Many people like to eat porridge for breakfast, and I do it too. Oatmeal was reportedly popular as early as the Bronze Age. But do you have your own story with porridge? Mine is very simple and lives in my heart.
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Outside the window is a November grey, cars move along the wet street, but their noise reminds me of the sound of the sea. The flame of a cinnamon candle lights up my kitchen, where I write letters to residents of nursing homes.
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The second wave of the epidemic came in autumn. Atlantic in Galway has been pouring from the sky for several days and the roar of the wind wakes up me at night. But the cry of revolution from Poland is louder than the stormy sea and it echoes in my heart.
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I cannot imagine my life without a bike. Ever since I can remember, the bicycle has always motivated me to the adventure. Even if I was riding to the store on the same street.
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Who knows where it is:
the constant dogs, auroras, and wild gardens?
It is very, very, very close from here
It is there, where losing, no one wins
There is the lake and the peak in parallel
and I dance, I swim over, to the void - for nothing.
-sings Mela Koteluk.
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One autumn, I was in Brussels. Yesterday, the photos reminded me of that. Yellow and copper leaves scattered on the sidewalks in the city centre, beige and grey tenement houses, sceneries with an admixture of orange and burgundy – they are colours of Brussels.
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I love murals in urban space. But I missed them in Galway. Meanwhile, something has changed. Thought-provoking photomontages appeared on several buildings in my city, and they called to me.
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On a blue bike, fitted into a moss saddle, we will find our way
There is already autumn in Galway. September painted the leaves red, coppery and yellow at the University Park.
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You should not go to the mountains alone. Because you never know what might suddenly happen. A woman who stayed with us last year also said that she would be fine on the hike to Carrantuohill, but she got stuck in a crack and had to be rescued by helicopter.
-so said John, when I announced that tomorrow I am going to the mountains alone. And he was right, but my desire to climb was stronger than fear that the wind would blow me off the ridge of the higgest mountain of Ireland.
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Nature is silvering my strands of hair
it looks like a morning river
sometimes like a willow bark
or dancing grass on a cliff
The consent to grey hair is a step in getting along with yourself – I read in “Vogue” and kissed the silver strands that have been snowing in my curls for several years.
I think, the first grey hair is difficult to accept, because it is associated with old age, and seems far from the promoted canon of beauty. I had a period where I was thinking I would be forever young. So, when I saw my debut grey hair a few years ago, I started to cut it out, because it was to early have them – I have supposed.
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