Refuge

I don’t know why I am surprised by the wintry dull day that sits close to the sky. It happens every year in November. The month of the dog. The light is squeezed. Like a large hand has wrung it out of the day. I can’t believe how I used to take light for granted, growing up in Africa: you just expected it to be there of a morning. Bright and early, sunshine superman. Maybe not that – sunshine superwoman making it all more up to date. Sometimes at five in the evening there would be a thunderstorm and drench time – a hard rain cooling everything down – the evening would usually end up dry. Twilight never dragged and the night insects couldn’t wait to soundtrack the night. Back to the present, to the now, thousands of miles away to the cold north, this year seems so different. If feels existential and sombre. The general exhaustion of all that is being dished up to us. Is it how the damp earth and the infuriating wind is all the gloomier in the cabin fevered life of the lockdown or is it the general madness and uncertainty? The wiser words – put that aside – there is a refuge – and seize the impermanence and celebrate the not knowing.

© Rick Frame


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