It is 4.56pm, dark outside and looks like snow is coming. I have put on the wounded sounds of Ray Le Montagne and have fallen into his vibe. Strum guitars and the songs of lonely woods.
This afternoon I almost cried. I had a vision of Wanchai.
Emerging from the MTR by the basketball courts of Southhorn Playground. Walking up the steps and seeing the great afternoon light and the shape of the city lying beneath ancient, deep green mountains. Old Wanchai in all her glory. I had a vision of walking towards the trams, past the wet markets and the old lady who sells me white lilies. On my way to a Buddhist Center and a teacher who fills the entire building with blessings.
I have moved to the other side of the world. There is no Buddhist Center in Maine. I am having to find that center within me these days. And to see it in all its clarity, made tears form.
It was afternoon and the light was fading and the fire was blazing and Ray was mourning and I reached over and picked up the manuscript for my novel that sits on the bookcase. I haven't touched it in months...
I sat down in the armchair by the windows that look out into deep, dying day, and I flicked it open to the middle, and I started reading.
Twenty minutes later and I am still reading.
A startling realization: there is beauty and truth here. And I need to continue. I need to allow this season to pull me into its hold by the fire, pull me into a place of reflection and contemplation, and allow the magic to unfold.
(Picture credit: Robert N. Dennis collection of stereoscopic views. / United States. / States / Maine. / Stereoscopic views of Penobscot County, Maine)