|Weary journeying (one car, broken, one tow truck, four hours later...)|
Two days without a blog post, which does not mean two days without writing.
My lucky friends and legitimised eavesdroppers on Facebook and Twitter have had their time enriched by apocryphal drops of my legendary life (eating pasta out of Tupperware in a service station car park, drinking wine from a Travelodge mug: then I read up on them: weary journeying versus the joys of sweat and medals.)
This weekend I spent nine and one half hours listening to rain hit a windscreen; less the brief lull of each concrete bridge. Leaves of warm colours drop from trees, at the edge of the road, in clusters in the flooded fields, I watch them and where my eyes wander my thoughts fly. People in autumn wear warm colours; that is the start of my thinking. But in winter they don't drop layers, like these bare branches that best display the stark beauty of the darkest season.
What people take to then is the glitter of ice, is the bright gold recalling the sun, is the lively warm blooded red, is the tenacious promise of evergreens. They press these colours into a festival, into the heart of winter. And the reason is the same as for all festivals: to celebrate existence.
My life is fabulous, in part: the sun parted clouds today, turned all the hedgerow flora into living emerald sculpture, there was no where else I wanted to be. Neither do I want anyone to envy me, nor do I feel a need to share this moment, rather I want everyone to learn how to be this open and appreciative of their own lives. Let the external nonsense tumble: pretty leaves that blow away.
|The joy of medals is worth keeping :-)|