This morning I awoke to find my bedroom window framing the demise of coal size blobs of moss as they plunged to the ground. It was a violent change from the normal tree with field tableau. For a moment I thought these were the world’s first suicidal plants, then I realized it was a black bird violently shifting them from the places on the roof slates where they had nested all winter. It is officially spring, and I guess it is time for these blobs to make a nest for someone else.
I have spent a lot of time looking out this bedroom window over the last week as I’ve been laid recuperating from the after-effects of the steroid treatment, which was in some ways more debilitating (if less scary) than the symptoms. It is, thankfully, a rather nice view at which I could look more or less gaze indefinitely. The twelve window panes, whose frames are badly in need of a paint job, look out over a high stone wall and a large and handsome stone house behind us, a tree towering four stories to the left, and behind, St. George’s field which slopes up into a horizon of green, tree-lined hills. I’ve been to see the neurologist yesterday who seemed as pleased at my progress as he was stoic and scary when he first saw me a week before and broke the news. He’s prescribed one more week of looking out the window, then it’s a cautiously optimistic game of wait and see.
