This is a series of posts written from my mom’s house in Germany.
I came and went by way of the side door leading to mom’s Hof, an outdoor patio of sorts. The side door has an old medieval-style metal latch that makes a distinct sound when you slide it open and closed. When I’m on my walk I realize it’s similar to the sound made by the train slowing into the station: a dry metallic rasp of a sound like a sword being sheathed.
I fall into a pattern of daily routine, the same walk up the steep Roman steps they call the Himmelsleiter leading down by the stream in the valley and the paths through the dark forest. It all feels much older than what we have in the States. Apple trees, pea-shaped grapes growing plump in black, green or red. A hint of the rank smell that comes with rotting fruit and reminds me of fall — or the harvest time when I once helped pick grapes for a friend here who makes wine.
The trails off the valley floor lead back to the upper plateau of cornfields and vistas overlooking the village and beyond, the hillsides with the windmill and distant scenes. There used to be a way from the one trail up to a small grove of trees planted by grade school students as an annual exercise: each graduating class got to plant a tree with a hand-carved wooden sign beside it denoting the year and species. Now the path leading there is overgrown. But I can remember coming here and writing on those two sabbaticals, in 2009 and 2015. All those posts are buried here on my website, itself overgrown.
Every night mom and I watched more episodes of the TV series Slow Horses and bit by bit the plot unfolded just like my Castaneda book and just like our time together, our own book. We meted it out in bite-sized chunks to relish it, and had a good idea of how it would end.
And I remembered why I wrote, for the sheer joy it brought, where living and writing were one and the same. That sound of the train slowing as it came into the station, just hearing that in the dark years ago awakened my senses and prompted me to write after a long hiatus. I never believed in the idea of a muse, the inspiration is always a part of us, though it can go dormant. We remember how, there is still a trace of the path.
Bill Pearse 
This has a lovely peaceful tone, Bill. I hope you are enjoying it, as we are enjoying reading it.
D & Z
PS
Zsor-zsor said ‘Lederhosen’ and laughed very gently to herself after I had finished reading your letter to her. Perhaps she is imagining you tramping up that stairway to heaven in your German shorts.
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Lederhosen is the funniest thing ever. I love the self-parody and lightness of that, the fact the Germans can have so much fun with themselves in that way. I do miss getting pissed on large glasses of beer wearing those costumes; it’s just not the same sober.
Thank you for sharing this and reading with Z-Z, that warms my heart!
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Fantastic reply, thanks Bill.
As I write, Zsor-zsor is sitting in the wheelchair by the window eating dinner off an auto-tray. It’s a first. Quite a day.
Be well and do good.
Enjoy, even if it’s beerlessly.
D & Z
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That’s so lovely, thanks for sharing! So happy for you both.
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Thank you Bill.
DD
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Paths and time, nature and tools. This short piece packs some much in, so neatly.
‘And the poet lifts his pen, while the soldier sheaths his sword.’
Sadness, too, at the overgrown path to the children’s copse. Children growing up and moving on. Bittersweet.
And finally, the joy of reading. Thank you.
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Hi Bruce and thank you for all the support and encouragement to return to writing! It’s funny we’ve talked about writing for someone specifically and recently I read a post by a favorite author of mine, Seth Godin, who said you can’t write for everyone, so you should write for someone. And on WordPress when commenters don’t sign in it says Someone commented. So yes I write for someone, often you, and the handful of wonderful other readers who make it worth doing. Thanks for the note and for following along. Enjoy the remains of the day! We’re heading off to Eberhard’s later and will spend the night there.
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That’s as great quote from Seth Godin, Bill.
Thanks for always welcoming me (and others!) on your journey.
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“All those posts are buried here on my website, itself overgrown.” Ever consider sorting through it all and compiling a book or two? No editing, just cut and paste into Scrivener, or some such.
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I have considered that and think I will return to the project hopefully soon (famous last words there right?!). Wish I had done a better job with the tagging, it’s all fucked and illogical. But that’s always been part of my hope anyways, kind of making a trail of crumbs somewhere. Will stop that analogy now lest I start filling in with the birds and so on, not to mention the witches. Die Hexxen!
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