Like moving underwater

That is the speed I have been going at today. Could be just a tickle of a hangover. But I think I may be burning out. No, just shifting down a gear. After a year of drifting on the wind like one of those little thistle fairies you blow and make a wish upon, I think it would be nice to settle gently to the ground. I have appreciated the time to rebuild, heal, and learn to laugh again by just being and doing without feeling or thinking as much as I am naturally inclined to do. No epiphany to declare. I think I have said all this before, perhaps in a less positive light. But walking round the Bot Gs this afternoon, forced to slow down due to my bung shin, I got a totally different perspective of the route I would normally run. I liked it. It has been a while since I have been through the gardens in the day, and I found it bedecked in Autumn, russets and ochres and golds, and the air had that lovely frosty, wood fire taste and scent. I savoured it all, let it sit on my tongue and dissolve. I even paused by the duck pond and watched a couple of well wrapped toddlers held up by mum or dad so they could fire bits of bread over the rails at the birds teeming in the water, emerald and indigo feathers flashing seductively. I was a spectator rather than an actor, and I found peace in that.

Winter is blowing in and I'd like to be still a bit more, be on my own a bit more, be enclosed in the bush a bit more, read a bit more, write a bit more, paint, maybe reflect a bit more. I think I may have reached the point where it is safe to reflect once more, and I can afford to slow to a walk, just every now and again.