November.
I think our ability to imagine the non immediate, of the --what is possible --makes us essentially unhappy and dissatisfied beings. Pascal thought the miseries of ‘man’ proved his greatness but I'm not so sure.
My best relaxation is to lie comfortably under a large tree and look up at the worlds therein. But now is the season of cold and damp so I wait for some warmth in the days before I indulge myself again.
Cold and damp it is; outdoors does not offer much of a welcome. I can push paint about again and again, and read more and more until my back and shoulders ache or toast my toes by the fire but I need to be outside. I tramp about a bit; turning the corner from the village so that I can see the valley then snail up the hill to see the valley from a greater height. The sky is bereft of birds. I do the crows injustice to be sure.
Obviously a grey mood is descending.
