Homage to How it Was

We’ve been in our new home for three months now, but we never finished hanging the pictures.   Why did we let them all just sit there?  Why is putting up the pictures, a ritual we held off on for so long?  

Busy-ness aside, it’s likely because the arrangement cultivated over five years in the last place came to symbolize something about precisely where paintings should go, what they should be next to.  Waddling alone till today, I'd to have the simple epiphany that what ever will be done here will necessarily be new and not some approximate homage to how it used to be. 

                                                                             

I’ve got my office all spruced up now.  There are new, odd pairings of things demanding attention where all'd so recently been bare.  The photo of an open backed music truck making its way through the main street in Jacmel, Haiti.  A cold, snowy print of the Kinryusan Temple at Sensoji in Tokyo done by Ando Hiroshige in orange, and red, and white, and green, from some two hundred and fifty years ago.  On the other side of the bookshelf, another wintery scene swirls in the night time blue of Montreal.  A map of Asia from some nineteenth century periodical that now finally has a place from which to communicate.   I've got my scent around this place for the first time.  

We needn’t say anything definitive here.  We needn’t necessarily balance the representation so that it speaks to whatever all of me is.  I just need few shards of my life’s mirror reflecting back at me.  Now I have more than today to think about.