a preoccupation with light

In remembrance of flower photos past

After a few years of feeling somewhat adrift, I have decided to start writing here. I’m a little hesitant as in the last few years, my tendency has been to abandon any new projects (children’s book Instagram account, anyone?) and while I do think it’s fine to discard what isn’t working, thinking of how that is inevitable is not a great mindset to have as one sets out, probably. Reading Katie’s posts, which remind me so much of the days when we had blogs (but which feels so fresh at the same time—did I, very much a non-baker whose least favourite room is the kitchen, read a lengthy post about soufflés while completely rapt? I sure did), has made me think of that time and how much joy it brought me. I can hardly remember what I wrote about anymore, and while I can scroll through my archives on my end (it would appear that my old domain has been taken over by an AI-driven home lifestyle blog?), I look back at the sponsored posts and quickly have to close the tab. I did what I had to at the time, but it unsettled me even then. But I do remember the film photos of flowers, the gracious words of strangers. It was not a bad way to spend some free time in my 30s.

So: Territory of Light. I used to mumble the name of my former blog when I had to say it out loud; it was something that had popped into my head while I was sitting at my desk at work, after I glanced over at a stack of field guides next to my computer. I didn’t love it, but went with it for years—it’s on tax forms, even. This one is named for a book I read last year that I adored, by Yūko Tsushima. More on that later, possibly (I have learned never to make promises in these spaces), but stumbling on her books, mostly translated by Geraldine Harcourt, was an absolute revelation. A preoccupation with light! It took my breath away.

At the top of the steep, narrow, straight stairs there was an aluminium door and, opposite that, a door to the fire escape. The landing was so small that you had to take a step down the stairs or up on to the threshold of the fire exit before being able to open the apartment door. The fire escape was actually an iron ladder, perpendicular to the ground. In an emergency, it looked like we might stand a better chance if I bolted down the main stairs with my daughter in my arms.

But once you got the door open, the apartment was filled with light at any hour of the day. The kitchen and dining area immediately inside had a red floor, which made the aura all the brighter. Entering from the dimness of the stairwell, you practically had to squint.

‘Ooh, it’s warm! It’s pretty!’ My daughter, who was about to turn three, gave a shout the first time she was bathed in the room's light.

‘Isn’t it cosy? The sun’s great, isn’t it?’

She ran around the dining-kitchen as she answered with a touch of pride, ‘Yes! Didn’t you know that, Mommy?’ I felt like giving myself a pat on the head for having managed to protect my daughter from the upheaval around her with the quantity of light.

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I’m still not sure what I will write about, nor have I figured out this platform completely, but I do plan to write about some books I read last year and loved. Will it be nearly academic, as so many Substack accounts I subscribe to are? Unlikely. Will I hit “post” (or rather “Send to everyone now”—times change) without proper copy editing? Yes. Flower photos? There must be (although not today as all I have at the moment are decaying grocery store tulips).