Simple Summer Pleasures. Landry that smells like ozone.

I caught you long ago and held you as you flapped your wings inside my cupped hands. You getting ready to fly - me supporting you as you did. And then one day, the beating grew stronger, the sting more acute as you fought to soar.

So I opened my hands, and away you went.

I have been watching you fly from where I stand on the graveled road; from the place you last walked with me. I have been proud of the circles you make in the sky; of the applause of all the other butterflies as they adore you.

But know this. I will still be watching even when you are too far to see. Here where I am - on the ground.

Well... this post has nothing to do with the picture. But I was at too much of a loss  half an hour ago to think to take one as I stood with Strawberry Girl by the railroad tracks waiting for a friend who never showed up.

She was coming from America - all the way from Texas - and we are still shaking our heads as we sit here in the dimming light of an empty house. I type a few words, pause, and call out "But how is that possible?" And a voice in the kitchen sighs back, "Maybe she was in the bathroom. Maybe she's still there, mom."

We were stood up - or perhaps she got lost - or possibly missed the train. 

This afternoon as I prepared the tiny guest room, I had this feeling...

I missed her - missed out.

And in the gathering darkness - in this gathering day, Betsy - rise thoughts that those who are with me now in this house, in this life, may one day take a different train. And I may sit forlorn there as never before.

I will love them before the grumbling roar carries them away.

NB: The Russian just said: Hogwash, she's probably on the next train. And he ran out the door to go see. :)

Down the road at the end of our cul de sac - just a few bare footed steps away - is a garden. It starts at the edge of the fence and blooms inward and upward into most luscious fullness. 

Sometimes I get up from my desk and walk out the front door. I don't lock it, surprisingly, but wander down the narrow street without key or phone or bit of responsibility. I just walk down ... to the end of the street.

And look at the lichens growing on the rail - and listen to the bells ringing on bovine necks - and feel the wind speak to me.

And the most beautiful thing of all is that home is but half a minute away, as the bare feet pad.

I drove out to the farm this week to do a photo shoot for an article on sustainable farming, and took little Strawberry Girl and her best friend along for the ride. As I worked, the girls played with the farmer's tiny daughter and wandered the yard and barn on a lovely summer day.

But at the end of those two hours, as the sun had begun to set and the tractors were gathering up the last bales of hay , the three of us hiked up behind the freshly mown field to hunt for wild orchids. And deep in the tall grasses - in a place anyone might have walked right past - was the bounty of fairies. Wild strawberries!

Farmer Oester swiftly bent down and popped one in his mouth with a contagious grin. "Looky here!"

We picked and tasted, and carried home a copious handful for dinner. 

And the fairies smiled on us.

Where wild orchids grow high in the hills of Bernese Jura.

p o u r   s a r a h 

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The professional blog is up and running at www.allisonzurfluh.com

What an adventure that was! I have learned a lot about myself over the past couple weeks - or was it months? Picking out three pictures from thousands in my data base, writing a blurb that reduces forty-three years into a couple paragraphs? If there had been Pepto Bismol in Switzerland, I'd have bought it in bulk - ask Danielle, the patient blog designer who doubles as a personal cheerleader.

So thanks to Olivier for the portraits, to Colin for the shot of my back (will never forget that) and to the family who suffered at my side over such an easy thing. 

"Easy," in the words of Dylan Thomas, "to Leonardo".