it’s 4am, august 17th, 2016. i’m wide eyed awake, and again, raising mountains in my mind – they’re the kind of peaks that can’t be climbed, and i just can’t figure it out, how to go about housing these flustered thoughts, each amplified by the low and heavy night, it’s bottomless, almost, dense with a silence so thick it threatens tangibility. i can almost reach out and with trembling fingers touch it. the night drips like ink, deep indigo spilling all over me, near-suffocating. can i be frighteningly honest? i’m struggling.
soon, though. soon, sheets of sunrise will pour angularly, slanted and staggered through the painted pale blue shutters, and the thrown-wide-open windows , of this little limestone cottage, all covered in ivy, honeysuckle, and wandering fruit vines. how many hundred summers have these sun-bleached farm and manor houses seen?
and, soon, the dappled gold gentle warmth of another late summer morning will set my skin aglow, turn my hair to straw, and the bedroom, with it’s net canopy and creaking oak floorboards, illuminated, will serve as the first of the day’s many reminders, that divinity is threaded into everything. it is the unseen string by which the world is spun and seamed, how mysterious, how momentary. how strange, and sacred; by the time i’ve poured myself some peppermint tea, and ladled heaping teaspoons of strawberry jam into steaming bowls of oats, i’ll be ecstatic, and once more, enthralled, not whispering shy and cowering at the magnitude of this magic.