I am in a strange kind of sad place after my drive home from the early monday meeting at Panerras. The road between here and there is designated scenic byway and I never fail to revel in the twists and hills and meadows of straight backed black cows with puffs of hair under their bellies.
More I love the old old trees, all gnarled and bent, with leaves coming off only half the branches. They are the old folk of the hills - stately and beautiful with their twisted forms and lofty reach.
But the traffic is heavy, sometimes. And progress will not be stopped. So today the best of my old Ent friends are laying on their sides like huge charcoal briquets, having burned most of the night. The sight was reminiscent of a scene of the underearth in Lord of the Rings ... one huge burning briquet after another, surrounded by torn up roots, rocks and earth piled recklessly where streams and pond puddles used to lay in repose.
If felt like an omen. It felt like a sign of what is happening in places like Darfur (just read the front page of the New York Times today), like how we burn our own history so we can get our lives from point A to point B as fast as possible.
Today I am going to find someone old - so old they are almost disolved by life, and I am going to do something to make them feel precious.