joy

I close my eyes and a smile lights my face. Light lights my face and warms my skin.

This is bliss.

A blackbird is singing, the air is full of chirp and twitter, I can hear the burn nearby gurgling happily towards the sea that sends a warm salty smell from the bay. After so many cold and bleak winter days this moment feels like the first touch of spring, right at the end of January far up North in Kishorn (Ross & Cromarty). The massive Munros of Torridon loom white and severe over the beauty of the old Kishorn burial ground.

Such a moment of happiness in a place like this: Where the dead are mourned, where life has ended, where loved ones have parted. How can you be happy or feel joy in a place like this?

Should I feel guilty?

No.

How can you not embrace life in a place for the dead and feel the pure joy of being alive: smelling, sensing, feeling.

I roam among memories alive to other people. The first snowdrops greet the first sun of the year.

They know no guilt for ceasing the day. Why should I!