Ranger and I have taken it into our heads to walk to the sound every day. It’s not too far, but by the time you go and walk the hills and come back it’s a very good workout. We take water, his collapsable dish and my journal.
I like the grey cloudy days, they’re moody and brooding. You can’t see the mountains shrouded in mist but you know they’re there. The breeze off the water is damp and there’s something quiet in the clouded gloom. A quiet that’s broken by the loud crows (for real, I have never seen so many crows before.) It’s the perfect environment for writing.
Of course I like the sunny days even better, when the mountains stand in glory and your breath catches in your throat. It doesn’t seem real. With the water sparkling blue and the clouds puffy white, it feels like a fairy tale world. Any moment Aslan may come running down the cliff face with centaurs and beasts behind him. That’s a good environment for writing too.
At the park that we walk too there’s a foot path that follows the cliff around the top. It has benches and the view from up there is wonderful. You feel as if you can see it all. That’s good for writing. But then if you go down to the waters edge there are all these logs washed up on shore smooth and bleached white. Down there you can hear the waves lapping on the shore and I love that sound. It’s so soothing and I feel like it’s ordering my thoughts, clearing space for ideas, medicine to my spirit. That’s good for imagining and imagining is good for writing.
In the midst of homesickness I feel awed that this is my home now. A place plucked from the pages of my imagination.