To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring – it was peace. – Milan Kundera
I’m sitting on the veranda of the old mountain cottage, looking at the verdant valley when, through the deep caves of thought, I hear a voice that sings. It begs me to lose myself in the greenish-grey spruces and deciduous trees, to drift with the soughing wind while the sunlight burns away old memories and enkindles a bliss that’s oblivious to the darker workings of pride and treachery, of daggers in the night, and rage murmuring in the blood. Perhaps this is the second Eden—a seraphic paradise where instead of cherubim alighting on whalebone coloured boughs, giving human beings their salvific panacea, we’re one with the susurrating breath of nature, the soft, sighing voice of the greens, reds, browns and oranges while a gentle drizzle augments the sense of oneness, and the wild reclaims what’s lost, obnubilating the dereliction with its viridescent waves.
Photo by Massimiliano Morosinotto on Unsplash
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