We sat watching the seasons’ confusion. Now winter and driving rain. Now clear skies and sunshine. Washing out, washing in. Wooly jumpers on and woolly jumpers off. Thankful for a well stocked freezer and the homemade minestrone soup for lunch.
The temperatures dropped in the afternoon and rain pounded the iron roof. The flames jumped and twisted in the fireplace drawing us in. Curled up in front of the coziness of a dancing fire we spent the afternoon re-reading books we’d first read in the 1970s: A Town like Alice and I heard the Owl call my name.
The books took me back to the 70s when life seemed less complicated. I don’t remember having to make time to read, or justify an afternoon on the couch reading because it was raining outside. There seemed to be time enough for life to flow effortlessly, gently absorbing the ebb and flow. I don’t remember any sense of obligation. The yearning for what was and living in the what is. How strange to feel justified in stopping to read a book because of the weather.