Wintering under brushed pewter skies, watching the cold rain fall in sheets, the waters rise before freezing over.
The whole of the world dipped in glass, fragile and shimmering. Unsure of movement, every step a hazard, every stir of wind through the coated branches pulling chimes and iced chattering through the chill air.
Standing. Listening. Waiting for direction. I may be waiting some time.
The fog has lifted, and the hope was that once it did, I would know where to go. That the path revealed may not be established, may even be difficult terrain, I had accepted long since.
To see nothing but unbroken snow, glittering swathes of frozen water, daggers of ice gently chiming against each other on ensnaring branches...well, it was unexpected. To say the least.
Do I stay here until the thaw? Do I push forward, trusting that movement is better than standing still, that any direction chosen is still a direction? Is still, at the heart of things, movement forward?
This is the question that stands before the court of my heart. A judgement needed, when I feel least capable to judge.
But standing still is not the answer, either. Either I move, and risk becoming lost in winter, or I build here, shelter from the chill, a place to rest and heal, a place to lay out all my choices like Tarot cards while I debate the ramifications of all actions.
Either way, there will be effort involved. And that is fine--effort is good, effort is necessary.
All good things are earned.
I'll start preparing, here. One way or another, there is work to be done, and now is the time to do it.
(Images taken in the Forest of Zyn, Kalamata, A Silent Night, Driftwood Valley Estates, and the Garden of Whimsy.)
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