April 08, 2013

The Station Walk

Despite the bitter, haughty huff of the eastern wind that flurries and unfurls its icy fold, by darkness and by day, my window sits slightly ajar. That cold air waltzes on my face as I dream and curls itself around my nostrils as if to say "spring isn't quite here yet".

Each season must burn its final flame before it is extinguished, lest we forget of it in the midst of others. This wind is the winter's haunting promise, as is the vibrant palette of autumn or the melted butter sunsets of summer. Its smouldering ash whips my knuckles and nose and brings embers to my cheeks, but spring is almost here and the winter must relinquish its icy grasp.
I bear this in mind on days when my heart is dark. In my currently messy, small life, where things are all skeewiff and there is little continuity, I sometimes struggle to process things and get myself into a tizzy. I know that when I look back on this time next year, despite the highs and lows, there will be one thing that I will remember and hold dear as my saving grace and that is the long walk I take to the station each week.
As I walk from rural to urban, I rub my hands together briskly, brave my face for the chilly blast and watch the cusp of spring battle gorgeously to take hold. The fight is growing weary, as are we all, and the days must and will grow longer. I hear the rambunctious rooks as they caw for twigs and territory and the madding flirting-jerk of wings as they beat and battle. In the lane, trickles of water's icy thaw run gleefully away under the thick, felty pleat of the sky mirrored in the woolly coats of the new lambs, whose mothers all turn their eyes to me as I pass as if to say keep walking, dear.
And walk I have. Through autumn into winter and now through winter into spring. I have watched as the trees wept their leaves and the leaves in turn changed to rot and ice underfoot and where now is a smattering of primroses. Regardless of my mood, within the miles of this walk, my mind passes from sadness to elation to all sorts of currents of emotion along with a soundtrack of songs that are dear to me. I sing them loudly because no one is around to hear except the first bees and the blackbirds.
The station walk is just a necessity in my day to day life, an element of routine you could say, but one that pulls my head back down to earth and reminds me that life itself is one long walk; fixing my head fast to my shoulders and levelling my waltzing mind with each bound and step.

If I just keep walking, singing and changing with the seasons, I know I'll reach my destinations, no matter how long the path.
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