It's a pleasure to witness the seasons changing, and with them the colours, textures, smells and inhabitants of the hills. Of my beloved chalk hills, hard and porous, and yet also rich in all that they support.
One season leads to another. And so, though winter may be damp and grey, it leads to spring. A pre-requisite for spring, a foundation, and a point of comparison. However I am a little ahead of myself. I'm in late autumn heading into winter. Extremities have been dying and falling, limb and leaf damaged by intolerance. For some despise the symptoms of a condition like Asberger's and, irrespective of the Equalities Act, are determined to create difficulties. How threatening a person who thinks differently can be. So, my outer shell is brown and falling, ready for the long winter of adaptation. Finding out more about myself. Identifying the adaptations that my employer is obliged by law to provide. Probably having to insist that they are enacted. The awakening of spring seems far away.
I realise that some love to walk the dark paths of winter, creating that weary, stunted corner of the garden that never awakens. These I have encountered, and from them I am escaping.
And I am reading, with several books on the go, seeking understanding. Creating fertile soil for that eagerly anticipated spring. I am keen to move on, and have faith that spring will follow winter. I feel like a stranger just entered a new land, unsure of the flowers that will bloom in spring, unable to anticipate the fertility of the new spring. Just ready to be surprised.
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