Right now I am typing from the Lánchíd Palota.  Outside the window the exhaust from the air race planes is still lingering in the air, as are the people lingering, along the rakpart, waiting for the fireworks to begin under a hail of opera.  I spent an amazing three weeks at home that seemed to pass, like all things lately, too quickly.  And now that I’m back I feel both like a stranger and like someone coming home.  Today is the festival for St. Stephen, and having been here last year I almost feel like this is my holiday too, to celebrate, I mean.  I’ll be updating as fast as my thoughts and pictures and jetlag will allow me.  Until then, a few slices from Mary Oliver’s Coming Home, a poet and poem that always remind me simultaneously of all of Ohio and everything else.

when we’re weary…

I imagine us seeing
everything from another place…

and what we see is the world
that cannot cherish us
but which we cherish,
and what we see is our life
moving like that,
along the dark edges
of everything…

believing in a thousand
fragile and unprovable things,…
the past, the future,
the doorway that belongs
to you and me.