Josie's Mug

Today it is Fall. More Fall than many of us can bear.

My breath exhales diamonds against the dawn, and I clamber into my car; snug in my sweater and thick woolen socks tucked inside thick rubber boots.

Destination: extrapolation.

My classes were canceled today and I have no work committments to speak of on Tuesdays, so I find myself chartering for a spontaneous adventure. To remain still is to remain. Motion is the oil to my joints; the practice of which keeps me moving at all.

The sky is fashioned from slate this morning, serious and surreptitious just as I like it. The grass I pass by at an unfathomable speed has turned heather and dark chocolate and the dandilions stand efflorescent against the hoarse wind.

This is a psuedo-Scottish world into which I am hurtling.

Nostalgia introduces herself to me and takes me to the place stored deep and permanent; the sacred space within me.

I unleash my mind and feel a felicious moment of markable happiness.

It is April 21st, 2017.

I find myself in black running tights and my constant Patagonia sweater, a chunky green wooled hat insulating my mind. I am on a NationalExpress coach from the Highlands of Scotland to Glasgow in order to spend a weekend with my childhood friends.

The side of my head rests against the frosty window, speckled with droplets from an earlier shower. My knees are tucked up and resting lazily against the green trekking pack perched in the seat beside me. My index finger beats halcyon against my left knee to the Bon Iver murmuring through my mind.

The sky is fashioned from slate this morning, serious and surreptitious just as I like it.

The tires of the bus whoosh into my soul as they make gallant contact with the sopping road; inside our voyager the faint aroma of fresh cream mingles with strong black tea.

I direct my attention to the contents of the window.

We are slogging past crags; amorphous crags of dusty orange and cinnamon, juxtaposed sharply against the deafening skies. Heather and gorse chrysalize the crags, glowing deeply.

I am the moment and the moment is in me.

We breathe together, this world and I; a deep inhalation for each bead of rain that trickles down the pane of glass.

We are more than inertia; we are more than driftwood caught in streams of dull and malignant monotony. We are motion and movement, ethereal and unrestricted.

We may be prompted but we are not issued.

We may be benighted but we are not disinterested.

We may be relentless but we are not tired.

Diamonds and sweaters and droplets and socks.

Breath and life and continuous application of oil.

Peace and Blessings,

Josie

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