|—||Welsh proverb (via wellconstructedsentences)|
|—||Welsh proverb (via craigtowens)|
We have no right to the stars,
Nor the homesick moon,
Nor the clouds edged with gold
In the centre of the long blueness.
We have no right to anything
But the old and withered earth
That is all in chaos
At the centre of God’s glory.
|—||"The Black Spot" by Hedd Wyn, a Welsh poet who died fighting for Britain in 1917 (via thefireandtherose)|
The Welsh word for an affectionate hug. There is no literal English translation, but its nearest equivalent is “safe place”. So if you give someone a cwtch, you’re giving them a “safe place”.
I went for a drive. That drive took me home. A subconscious auto pilot to the place I often seek comfort in and desperately try to escape from.
I never made it home. Driving along the freeway, I noticed the seasons changing. Ones that matched the temperature of my own mind. San Francisco. Beautiful out, but a wind that stings in the shade. Turn the key, rev the engine and now I’m in Daly City. Grey skis, and wet, humid clouds obscure my vision…mist smearing my wind shields from clarity. The clouds stay grey, that is, until I reach Half Moon Bay. Just a little further. The sun at this point is trying to burst it’s way through the weakest clouds.
Palo Alto next three exits. You have arrived. Well almost. I turn to the right, the scenery of clouds is captivating me more than the road ahead. Pull over, Alex. Pull over, and just observe. No, not yet mind, I’m almost home.
And then it hit me.
I like this fog. This fog is like watching how I’ve felt the last few weeks. The tallest and greenest forests and hillsides of Portola Valley are engulfed in a sea of grey. Slowly, yet surely, I watch the fog roll forward uncovering the tallest tops of the trees I use to drive through at 19 to clear my mind then.
I think I had been so afraid of this fog engulfing me and never subsiding; a fog that would suck my color dry, but just like these trees know, it all rolls away, and the trees look even taller than before. Maybe it will be back in the morning. Maybe it will be back next week, a month or a year. Maybe it will spare me grief for now but I know it will be back again.
But that’s the beauty of it all I hear my mind whisper out loud. Nothing beautiful has ever been appreciated without the fog. And when it subsided, we are left reminded of everything we have to be grateful for.
I am taller. This is a beautiful change.
Stay close to anything that makes you glad you are alive.