Skies are leaden, and a fine murk wraps the village in its embrace. This is one of those November mornings when the village seems to be dancing (or skating) on the edge of the world and the weather and is not quite sure which season it belongs to.
Adjectives like dark and sunless are evocative, but there are better words for and about such intervals: bosky, caliginous, cloudy, crepuscular, dark, dim, drab, dusky, gloomy, murky, nebulous, obfuscous, obscure, opaque, overcast, shadowy, somber, stygian, sunless, tenebrous, twilighted, umbral, vague, wintry.
What to do? With no light to speak of, this is not a good morning for wandering about with camera and peripherals, so far anyway. When Beau and I went out a few minutes ago, a cold raw wind teased the backs of our necks, and the matter of a longer morning walk was put aside for now. My furry son trotted back into the bedroom and curled up on the quilt in my warm spot.
Inside the little blue house, I pull out a canister of Chinese flower tea, then brew up a glass pot full. As the dried blooms take in liquid and open out, the kitchen is filled with floral perfume, and home is summery all over again. The contents of pot and cup are almost too arty to drink, and I take picture after picture.
There is a stack of arty books to prowl through, a little Mozart on the CD player, a candle redolent of spruce trees in the Lanark highlands on winter mornings, a box of art pens in Mediterranean shades to play with. There will be cookies or scones this morning, and for dinner this evening, there will be something that sings and dances on the tongue. There is room at the old oak table for everyone, and there are plenty of chairs. There are enough mugs and cups to go around too. On days like this, one simply does whatever she can do to light things up, and such small rituals are comforting.
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