A friend of mine in England wrote to ask how I was feeing about returning to Virginia and the cool weather at the end of the month. I have to admit I could not picture the weather or conjure what it feels like except for a vague sense of dread about being cold. I don’t handle cold that well. I admire those of you in Montana and Idaho for your hardiness. If I had my druthers, I’d be a fair-weather rider, staying home in front of the fire on cold and damp days, waiting until spring to hop on and tour the countryside.
Spoiled, you bet!
Coincidentally, Nancy, who leases Maria in my absence, sent me this photo this morning. This is what it looks and feels like at home today.
My own minuscule fears and desires are revealed in their insignificance when placed in the context of those billion-year-old mountains. Nestled in their comforting embrace at Burnt Mountain Farm, I feel enveloped by an ageless, timeless knowing and acceptance. Who am I to complain?
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