It’s late evening moving into night and as is typical, I’m awake. This is becoming less and less the case as my body seems more inclined to sleep. There is a peace surrounding me the last few days and it is with me still. I am pressed to write and though the words continue to form into ideas and thoughts, I can’t bring them to the page. This frustrates me greatly but I suppose it can’t be rushed. These are the times I wish I could wander away from everything and find the solitude that would encourage this process. Perhaps all that would be accomplished would be loneliness without benefit of words. The need to wander is not as strong and I feel something telling me once again to wait and things will make themselves clear.
Tonight I was out walking with my son. It was peaceful, the type of whispering quiet that comes with the snow. We walked down through my favorite path, through the meadow. He told me about the fantasy land he has created there. I too feel something mystical when I walk down that path as if I have stepped into another world, waiting for the folk of another world to step forward and greet me. At times it almost seems to call me, as it clearly calls to my son as well. Perhaps the old ones wait for me there, on a path both real and mystical, to take me further on my journey.