Thursday, 2 January 2014
Drip, drip, drip . . .
If rain was snow, we would surely have it up to our rooftops by now. What a few grey and dismal and wet weeks we have had. Such is Winter in the UK. Wet. Cold. Wet and Cold. Damp. Grey. Damp and grey. As Todd says, our back garden is a quagmire. One darest not venture into it without putting a good pair of solid wellies on their feet first.
Mitzie doesn't like it when it rains a lot. Cockers usually love water . . . she does not. Rain also means she is not allowed into the grassed area of the garden as we keep the gate locked. There is nothing she likes more than a good sniff around the grassed area. The first one as she bounds and gallops at top speed down the length and breadth of it . . . the second as she proceeds at a more leisurely pace, just in case she missed something the first time around no doubt! She is a great sniffer!
Any venture out of doors is nothing but a prolonged sniffing occasion for her, which is why Todd doesn't overly enjoy taking her on walks. She has never learned the procedure of heeling . . . and she walks with her nose to the ground continuously. Life on a walk is just one big long smell-cation to her, and a walk on a rainy day is a short exercise. Todd doesn't like the rain either, but for very different reasons.
And so January is the month of sighs . . . we sigh as we dream of drier and warmer days, dry gardens to romp in, more daylight hours, dogs which walk well with heads up, snowflakes that fall on our nose and eye lashes, raindrops on roses, but not on the grasses . . .
You cannot build a snowman from the rain. It just ain't happening!
One must have a mind of winter
to regard the frost and the boughs
of pine-trees crusted with snow.
And have been cold a long time
to behold junipers shagged with ice
the spruces rough in the distant glitter.
Of the January sun; and not to think
of any misery in the sound of the wind,
in the sound of a few leaves.
Which is the sound of the land
full of the same wind
that is blowing in the same bare place
for the listener, who listens in the snow,
and, nothing himself, beholds
nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
~Wallace Stevens, The Snowman
Snow glides in silently as if on angel's wings . . . the rain announces it's arrival with pitters and pats . . . splashes and splodges . . . drips and drops, and sometimes rushing torrents . . .
Soothing to listen to . . . relaxing and calming. A million tear drops falling from heaven 's dark and dismal skies and bouncing off the pavement like glittering diamonds . . . it gathers in puddles, conventions of dampness beneath boughs left bare and glistening . . . and black with wet.
"For after all . . . the best thing for one to do when it is raining, is . . . to let it rain."
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Not a lot on today. I shall probably clean a little and cook a little and paint a little, and that shall be my day.
A thought to carry with you . . .
The greatest kindness is often shown
in letting things go.
None of us is perfect,
but we can all be perfect friends
and perfect partners
by allowing those that we love
to be imperfect.
~Neale Donald Walsch
Cooking in The English Kitchen today . . . Spicy Sausage Pasta. Delish and simple.
Have a fabulous 2nd day of the New Year!