I do like this photo, peculiar as it may be. We're heading precisely down-sun casting a splendidly tall shadow. Normally I prefer to have the sun on my face. However off-photo hung a large grey storm cloud which the wind was driving towards me. The cloud trailed a veil of rain so, not having a coat with me, I encouraged Brena homeward, the sun shining on our backs. We dodged the rain too, the cloud passing ineffectually across our wake.
What a pleasure it was to encounter a little sunshine. Even after all that rain and snow the countryside was stunningly bright.
After the events of the past few days I'm not sure whether or not I've avoided one of the storm clouds of life. On the face of it, yes. Events might have turned out very much worse. But the journey was exhausting. I feel drained. The butt end of humanity always is so much more wearisome than a plain simple storm. The wilderness would be so much simpler. Wild places are honest. One expects no kindness and is not disappointed.
So it's off to mourn a dream. To shake off the persistent and quite illusory dream of a kind, decent mother. To bury an image which does not exist. I'm not sure what kind of ceremony that calls for. Something needs to be laid to rest, and I need to discern what. I'll cast that into the pit of unconsciousness and wait for a response to beckon.