The Freedom of Selective Memory
The Hills From My Window
From my favourite chair, I see the ridgeline followed by Maungatawhiri Road. I cannot see the road, nor my friends' homes, but I see hills, paddocks, trees, and a few houses and sheds of strangers. This morning the misty rain blurs the shapes and mutes the colours.
In the mornings, on the rare occasions I rise early enough, and weather permitting, I see the sun's rays switch the spotlights on to the highest fields, turning them a wonderful gold-green, and then the colour moves wider and lower, like a Mexican wave, across the landscape. Next the tops of the trees are highlighted, and eventually the sun become visible in the east and reaches the windows behind me.
At sunset, that same view, framed by my window, is always the same, always different. Those particular trees on that particular stretch of the ridge, are sometimes backed by glorious reds and oranges, bright pinks and grey, but my favourite evenings are the ones I suspect are painted by Salvidor Dali, when the pale but luminescent white gold or apricot outlines the hills and no matter how hard, or exciting, or busy the day has been, all is well with the world, and I breathe out.