs are slashed with layers of dirt and there are spider bites and rosebush scratches and nasty little marks everywhere
and I just spent three short little hours in a pair of shorts and bikini top
getting filthy and happier by the minute.
Oh gods, what a perfectly glorious day.
And on that note, we're off to shower and hit the club and then a rave, apparently.
My goodness. Not a bad way to start the year. ;)