Last night I had a moment of clarity while I was standing next to my desk at work. It was one of those rare moments where you are truly able to step back from the fiddly details that make up so much of life and see the larger picture.

A white hart appeared in the streets of Bootle, a town north of Liverpool England, last Sunday. He walked down the paved streets, his hooves more accustomed to good dark earth and forest moss below them than black tar.

Over and over again on my Facebook memories it will happen: I will start craving soup, and I’ll look and see I’ve made soup on the same day two years ago.

Embarassingly long ago, back in April, a friend I’ve never met or spoken to before, Gloria Gates, sent me the most incredible surprise in the mail.

She stands on a rolling hillside, wildflowers spilling in every direction. The mountains in the distance are soft white merengue peaks as she runs away from us, the viewer, in slow motion.