It was cold this morning—cooler than the acceptable norm of comfort set by my body. And thus, my daily walk was a brisk and short one. And the sun, up in misty skies were shadowed by the orangey-ocher veil of wild fires. Dim light bathed the city, which was particularly quiet this morning, and for some unexplained reason, the ‘magical’ tree too; perhaps, following the morning’s certitude, decided to dwell in this quietness. Or so it seemed; for the tree had been strangely emptied of birds, and only the ruckus of squirrels in the tall oak trees was to be heard.
They’re having a blast these days—those squirrels. A couple of them bushy-tailed ones were competing against each other this morning in a gambling game of acorns. They were running up and down the trunk of a particular massive oak tree trying to catch one another. I could almost hear them laughing; enthralled as they were in their merriment.
They’re so happy, these little fellows are. And seeing them makes me happy too. And so does the large rose bush drenched in dark pink roses at the front of a certain cottage. So close to the sidewalk this rose bush is that one is almost afraid of being caught in it as you go by. The scent of this rose is the purest and truest scent of a rose, and it has the power of transporting me back in time to my childhood and to bring forth images of grand ladies clad in elegant puffy dresses and French talcum powders and lovely boudoirs and fancy parlors of some gone by era...
This afternoon I found a most daunting story on the Internet; the more shocking to me because it was written by one of Blogland’s favorite queens, who a year or so ago decided to shut herself in a cloud of mysterious silence, and suddenly stopped blogging.
How utterly complex, and well written this article is, and how terrifying the dark sides of the mind, which this writer describes in chilling details as a habitat of demons and goblins—dwellers of her cottage, which is non-other than a simile of her own soul. And how courageous of this woman to open up so entirely to her own fathoms and demons; explaining in unsettling details the turmoil’s of a tormented soul and fears that, by all means should be keep hidden—shut in the absolute most secretive chambers of our heart, so as to not let those demons escape by explaining them, and thus bringing them to life and bequeathing them with permission to broaden their dreadful power on us.
How frail the human mind is… and how desperate our need of God.