I often think of picking up and moving. Truth is, I am not fond of New York and never have been. I came here with my mother twenty odd years ago under pressure from her family for her to get treatment for an untreatable cancer. Somehow, I've never managed to get out. I stay now because the people I care for are here and won't leave. I am not always so sure that that is a good idea, especially as I sit here on yet another cold, windy, misery of a day, desperately waiting for Spring to show up for real.
I think about where I might go. The far northwest of my childhood calls to me. The misty, quiet, depths of old forest; the mild, sunny summers and even the wet, rainy winters. Perhaps the rugged, tree lined cliffs of Oregon where the Sea Lions and Pelicans play. Maybe even the vast quiet of the high desert. A land of stark, subtle and shy beauty that feels wholly indifferent to human presence. Or perhaps I should go even farther afield.
I have to admit it, Bloglandia is not helping much, tempting me with visions of Spring and dogs already swimming in the streams. I think I would like to walk the hills of Devon and, who knows, maybe the Donkey Sanctuary could find a use for me. Can I bring a small herd and a dog with me?
If they did not suit, the wild hills and shores of Shetland are intriguing. I would love to walk a beach of jewel colored stones to visit the wild, wary seals. I can't sing worth a damn though. Probably better for everyone if I skip that part.
Ah well, I guess what I really need to do is make some phone calls to try to track down some more firewood. I've no more than a week's worth left and the wind is blowing in the latest arctic blast. If I have to deal with a frozen Spring with no heat, I really am going to run away from home.