"On the smooth brown hair was a hat that had been taken from its mother too young."

Here I am- on my back watching the intricate way that clouds move, change shape, and re-form again.

The only sound is bird song and waves.

I should be at the beach but somehow I can't quite go those extra few hundred yards...yet.

I ate a lunch comprised of the best tasting fruit and vegetables that I have had since well since the last time I was here.

Australia like California is a place of fire. There is always a feeling of its dangerous landscape, not 'if' the fire comes but 'when' the fire comes.

There is always this threat of natural disaster lurking in the landscape of paradise.

Whereas Stockholm, Stockholm has buildings older than both any building in either California or Australia.

A city of cold stone, persevering through the ages.

Here at the end of the globe where the phone never rings, pajamas are de rigueur and the second bottle of wine practically opens itself, there is always time enough to think about unanswered questions.

So I try to remember what happiness is here.

I fill the house with flowers cut from the garden.

I open the windows and doors to let the winds scatter sand through the house.

I try not to feel guilty about months of activity reflected in the guilt of my untended garden.

I look for solace in the plants that thrived under the conditions of neglect.

The butterfly bush, kangaroo paw and the lilac tree.

I promise myself that tomorrow I will return to the ocean waters and all will be washed clean.