This week I’m home alone. Mari is in Estonia for two funerals, and I stayed to take care of our pets. Being alone shifts the rhythm—some things open up, others close in. I miss the way we laugh together every day, how ideas and little moments bounce between us.
In the quiet, there’s a kind of clarity. I notice what I’ve been carrying around without need. I see more sharply where I want to go.
On the table, the pictures wait—one finished, one still blank. A little like me right now: holding what’s already been coloured in, while the next shapes are only just beginning to take form.
From outside the Vlinderhuisje, I watched my mom and my aunt tackle their first plaster ceiling. They were figuring out how to measure the height adjustments for the wooden beams that would hold the boards, a task that proved trickier than expected. Every few minutes the tape measure came out, heads tilted, arms gestured—and then they’d both burst into laughter before trying again.
It was work, but it was also a reminder that building something together can be as much about the moments shared.
On the old garden table, the parts of Mari’s new sewing cabinet are laid out—freshly cut multiplex panels and solid wood supports. Her new Janome sewing machine doesn’t fit the old cabinet, so I salvaged the vital parts and set out to build something custom, comming soon.
The panels have been treated with a mix of boiled linseed oil and organic paint thinner—a much kinder smell than turpentine, though the last time I used it indoors, I regretted it. Out here, with thistles growing against the wall and the summer air carrying the scent away, the work feels steady and unhurried. Soon, these scattered pieces will hold the heart of Mari’s sewing space.
This week I started building my blog website—a place to stand fully in the fact that I’m always doing something new, while still holding on to the things I’ve loved for years. Somewhere in that flow of inspiration, a new business card design appeared.
Instead of one static title, I typed out a long, tumbling list of job descriptions and identities—photographer, sailor, maker, dreamer, collector, joker… and more. I print the list as a full sheet, then cut it into cards so each one carries a different slice of the words. No two are the same. On the back, I stamp my website.
It’s part calling card, part conversation starter—and a small reminder that I’ll never be just one thing.
Bastos is twelve now. His grandmother was a Great Dane, and he inherited her hips—broad, swaying, and prone to stiffness. Over the years, the tension has built up, and in some periods he’s struggled to walk at all. The vet suggested painkillers, but before medicating our old friend, we looked for other options.
That’s how we met Erik from Animoves, the local animal physiotherapist. With decades of experience and an easy, reassuring presence, he worked quietly, sensing with his fingers where the muscles had tightened. Then, with steady hands and gentle pressure, he waited until each one softened. Bastos stood there, calm and trusting, as if he knew exactly what was happening.