Buttercrambe

Yesterday I had a drive out to the coast with my wife.

The sun was shining and the sky was blue and the fields were green, and the very trees begged to be noticed.

The quaint names of the villages as we drove through them provoked a deep awakening of summer glory, none more so than the name of Buttercrambe.

I exalt in the feeling deep in my soul, to recall the feelings of my childhood, when summer held for me a time of freedom,  a time of contentment, a time of happiness.

Those days seem very distant from my soul, and the simple pleasures of being a young boy seemed to be expressed in Buttercrambe, recalled in Buttercrambe and longed for in Buttercrambe.

I struggle to find a balance in my soul for an awakening of what it is like to be me, and the drive through Buttercrambe seemed to push me on, not just to the glory of the coast, but to a space to think, a space to rest, a space to watch and listen to the deep longings of my soul for peace.

At the coast, I gloried in the sunshine on my skin, rubbing in the oils to protect and nurture it from the burning rays which caressed my aging body and the grey hairs on my head.

I want so much to find within me the healing which would come from being able to be happy, like a young boy, like Buttercrambe, like the feeling I get from the sun on my skin.

I live a complicated life, at worst indecisive, at best courageous, loyal and true to those whom I love before all else, and at a great personal cost.

Perhaps, I hear them say, more often than I like to hear, that my reward will be in heaven – well maybe, but oh what I would give to be happy , just like you know… just like still wondering… just like I felt as I left Buttercrambe behind.

William Defoe

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