There is a quiet beauty in a gentle mist poised delicately in the twilight; a curtain of glimmering beads through which glows the final retiring beams of day.
I stood at the bottom of our garden last night, taking in this pretty scene. The silence was so striking. The birds had since quieted their chatter, retiring to their cosy nooks to bury their beaks beneath their feathery wings. All rumbling cars had been hidden behind garage doors, or settled under a dripping tree for the night. There were no dogs sending forlorn messages over the tumbling countryside to one another. Peace reigned throughout the hills.
As I wandered through this beautiful ruggedness that was my home, I felt a sense of freedom pulling at my soul, to be let free. So I followed the call, as I continued to walk along the road, the darkness falling all around me, the mist silently settling upon my thick, woollen cardigan which I clutched around me. The dogs scurried past my feet, excited for this novel night adventure.
The crisp air was exhilirating in my lungs and I breathed deeply this new flavour of oxygen - the night seemed to tinge it with a sweet sharpness which ran through my veins with a cold rush. My whole body, touched by the bitter cold, seemed to extend a connection to nature that was absent when the warm sunshine heated my skin.
I could vaguely perceive the murky puddles that passed around my croc-clad feet . . . little did I care about fashion-sense in that moment. Indeed, it was a moment of impulsion, a crazy calling from something beyond the cold night, and I responded to it. I had departed from my cosy nook in front of the toasty fire, still dressed in my Sunday best, and thrown on the nearest footware I could grab hold of: Mum's old, grimy pair of gardening crocs.
So there I was, trudging down the muddy dirt lane. Across the valley glowed warm, golden windows, ablaze and intensely inviting. But I stood there, soaking in the pure night concoction: the breeze which chilled my bones, the mist which dangled before my eyes and settled upon my hair, and the melancholy drips from trees above. I held my arms out, threw back my head, spun around, and simply loved it.
Further down the lane, where mud met concrete at the complex intersection of my country town, the single streetlamp cast an almost eerie, yet magical, icy light across the shining street, illuminating my path. I walked towards it, my eyes fixed firmly upon its steady, unwavering light, until I stood beneath it, my head craned back, my eyes crinkled before the brilliant glow.
Praying a silent prayer, I lowered my eyes to meet my watch; 5:35. My precious numerical palendrome gift. Everything was fine, He said.
Focusing forward, eyes adjusting to the darkness before me, I saw a long, black road that twisted around a corner, and down into the valley. Not ominous, as it should have been - as it would have been before He captured me again. He was there, and I wasn't afriad. So I danced forward, the dark's cloak offering me a freedom of secrecy and invisibility to express hidden emotions and a new character that could not be shown in light of day . . . at least not yet. But there I didn't care. Because He didn't. So on I skipped, a smile on my frozen lips, my hands outstretched.
Reaching a curve in the long and winding road, I paused for a moment. Before me a warm stretch of light was cast across the road from a house perched above me on a dark hill. Creeping slowly forwards, I approached this mesmirizing, golden streak. However, it was always one step ahead of me; no matter how far I progressed, it was constantly out of my reach.
So I stood there, bathed in the cool darkness that shrouded me, contemplating how very often those things in life that we most desire are always just beyond our grasp. Yet, we can learn to accept this truth, and appreciate where we are. As I did then. Soaking in the silvery moonlight that can only be seen in the darkness. It was beautiful. Dark and pure and sparklingly cold.
And then I went home.
So there ended my night adventure, but I took something away from it which I will undoubtedly remember. I hope that you will be left with something after reading this, as well. After all, it's what writing is all about: conveying a message to the world. I hope I have achieved something of this wish through my art.
Violet Quercus
xoxo
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