When I’m very homesick for Scotland, to close my eyes and remember the time I was there, sort of a visual, waking dream. I do have an ache in my heart for Scotland. Many people don’t understand, and I’m not sure I understand myself, but there is a definite connection.
Perhaps it is because I was raised on Andrew Wyeth’s paintings, with each brushstroke, use of color, and style drummed into me since birth, but I adore the moody, cloudy December days.
It’s December. There’s a difference in the morning light in December. The mornings are now wintry pale with pastel pinks and blues. The Chesapeake Bay gleams metallically, looking cold. But it’s beautiful in a pristine way, devoid of boaters and pleasure seekers. Even the bird community has flown away in the December chill.
The Elen book is a love story to Scotland. The landscapes I viewed on my recent visit are now word paintings in the novel.
I am more spiritual than religious, but this time, I listened to friends and prayed to St. Anthony, finder of lost things.
