At the Edge of a Year

We are usually out before sunrise, Himself and Spencer and I, wandering in the park or sometimes by the lake as a November morning fog wraps itself around us in billows and swirls and nebulous clouds. Spencer potters along in his own nosy German Shorthair fashion, seeking interesting smells and wild creatures to point, reflecting happily on his life with us and thinking about fine rambles in the woods in Lanark when the hunting season has gone the way of all good and earthly things in a few weeks' time.

At some time in the wee hours on Sunday, Daylight Saving Time became a thing of the past, and time danced backward an hour or so in the little blue house in the village. This week also marks an anniversary of sorts.  It frames seven years of blogging at Beyond the Fields We Know - seven years of logging on here in the morning, posting bad photos and muttering along for a few paragraphs. An astonishing state of affairs, and the thought boggles the old mind... I still can't quite come to terms with my temerity in setting this e-journal up in the first place, let alone doing the blogging thing faithfully for seven years in a row.

This is a diary of sorts; these are my morning pages or artist's pages, and so they shall remain pretty much as they are. I'm not contemplating significant changes to this little corner of the blogging planet during the coming year, and I expect life will simply go along as it has so far. Apprentices of wonder are we, and we will continue to meander along at our own pace, watching morning fogs enfold the village and bare trees swaying against the sky, oak leaves raining dew like honey in the park, old Helios going down like a great ball of fire over Dalhousie Lake at the edge of the year. Enfolded in the Great Round of time, we and the small adventures of our journeying will continue to make our way here and spill our wanderings out on the computer screen a few hours after sunrise.

Departed Cassie is often with us on our wanderings; we can hear her soft breathing and feel her dancing along beside us, but her happy feet make no sound in the fallen leaves on the trail. We four are a tribe, and we belong together. The words that came to mind as we all pottered along in the fog together a few days ago were those of the incandescently gifted Mary Oliver.

The years to come -- this is a promise --
will grant you ample time

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought
where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter,
or more binding,
than this deep affinity between your eyes and the world.

Mary Oliver, Excerpt from Terns

Thank you for journeying along here with me. You are more precious and wonderful than you can ever know.