Time is all we have. And how we choose to spend that time, makes up our entire life. There really isn’t anything else.
I woke early – dawn was breaking – the sun rising higher in the sky. Quietly, so as not to disturb, I dressed in windproof coat and walking shoes – the outdoors called – I needed to be out in the chill air of a bright morning – an autumnal morning.
I was alone walking the road – loving the quiet except for the wind rustling through the trees – a magical time of day when nothing stirs. Cows standing like statues in the fields – swallows gathering on the wires, preening and chattering amongst themselves.
The silence broken by two cyclists whirring past – lycra clad - feet pumping furiously on the pedals – then a jogger puffs by cheeks rosy from exertion, with neon trainers and requisite water bottle in hand – we exchange ‘good mornings’ as we pass.
I stop to take in the views having not walked this road all summer – the grass is parched after a dry spell – the trees still in full leaf – bindweed drapes itself over the hedgerows it ghostly white flowers opening in the sun – hawthorn berries ripening and glistening red.
I turn and re-trace my steps, homeward bound for breakfast – hot coffee and buttered toast – later I will drive to the next village to shop for weekend treats and roast chicken dinners. I see the old man – his routine never changing - shopping for groceries and the library to change his books – we smile at one another – strangers but familiar at the same time.
And so the weekend rolls on – thinking of plans for the day – gardening to be sure – as I have been beavering away indoors the garden has suffered neglect – ashamed of itself – today I will spruce you up a little, make you presentable once more – I promise.
‘Til next time, remember ~
“Use what you have, use what the world gives you. Use the first day of fall: bright flame before winter's deadness; harvest; orange, gold, amber; cool nights and the smell of fire. Our tree-lined streets are set ablaze, our kitchens filled with the smells of nostalgia: apples bubbling into sauce, roasting squash, cinnamon, nutmeg, cider, warmth itself. The leaves as they spark into wild colour just before they die are the world's oldest performance art, and everything we see is celebrating one last violently hued hurrah before the black and white silence of winter.”