The house has a life of its own, all houses do. It's settling down now, into calm, it's arms protectively around the slumbering bodies below.
Creak. Shudder. Silence.
Water drips outside the lead pane window, the one alongside the eggshell white chest of six drawers.
The only other sound, this instance, is the omniscient hiss of my blood through my ear drums.
Other than that I lie on my back in silence, in warmth, not at all aware of being part of a city.
Alone with my thoughts, dreams, memories amd half-memories, aware that they may no longer be the truth. Whatever that is.
The path that lies behind me is obscured by many things; sometimes I see my tracks in bright sunshine; often it is murky darkness that obscures them; other times it's Yeats' 'half light' that treads across-and-through my dreams. Either way I find myself wishing for the 'cloths of heaven'. That's my one constant.
I'm alone with my journey tonight, sleeping in the woods alongside my path, which stumbles, stalls, falters, but always constantly. Before sleeping, despite how many people or animals surrounds one, we are always alone.
I try to imagine my death moment, of course I'm not at all sure it'll be a deathbed one. I'll be alone like now, and fearless. What is there to fear? Alone, but more intense than now; even much more peaceful and content.
This attic, the pinnacle of this house, is cozy on this late winter's night. Cozy with the body warmth from the sleeping bodies below: two cats, two children, two adults, and a dog.
There's a car that I can hear in the road below.
The mountain looks much smaller than reality in the photo. Much smaller. That is the view from one of the many attic windows. On a sunny day of course.
Spring approaches. It's already arrived in the north of my country. Still 1600 km away, plus minus.
I give thanks for all that I have. Most of all for my peace. And for wisdom, especially grace.
How blessed am I.