The long and winding road that leads to your door…
I went for a walk today. The cold, soulless machines were forsaken in favour of the long and winding road. It was bright and happy outside. Even the birds seemed to think so because they were flitting about, probably looking for tidbits of golden hay or wisps of cotton or long forgotten pieces of yarn that could be used to pretty up their little nests for the wee ones. They seemed to be happy, going about their business, singing, chirping, sharing stories with one another, perhaps gossiping. I saw one of the smallest nests I have ever seen, a remnant of last spring.
I wonder which one of the fair feathered species called this a home.
There are as many types of houses as there are homes.
And just as many types of boarders.
The birds weren’t the only happy campers today.
There were fair daffodils….
crocuses dressed in purple….
and yellow droplets of sunshine,
pretty white flowers that look like little maids in skirts
and wild bunches of periwinkle-ed flowers that had collected quite a fanfare of buzzing bees. Unfortunately the bees were too tiny to be captured on my cell phone camera. So I let them be.
It was a lovely walk. Past rooftops, now visible through the leafless trees, with their winding and secretive driveways that leave one wondering whither they might lead, hide as they do behind the thick foliage of the summer trees. Even now, they leave much to the imagination. It is strangely soothing to imagine all the interconnected lives under those peeking rooftops and behind the walls of the houses that have left their damp and cool corners to step out in the sun and shake off the winter cold.
I wonder how it would be if I lived inside this house or that. Will I be a different person with different tastes and friends. A writer perhaps or an acclaimed chef. I might have a huge garden with fresh vegetables and herbs and I might throw grand parties with pretty lanterns twinkling on the pergola and lush mimosa and hydrangea spilling over the wooden deck and the lusty perfume of hundreds of roses. I will cook with all the fresh produce from my garden and serve it on rustic tables, the meal and the mood a sensory delight.
Within those few moments I live as many different lives, each one nestling in that part of my heart which desires it the most. Pretty musings. Entangled wisps of imagination that are picked up and then left quivering in the sun as I head home where my whole heart, my true heart, lives.
(Our son drew this for us. :))