Long-suffering readers have heard me yearn (pine, moon&swoon, lust) for water and life and soil, for green plants and flowers, and for happy little creatures that gambol and frolic across the alpine meadow.
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After years of unfulfilled longing, I am finally getting what I wanted: a secondary rainy season in the desert Southwest. And I am wallowing in it.
Let's put some color on that word 'wallowing.' It means doing more walking through arroyos. Slow walking, not gym workout crap. I sauntered and stopped at every occasion.
Just stand there and visualize the air as an unguent, an analgesic. Allow yourself to heal.
Long ago people might have celebrated rain in a rowdier fashion. Who knows what they did? Flop around naked in the mud, have orgies, perform animal or human sacrifices?
It was justified. They had more at stake than us. I will put off some of the mountain biking until the air is warmer.
Thus I am giving it my best effort at 'wallowing': keen observation followed by letting the imagination run wild.
(Those who liked the music might enjoy searching "bernard herrmann andante cantibile" on You Tube.)
Comments
What kind of a test?
George