There’s a special joy to be had, sitting in the warm kitchen, looking out at the hard frost over the East Allen valley, as the sun threatens to encroach over the horizon. I know this, because I’m experiencing it right now for myself.
And if I am cheerful and ready for the day, it’s no thanks to the moderate amount of wine and whisky I imbibed yesterday evening; my tolerance has dropped away since we put ourselves on a strict 14 units of alcohol maximum throughout the week. Never mind, the less the better, of course, and rather like the reminiscence of nicotine, after a couple of years of abstinence, I’m not missing the over-consumption, much.
It’s strange how old habits can drift away, to be replaced by new ones. My new obsession is the keyboard, of course, and the daily word target. I’m living a vibrant interior life with my characters. I awoke this morning, startled with the realisation that I needed another scene of motivation or else the story would founder under a sudden onslaught of too-abrupt plot development. So I’ve sorted a better transition, I think. In the emerging novel, life goes on.
Transitions are also pre-occupying our own daily lives though, as ageing, aches and pains, and the changing seasons reflect our own passage through time. It’s fun to look forward, but in doing so there’s the bittersweet feeling of saying goodbye to the activities of previous years. Some things we simply can’t do anymore.
And yet, still the sun rises, and the frost glints on the little round picnic table. Soon it will have vanished, and I shall venture out for more heavy gardening, as much as I can manage before my breath becomes harsh and heavy. I shall try to find joy in the things I can still do, the tidiness I can still facilitate, and the exercise I can experience in the cold, crisp air.
And then, oh further joy, I can retreat into my warm, cosy nest and experience another scene vicariously through my beloved characters.
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