February and March in Aberystwyth are cold. Not cold like in Astoria, Oregon, with its Pacific winds. Not even cold like in Astoria when the rare wind from Alaska blows through the Victorian homes and yards, freezing everything in it's path. It's cold like being hit with liquid nitrogen. The cold passes through coats, jumpers, scarves, sweaters, and pierces the muscle and bone. It doesn't matter how warmly you dress, it finds you and freezes joints. But Wales is not nearly as wet as the Pacific Northwest, which surprises most Aberystwythians (you should get a prize for being able to pronounce that!) The Welsh take their rainfall very seriously and consider themselves the top of the food chain when it comes to rain. Sorry but your beautiful, albeit cold, winter was mostly dry to this homesick coastal Oregonian.
When one is a working writer, editor, and student producing a new novel, the term isolation takes on new meaning. One must enjoy one's own company and reach out to a larger community to maintain one's sanity and grip on reality. I'll insert an apology to my characters here but the fact is you're just not real no matter how entertaining you may be.
Yesterday, in spite of brilliant work in the current progress of my novel, I was remembering the loss of my brother in a tragic boating accident several years ago; while simultaneously being so homesick, it was visceral and spilled down my face in unstoppable tears. At that dark moment, my phone rang. It was a friend about forty years my junior wanting to know if I wanted to 'hang out.'
|Take a moment, go outside, fill your lungs, and laugh out loud!|