Drifting through the melancholy gray of winter with little desire to ride or write. The scooter moves through its cold morning stutters to support whatever weak explorations I mount. And then, mostly, my mind is full of promises of home. Home, warm and resting, until some change of mind and thought takes hold and I once again freely move along on the Vespa.
Despite the gray I do ride. The bitter cold has been replaced by the murk that rises from the thawing landscape. My forlorn spirit crying for light. On the road, on foot, or seated with hot tea in solitude — my mind seems to wander through sadness and loss.
I was listening to Enya’s Evacuee when I was struck by the absence of my mother, gone now some 28 years. A recollection of grief one moment, and then she’s close; I can feel her presence. The music always strikes a chord in me; of longing and regret, of missing so many chances to know her. The folly of youth.
She would not approve of my Vespa riding. Certainly not those during snow and darkness.
My physician suggested a therapeutic course of Vitamin D to help address the fatigue I’ve been feeling. If that’s what it is.
On the road, finally, the ride will transport me above the physic clouds, moves me beyond to the familiar flight of thrills I expect when riding. It’s the state that drives me into the cold and gray where I find satisfaction in living and breathing. It’s what the Vespa ignites.
The snow has faded as the temperature increased. Only the unpaved forest roads and farm lanes hold any impediments to riding. With no winter tires I don’t attempt much travel off the beaten path.
There’s fog in the mountains. Another world. Reminds me of the walks in the Alps I made with my mother as a child — high above the valleys, wandering trails above the tree line, cows emerging from the mist as we made our way to an inn or cafe. I wonder what drove my mother to take these hikes. Was she driven into the world as I am? The time for those questions is gone from view.
It’s been awhile since I’ve ridden in fog. I’m always smitten by the mystery of it. And the danger lurking as well as vehicles seem to spring out of nowhere.
My mom would hate my blog and the deeds it chronicles.
I wander and seek the wind in my face. And I find myself a cafes talking with friends, eating, or just sitting alone with pen and paper.
I wrote this post with a new fountain pen. The silver nib glides across the page in an old Moleskine journal, much in the way the Vespa moves along rural roads. Smooth. Effortless.
If only my mind was so smooth. It would make for a different ride. Instead, for now, I’m more focused on promises of home.
The present seems hard to find in the grayness.