Three days into the next year in the series. Woke early, five-ish, in the flow of a dream about brightly coloured chrome/metallic-paint cars, and some kind of threat. Walking with a soulmate across a landscape of freeways, cars, crashed cars, half-built ziggurats encased in scaffolding. I remember registering that as I woke up, I said, "But it was beautiful." Dreams don't need meanings sometimes, or interpretation to take them away from themselves. Enough in that vivid blue wreckage, the sand-coloured roads, the intricate building. And I'm not quite willing to mention the casualties along the way.
Is it a New Year thing to feel the air clearer? The birdsong in the slow light? Perhaps it's a new-beginning thing, this slow picking-up of the threads, this interval gradually to set everything into a frame: let's take a step back to check the course, check the compass, all that; write out some objectives, and from them, a schedule. What is the vision? Sometimes, right to push through the opening doors, but sometimes, even better to take a look at the new room, the new hallway, before passing to the next. What to leave behind?
Such a quiet morning, but for that bird. Light coming in gradually; a day reluctant to start. Almost
Is it a New Year thing to feel the air clearer? The birdsong in the slow light? Perhaps it's a new-beginning thing, this slow picking-up of the threads, this interval gradually to set everything into a frame: let's take a step back to check the course, check the compass, all that; write out some objectives, and from them, a schedule. What is the vision? Sometimes, right to push through the opening doors, but sometimes, even better to take a look at the new room, the new hallway, before passing to the next. What to leave behind?
Such a quiet morning, but for that bird. Light coming in gradually; a day reluctant to start. Almost