Wassail, traveler, and welcome to The Gable Grey -- a place of retreat, of renewal, and of resistance: a tree-shaded refuge in Dark Times. Now pass the threshold, and rest from journeys! For a cold wind is blowing; and here, if you wish, you may hear tidings of the world without...

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Figuratively speaking, some days are so dark that it's difficult to see my hand in front of my face.  I'm sailing blind through a foggy night on rough waters.  One thing I do know on those days:  all that is important is to keep moving.  Whether through habit, or defiance, or just some remnant of momentum... keep moving.  Otherwise, one will never get anywhere.  At the very least, the rocks will decide things for you, if such is your fate. 

Best to meet Fate head-on.

Whiles carried o'er the iron road,
We hurry by some fair abode;
The garden bright amidst the hay,
The yellow wain upon the way,
The dining men, the wind that sweeps
Light locks from off the sun-sweet heaps --
The gable grey, the hoary roof,
Here now -- and now so far aloof.
How sorely then we long to stay
And midst its sweetness wear the day,
And 'neath its changing shadows sit,
And feel ourselves a part of it.
Such rest, such stay, I strove to win
With these same leaves that lie herein.

-- William Morris, from
"The Roots of the Mountains"