So things are coming to an end, or better say, some lights are illuminating what seems to be a long tunnel. For example with the group of people that is writing the election program of GroenLinks Utrecht. The work of putting together what each of us know is getting to an end. Now the interesting, and certainly more difficult part, is well on its way. We are trying to devise and agree in a narrative, a tale that can give coherence to the things that we know need to happen in Utrecht.
In one of the conversations that we had, another member of the group argued for a city that is peaceful. A city that have places and corners with green, with trees and with birds that can be heard. My immediate reaction was to argue that my own ideal city is something quite different, is a place where exciting and unforeseeable things happen, a place were there can be disorder and noise and perhaps even some danger. Creation is a risk, I tend to believe, and risks are worth. With the lack of tact that characterizes me (after all this years in The Netherlands, that is) I said: I live in a city because I do not want to live in a countryside small town!
Yet the blood didn’t reach the river, since (most of) my fellow party members kinda know me and have great amounts of patience with me. Eventually we concurred that a city has to have spaces for many things to happen, or not. And we switched off, for a next round of sharper conversations in the short term future.
And then, here I am, only a few days later, in a little little little! town, in the middle of an island in Zeeland, a seashore province of The Netherlands. A couple of days to dive these waters, after the North Sea the most interesting waters of this part of Europe, with rich fauna and flora, with unbelievable high productivity and not (terribly) cold temperatures. So we ride in the morning, stopped midday to do some shopping on the way, got the keys of a house, unloaded shoppings and clothes, ride straight away to a diving spot, got underwater, came back to the house, cook, and eat dinner. A while after I walked out to the garden with my sword, not to loose totally the streak of daily practice. And then I stop. I really stopped. I believe it was the first time in about 25 years that I could not hear the hum of our time, our fabrics and our people and our motors.
I could not hear a car.
A bird passed flying by.
I could not hear a car, nor a hum, nor a generator.
The wind hissed.
Another bird passed by.
I could breath anew.