I looooove Spring. These early mornings when the sun rises warm and golden behind the still bare trees, and kisses the mirabelle blossoms. When Mr. Frost has covered the land with white, sparkeling crystal kisses as traces of these desperate encounters with his love Miss Spring. They are a beautiful couple, and yet their time together so short.
Birds are nesting, and the view from my morning writing room never gets better than at this time of year, when the mirabelle tree is in blossom.
The last week has been good. My plan of a storytelling tour is starting to move as I want it to, more work is coming in, and today I have a three hour tour with some German students. Hans Christian Andersen is the topic and that means I can spend at least two hours outside in the sun this morning, walking and talking…in German.
The rest of the day will be spend shading on a massive drawing I am working on at the moment. It looks a bit like a sculpture made out of granite. Lots of power, lots of space.
And Mirabelle must be a name constructed out of Spanish and French, Mira = look, belle = beauty. It was first spoken many years ago, when the Spanish girl Elena went to France to visit her cousine Phillipe. It was Springtime, but still too early for many trees to blossom, and yet in Phillip’s garden there was a tree with blossoms as white clouds drifting by on a lazy summer’s day. “¡Mira belle!” said Elena as her French still gave room for improvement. Phillip looked down as his cheeks turned red.
Great was his disappointment, when he found out she hadn’t called him belle.
