Three Pictures and Some Paragraphs

I rolled out of bed around 6:20am on a Saturday morning to walk twenty minutes to get on a bus to ride four hours up to Loch Ness. On the way up, it was like we went through Narnia- there were all these mountains covered in white and it started to snow and there's a magic inherent in an early morning snowfall, I feel. We went to the ruins of a castle and then to town and then back home and I had to stop reading when we went through the mountains again because seeing this all at the end of the day was just as beautiful as it had been at the beginning, like our method of transportation was not a coach but a tape that was being rewound.

I didn't take any pictures of the snow.

And someday, probably, I'll get around to putting down the story of my thoughts for that day, parsing out why my heart ached for the hills and trees and mountains and communicating the dumb, childlike joy I feel when I get to climb around a castle and everything else. I'll get around to labelling all the photos and explaining what they mean and I'll do a write-up of the cathedral in Inverness like I used to for all the old churches I've visited. I'll dole out content like writing's my job. But right now, just feeling, just experiencing my emotions, is a hard enough job for me and so the processing will have to wait for another Wednesday. Or Friday. Or Monday. My will can only make so many promises before it's writing checks my mind can't cash.

It's been sunny and cold the past few days here in Edinburgh. I've not had anything to do in mornings the past few days and so I've woken up with sun coming in through my curtain and been able to just stay in that quiet for a little while, too comfortable to move, which I think is what happy feels like. And then I bundle up and mosey forth and settle into deadlines and adequacy.

It's an inch, you know? It's an inch and it's mine and I get to hold it, even when I'm overwhelmed or underwhelmed or unpleasantly surprised by the mediocrity of everything, which is not all the time. Just, apparently, every time I sit down to write this week. Which is fine. It's a thing. It's a thing that happens sometimes and we roll on. I dream achievable dreams and I mean to achieve them.

Just maybe next week.