...from carrying me away,
from the tumble of waves that will not hold me,
that shake and toss and throw me.
I want to take hold of things again,
my grip sure and strong,
a steadfast hold on things that matter,
and bring me into calm....
Every day I drive my familiar route, eyes longingly on the trees, and everything is shades of greys and browns, the trees silent in a rain that blends into milkiness. Gentle, pale, nacreous. A bloom of white on everything. And it is as though my mind expands out to merge with the damp diaphanous air, and in my minds eye I no longer see my car, it melts into moisture, drifts away into the misty rain, and I am flying, leaving the road, into and up over the trees, oh!
The cold air on my face is a welcome slap, as though a trusted friend shaking me out of my stupor, and I am here again, in the world, I lift my head and look around me, suspended now.
And then I see it. This place, this road that I travel every single day, that has become a chore, a blind drudgery, is revealed to me again.
And so, one day becomes the next, and the next, and then the first day of February dawns with a crisp, coldness of azure blue, a bright, perfect day, on this same road all becomes revealed in rust and browns and frosted sage. The blue sky is not a hard, bright blue, rather an opalescent wash, jet trails bleeding gently into it.
There, look, a sloping field, crisscrossed with hedges, and the occasional tree, everything smokey silver and brown in it's winter palette, the heavy frost giving the grass a milky sheen.
I know now, the lie of the land, each line and curve and slope and drop, hills and mountain crisscrossing one another, the long descent to the open sea, this road that snakes through, all of it, has become like a path in my brain, a mirror of my spirit skin. One that is part of me now.
In all that I am in an endless blur of Doing, these days, I see now, my constants are good things. Things that nourish, there, like a backbone, a perfect skeleton to lay my days on.
And I am grateful for this.