Day 342

Moll's misty breath.

The lungs need to get used to the coldness of the freezing air on a morning like this, when the temperature is a bright and sunny 29F (-1.6C), so the first time up Babbling Brook Hill is falling-down-in-a-heap awful, and then slowly it gets better, so that by the third circuit it is doable, and by the fifth it is not exactly easy, but kind of light, not so burdensome.

The earth is hard beneath my feet, but there are long stretches of springy leaf litter, and in the meadow the grass, although a little crunchy in spots, is a soft layer between my plodding feet and the ground like stone.  Plod, plod, plod... Breathe, breathe, breathe, and then thoughts come and eventually you have forgotten you are running, the thoughts are so interesting that they take over for minutes at a time, and you suddenly find that you have run 5.71 km @ 7 ½ minutes per km.

Such a love/hate relationship you have with the hymns and carols that provide the rhythm for the feet.  All those melodies that you love, all those words that kind of piss you off.  A part of your heritage, a lovely part of your childhood, and yet a part of something you rejected a long time ago.  "Hallelujah, Hallelujah...And peace shall reign forever and ever... and Peace shall reign forever and ever...."  But Peace has never reigned, has it?

And near the bottom of Babbling Brook Hill you notice a squirrel's drey, fallen from a tree, lying on the ground, something slightly different from the other leaves as you run over it.  And yes, you can see where the little tunnel was in the middle where the squirrel once slept warm and snug in its nest of leaves.   And you think that nowadays probably no one actually knows that a squirrel's nest is called a drey.  Except if you are a certain age and you went through the British-based school system of government schooling in South Africa during the 60's. 

My son was very disappointed tonight, and I have that familiar parental feeling of wanting to make it right, wanting to throttle someone responsible.  But I know instead that I can do nothing.  And of course this is how we all learn, how our children learn, to struggle on through despair and disappointments like this, but oh, how I wish to be omnipotent for just one night!

And so I will go to bed in my very cold bedroom, with my little hot-water-bottle, and clasp it to me all night, a poor substitute for my flesh-and-blood husband.  (I don't know if I keep it warm or if it keeps me warm, but I was surprised to find it still vaguely toasty this morning!)  Four more sleeps.

A lonely monoprint - Apple Tree.