The west wind brings the countryside into my study tonight. And, to me, it brings nostalgia. I remember a Cornish lane, many years ago. I was on holiday with my parents. The sky was grey. It had been raining all night and I smelled the freshness. It was sweet. And alive.
In that deep, drenched lane in Cornwall, a spring gushed from the high hedge, where primroses bloom in Springtime and the pink heliotrope flowers in winter. I remembered this green hollow and its living water this evening, as the wind swept across our town and its trees shed their leaves.
The wind carried a message, as did that Cornish morning. It was … is … an elusive message. I can only call it a message of Heaven – and with that there came a new nostalgia, for a place we do not remember, which tells us through its scent and savour that it is there, and for which we can only hope.
This morning the theme of a religious broadcast was depression. It’s strange, but even a glorious sunny day is no proof for me against that condition when it decides to hit. But, in the rain-rinsed west wind now, I feel no sadness. I shall leave my window wide tonight. To experience this is itself a kind of fulfilment, though it remains incomplete. Such is my mood, now.