Just spent the morning at tasks in town; things I knew were coming. Driver’s license, provisions, hardware, cat food, seed for birds. No way around doing what needs doing. It keeps me from the writing. An absence that makes the heart grow impatient, not fonder.
Woke in the middle of the night, again. Thinking. Not the good thinking, this. Not the thinking that writers love. These were the occupations of a too-tired, too-busy mind.
In the may-as-well of the waking moments, I decided to combine the nature of sleeplessness with the nature of…well…nature. And there, the tiny miracle.
My friend, the sensitive, wonderful Glorious has spoken of seeing stuff here. Lights. Where no lights usually are. I’m not surprised.
My late (and decidedly un-crackpot) Mum used to see things here every once in a while, too. This place is infused with a spirit that comes up out of the ground; a spirit one could feel if one were blindfolded and deafened. Peace is built into this place, if one can take the time to feel it.
Not a fluorescent tide glow. Not a ghostly emanation. Not neon. Or pulsing. Just a soft, contented white, brighter than a white rose had any right to be in the middle of the night. I can’t explain what made that optical effect. I don’t care to try. Seeing it was enough. A benediction of the house and the nature that surrounds it on a sleepless night; the assurance that all was well, that peace and the words will be there if patience will wait one minute longer.
The roses are past their prime. In daylight, in the rain, they are too blemished to cut. Last night, they were perfect. The souls of roses, a nod to my own.