You ask me where to begin
Am I so lost in my sin?
You ask me where did I fall
I'll say I can't tell you when
But if my spirit is lost
How will I find what is near?
I'll Find My Way Home, Jon and Vangelis
The breeze bites with an easterly chill and sharpens the senses into focus and wakefulness. The afternoon air is lightly tinselled with a fresh, invigorating cologne that lathers the laneway from beyond the locked gate. The road ahead is blocked and a ‘No Trespassing’ sign lays things out simply enough for any pilgrims shuffling along their Christmas Eve way. I move to turn—slightly annoyed. But, then again, the gate is located in the same place it has always resided. No different today than yesterday.
In the distance a bare green field and some trees lock lips with the pale-blue, cloud spotted heavens. Soon, the sun beams through the branches of a leafless tree and in so doing shards into a thousand streaks of divine brilliance. Sunlight sparkles across the river’s ripples and bounces off the stiff blades of grass. The elements working as one to effortlessly move into place and clear a celestial path.
My sun shall rise in the east
So shall my heart be at peace
And if you're asking me when
I'll say it starts at the end
You know your will to be free
Is matched with love secretly
I’ll Find My Way Home, Jon and Vangelis
All told, The Green Mile seems to tremble in humbleness and is decked out in all her sparse winter finery. Understated—like an attractive, hardworking woman wearing her single expensive overcoat and luxury item of refinement. A garment sweeping low over a sensible skirt and inching to a protective stop a couple of centimetres south of the exposed tenderness living and breathing on the back of her knees. The scene is one of beauty, grace and a slow-gathering serenity.
All is not lost and all is not found—yet.
Soon, perhaps.
The fields are empty save for a few stray horses. The grass is a gentle green and heals itself with regenerative warmth that slightly steams the air in the wintry stillness between growth seasons. To the right of the path is a long cattle gate both steely and sleepy looking. Adjacent on the left of it and beyond the barbed wire fence is the marking stone of the water hydrant. This ghost of a council worker past is missing his summer-time memorial flowers. Instead, he stands sentry for tonight’s excitement in his navy overalls with pipe-cutters at the ready in case any pregnant passer-by thirsts for some water. I stand looking down at him—one sinner to another—and recite a brief prayer. A few words of gratitude for reminding me to pause, reflect and forget some earthly knowledge in exchange for a drip-drop or two of divine intervention.
Beyond the cow-gate and the hydrant in the mid-distance is a crumbling stone cottage of ancient times past. The gable ends, four walls and windowless windows are still visible and stubbornly refuse to yield to the passage of time. An evergreen tree grows out of the side of one of the walls. The roof is missing but there will be no rain tonight only bright stars in the sky.
A straw-lined fence frames the fore-ground and completes nature’s year end painting. Perhaps, later, a donkey might pause between the two fence-posts pulling on a few golden stalks of straw. To chew the cud and consider whether this might be the place to settle down for the night and encourage his friends to rest up too.
Your friend is close by your side
And speaks in far ancient tongue
A seasons wish will come true
All seasons begin with you
One world we all come from
One world we melt into one
I’ll Find My Way Home, Jon and Vangelis
I trot on and notice the puddles on The Green Mile are almost all empty of tears—the potholes all brushed in an unseasonal dustiness with fine natural sand. The stream alongside is filled to watery fullness with depth and mystery and burbles melodically in the opposite direction to the hustle bustle of the town and Christmas crowd. The earlier winds have died down to a mere murmur. The evening sun settles and moves low in the sky bathing the land in vibrant, rich colours and lengthening shadows. Nature is primed and gift wrapped in giddy anticipation.
Finally, a hushed silence descends.
As night approaches and a special infant finds his way to his earthly home.
You ask me where did I fall
I'll say I can't tell you when
But if my spirit is strong
I know it can't be long
No questions I'm not alone
Somehow I'll find my way home
Merry Christmas you master spinner of words and best selling author.
Great read, great song. Linking today. @https://nothingnewunderthesun2016.com/. Merry Christmas, Gerry, from across the pond.