Turnings.

I noticed today that the final field of wheat has been harvested. All that remains are a few straw bales awaiting removal to the barn, and then the process will be complete. The long strip of land which separates Mill Lane from Church Lane is now an inland sea of golden stubble. It’s actually very attractive, but it won’t remain that way for very long. Soon it will be time for muck spreading and ploughing, and then the land will be brown and smelly and a sure precursor of the cold, dark winter season.

I still wonder why the turning of states so fascinates me – the change from light to dark at twilight, and the change from vibrant to torpid at the start of autumn. I suppose it evokes the sense that nothing lasts beyond its appointed time, and that the puny creatures which exist within the womb of the material mother are ultimately powerless to deny her will.

This is all so obvious, isn’t it, and yet still I find myself wondering why the turning of states so fascinates my mortal perceptions.

*  *  *

I read one of my old stories earlier, and it occurred to me that my stories are about the only thing which gives me any sense of having achieved anything worthwhile. I don’t know why they should, since none of them will change the world or the changing states of anybody in it. Maybe it’s the sense that I created something which wasn’t there before I made the effort. Maybe it allows the view that I made a small contribution to the turning principle. Does that make sense? I’m not sure that it does, and I don’t suppose it matters in the real scheme of things anyway.

*  *  *

I got trolled this morning for a comment I left on a YouTube video. The instinct to strike back is still strong in me and I wish it weren’t. I’d like to think I’m turning into a better person who is happy to simply ignore it. And maybe I will be strong enough to do just that.