reverie.

This morning I woke up to the sounds of little kids on their way to school — their British accents joining in a playful schoolyard chant. Just now, the most dog-like of black and white cats paws at me to open the shades so he can jump up on the sill and watch the world outside, the sound of his tail up against the rope from the blinds softly tapping against the radiator beneath him. The sound of tea boiling downstairs. This memory from last night, walking to our new home as the sun set. Reverie, my name is Devon. It's nice to meet you in the flesh.

Our current neighbor lives in a camper and is fixing up the apartment across the street, his symphony a sound of drills and hammers that filled the night and met the day. Another neighbor's son was late for school this morning, her voice laced with crossness and worry. Across the street lives a father who is captivated by his toddler who is captivated by airplanes. And the oldest Public House in the area plays Harry Potter into the quiet night. This is what I love about stepping back from the hustle and bustle. The stories that happens underneath my nose, the worlds that collide softly and effortlessly like watercolor paint. I was nervous upon arriving that choosing to spend half our time in London just outside the city would mean seeing less, experiencing less, feeling less. Oh, how I was wrong.

The outside looking in is where I want to be. Softly, sweetly, patiently admiring the bits and pieces that make up a place. If you stop and listen closely and without pretense, you can make out the soft murmerings of consonants and syllables and punctuation — life as it flitters past you like a soft breeze. Ballet dancers upon the wind.