Sometimes I have a germ of an idea that rolls along and becomes something I can write about; writing puts flesh on the bones of the thought and often doesn't appear until the pen meets the paper. Most of my musings escape before I can rope then, lost in the mystical ether (just thought I would call it that, sounds better than fog). I seem to have a small cache/ memory, a train of events begin and before I am 3-4 carriages down, I have forgotten how I started (brother Cyril, we have more in common than I thought). So I have this little notebook of jottings and ideas; mostly for the book, which is going very slowly.
Sunday early morning and I was watching two blackbirds chasing each other over rooftops and fences. Their world exists of lampposts and aerials, chimneys and treetops; gravity for them is not an issue, they have no need of it. A bird of the air is in its element, I on the other hand am grounded on terra firma and gaze in wonder at effortless flight. Where is my element, in what do I shine? For mankind our element should be our capacity to love, but it seems the enemy is keeping this secret hidden..
Note to morning office: learning to fly requires stepping off some high point.