It is a rainy day, damp face, warm sweater, wrap your arms around yourself and smile kind of day.
Glowing fire in the stove. It is a climb a mountain with the one you want and shuffle though damp leaves sort of morning.
Hot tea on the sill. It is a sit in the clutter, sorting the chaos, putting things in boxes, letting go of the old, kind of solitude.
Calming music from the speakers. It is a steam bath, sweat brow, skin cleanse, day-dream, deep sigh sort of sit on a marble slab.
Fresh laundry on the shelf. It is a half-mast eye gaze, mind open, heart slowed, listen to the world sort of afternoon.
Good book in the lap. It is a smell of baked bread and wood smoke mixed with sandalwood wisps and musky fall dew kind of space...
ahhhhhhhhh!
"My eyes already touch the sunny hill. Going far ahead of the road I have begun. So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp; it has inner light, even from a distance and changes us, even if we do not reach it, into something else, which, hardly sensing it, we already are; A gesture waves us on answering our own wave... But what we feel is the wind in our faces." --Rilke
[I am reminded of a post two years ago, by the way... A quiet pleasant melancholy Cycles and patterns eh?]
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