Back among the Dutch

Drifted back across the Channel late Sunday night: a quiet ferry crossing with little evidence of ghouls or zombies on the boat.  I miss the traditional Halloween: I have lots of good memories of going door to door as a child and of hanging out with the other Dad’ when my kids made the rounds.  I suppose the fear of predators and the embrace of adult costume parties has crowded the kids out.

I arrived to find golden trees along the Maas beneath a turbulent grey sky; the roof is rattling in the wind and rain spatters on the windowpanes.  The sightseeing boats have pulled up for the winter and one of the cafes has taken in its tables. Cyclists dress against the weather,bulky, pedaling determinedly against  the wind as they crest the Stone Bridge each morning.  The sun glows yellow through gaps beneath the clouds, highlighting the horizon, outlining the steeples.

I’ve been up in my garret, working the phones, writing the mails, negotiating the terms, cajoling the investors: pressing the deals.  It’s becoming a game of inches against days: I’ll never speak ill of a business development person again.  Whatever bonus or dinner they get along the way is well deserved.

It would be easy to disappear down the hole, absorbed with trying to muscle everyone to a close.  All the more important, then, to keep perspective and live fully.  I take a trip to the store, a coffee along the river, a cycle outside of town; connecting with the sights along the water, the murmur of languages, the smells of autumn.  We do live remarkably.