Winter greys

Tiring are the short days with insufficient light, with weeks of cold, and often dangerous roads... The clouds hang over the houses, wisps of moist droplets fade out the horizon. I love to watch the clouds, seeing creatures from mythology, recognizing faces, following the changing drift. The winter seagulls and even a heron flying sometimes high and sometimes low. In summer it is the screeching of swallows and house martins. I always liked to meditate that way or to loose myself in the windy stream of imagination and life. Yet so much goes on, that pulls one back into the greyness of now. The short lived pinks and reds at sunrise fill my soul. So I give thanks and know that we are all related. We are concerned when more than 60.000 people have died already in Syria, where children freeze in the makeshift camps. We are concerned when a homeless man dies near Brussels central station. We are concerned when the media shorten our perspective, only concerned with the provocations of power-hungry politicians. The clouds thicken, thus loosing the view of another steeple... Maybe it is just a winter morning's blues that makes me feel this way. Or is it thinking about the funeral of a friend's mother, thinking of my own mother, smiling when I fuss over her. She who spoke four language, hardly uttering a few coherent words who is still among us but not quite. She would now be a perfect confidante, since three seconds later all is past and wiped out... Yet I never dared to test this theory since she seems to understand in the moment what one says. So she might feel sorrow. Thus I fuss over her, joke, act foolish, am the clown and she laughs and smiles in the moment.