Forget about Shakespeare; forget about Steinbeck; I have my very own winter of discontent. And I have it every year around this time when I look out the window and ask myself, "What am I doing here?"
I still remember my late friend Noel Butler who, after a lifetime spent in New Guinea, struggled to make himself at home again in Australia, first at Caboolture, then at Mt Perry, and finally at Childers. He never quite succeeded since, as he put it, "my spiritual home will always be New Guinea".
Where is my spiritual home after half a lifetime in more than a dozen different countries? "Über den Himmel Wolken ziehen, über die Felder geht der Wind, ... Irgendwo über den Bergen muss meine ferne Heimat sein." Hermann Hesse
