As winter continues to gather momentum and Christmas fills my thoughts with its own magic. I find I get more reflective. I move through the day as one would walk on a deserted winter beach, denude of life and colour. A journey of solitude, I allow it to pass and avoiding the feeling between the light and dark. Like the passing of summer and only sunburn captures the passage of time.
Susan has a stiff neck; how do they suddenly appear? That tender moment, that time of least resistance, a twinge grows to muscle cramp and stiffness sets like the cold wind. Reminding you of its intent as you turn a corner, open a window. Cold air and sharp pain, to be handled gently.
It is at moments like this that I long for my family. A touch by a grandchild. Different things make companionship become great love. I talk about literature, songs and current events because they again matter. Having someone around who understands me, has gone through the events of life I have and came out of the other end that much wiser for it.
This is the time of the year when my life tends to be an ebb and flow of creation and then ineffectualness. Creation is strong, the need to accomplish, the desire to complete before a period of reflection overtakes and I move slowly to writing. The overwhelmingly urge for that perfect sentence, lines filled with imagination, thoughts unravelled into meaningful paragraphs, polished descriptions and simply told tales. Sometimes I feel the same as an exotics gardener, tending plants of fragile beauty, there mere existence a delicate balance.They require care and tending, gentle voices and soft handling to solicit their favours. Beautiful and fantastic but enervating. In comparison, the flowers of the meadow have a subtle beauty. Individually simple and negligible unless inspected closely, but scattered in their thousands, adrift on the sea of grass, then they attain greatness. It is a sustaining beauty, feeding the soul, the comforting hand of a friend who makes no demand and expects no response. Only to cease living a memory of unexplored words which never quite recede, always leaving an impression, a sense.
My coffee has a slight bitterness to it, leaving a caramelised bouquet on the top of my palette. Not quite right, not entirely wrong, just not there.