Okay so yesterday’s rave revealed to me that my patience has worn thin: not, I believe, in grit-my-teeth-with-unexpressed anger, but in a I-can-feel-the-cold-through-this-jumper kind of way. Waiting has become wearying. Telling the story repeatedly to friends that I have met back home this weekend has uncovered an agitation I hadn’t realised I was feeling. Or is it that I find it difficult to tell it simply without an increased dramatisation of my emotions?
So for today, just a simple apple-context tale, and that is enough.
Luca and I took a soup and sandwich picnic on a walk in the bright and fresh November sunshine after church today. A last opportunity (perhaps) to relish the footpaths around Wheathampstead: crossing well-tended farmed fields, along dry dead-leafy woodland ways, through occasional unavoidable squelchy-miry puddles, skirting horsey-home pastures, and back to the car via narrow hedgrowed lanes. I loved the bare-branch tree silhouettes against the blue-white late autumn sky, and the remnants of seedheads, now probably empty of all fruitulness and life, but dignified in their determinedly robust if also unavoidably withering last stance.
If the curly- tangly rosebay willowherb flowerhead vestiges were made of gold it would be woven into exquisite fabrics to dress queens and princesses; as an out-of-season weed at the edges of our fields we barely glance at its browned stiffness, but the form of each stem reveals a perfection of architectural aesthetic.
I ate an apple as I walked. Will there be mud in New York?