It's cool and clear. A fresh wind blew across the rain-sodden hills, drying the exposed ridge trail.
So, back to winter riding wear. Several layers, long underwear, scarf. But not gloves yet. I'll need them soon. In sheltered spots I was warm. On the ridge the wind sliced through a wool sweater and a fleece.
The sun was welcome. Let's make a bit of vitamin D. Yes, and banish any hint of depression, healing the shadow of one grey rainy day after another.
The sweeping curves of the hills were welcome as a friend's embrace. With the chill wind I had the hills to myself most of the way.
It was good to clear my mind for writing. Work has been intense, and parts of it annoying. The politics, mainly. Some people do not seem to have grown up. The directness of a horse's responses are refreshing. Again life is straightforward, until Monday morning at least.
And meanwhile the words are pouring out, flooding the page with memories of my former home. Well, not exactly memories, more the essence of the place and the psyche of the people who lived there. And now, a little time having passed, it's grown into a work of compassion, a manuscript that tries to explain and understand.
Now, at last, amidst the broad airy spaces of these hills, I can write openly and lovingly about those greater wider mountains. I can write about events that took place there and events that might have occurred. The 'might-have-beens' fill out the essence and the psyche.
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