COME TO; ONE MUST COME TO MY DEAREST READER.

The Good Clime Retrieves The Sunken Heart — One Mild Allusion To Settle The Harmed Mind — Goodness And Wellness — Serial №IV

When The Sun Arises — So Does The Heart; When She Sets, So Do They In Turn, Retreating To An Ill Craft — The Gift Of Fleeting Moments

Come and trample your body like flotsam on the beds of grass!— sink deeper into the comfort of hay and float away thence. The desire for serenity and the agreeable seasonality therein of the land is always on most human minds — from all the most lavish sanities your species has reaped to the lowest yokel on his tariff, a desire remains coherent if one is so willing to hear it.

You hobble and dance between nations and outstretched lands, plain by the humane tongue and wrought nature of their machinations, all seeking for what?—Skipping along like wayfarers of a secret current; such a question cannot be answered so ubiquitously, with reassurance behind it saying it is entirely true; that answer remains upon you, in each movement, that is quickly dawning and thus as quickly, passing on you.

Travel and leisure under a hospitable clime are like the notion of Happiness that most children can understand — it is seeking and only temporary, lasting for mere moments, and thereby be no shame in what is quickly lost. Happiness in this vague sense, is purely on what you seek from it, with each given moment — I believe at least.

A little indulgence under the grave heat of the sun is one of the permissible pleasures to whom all shall move gently while the burdensome craft can await another day — at least for one further moment, but don’t let it be too far now the haystacks will be rotting.

Behaved broad waking, these many unhappy disputes confabulate in the mind, like an unbridled tempest or a persisting illness if left unattended from the caring hands of a good Doctor.

Elation forgives the tension on the inner thread to allow it to remain a good year or season longer. A mild prophecy may be the allusion we tell ourselves to continue with the injuries of a harming day, or for some, as it usually unfolds down to, a fortnight, or month, daresay a year, and if the hell sent remains, a lifetime.

In all the ill-report that the metropolis air does regarding trading cons and illnesses upon your delicate humane lungs is hardly a contemporary occurrence. Ever since the smithing of large amounts of Bronze, Iron, and other metals sponged all-natural air away and the great chances for massive bombards to be constructed to wage a siege, all tightly connected communities suffered under the power of the purse, even for a brief season, things expanding thereout.

The contempt for such industries grew for some, especially the ones not involved yet could feel the suffocating punishment on their lungs, though in no clear narrative line, as one dare hopes to see in the histories — some nations remained less focused on the heavy industry regarding the usage of minted ores and tools, and in the same nation, reverted to heavy industry, or were later than some.

Many couldn’t overcome this seemingly innate drive forth, and suffered with few bouts of angry words being mentioned — though, it would be the fool’s babble to deny the effect such things brought to all of humanity's pockets around this here, opal globe; Call it civilization in the multitude, suffering is the normal stock, at the root level.

There is much conversation about the constraints of the housed life, though, it was never without its goodness in amenities this closeness to one another can provide, even in all its upsets to the humane physical condition. Conceivably the desire for progression as some Philosophers and Historians have penned such an idea has divorced humanity from its yokel-spot on the land; this mild lie, technologically speaking that all steps are ones made to advance...

A pillory action one could say, one fueling another intent while you remain posed upon another; your heart is one place, while your mind is another, a division between what one stands on and what one's hands are speaking in action. Living under brick and terrace is certainly one bout of living.

Accordingly, the conversations and dialogues about all this movement continue, as this is not the space nor the time to penetrate it with any kind of discord or concord. A yearning for toil under the opale sky and for honest affections, fulfilling the day-to-day cycle also carries henceforth, I don’t however the humanities will transform themselves, ever be truly divorced from that; Oh, ideas, you do make a dandy bunch of us all.

In regards to the uncompromising, natural histories in perspective of the timeline of Humanity, you’re all barely out of the hunter-gatherer stage, yet somehow propelled yourself at full pelt into the realms of augmentation under the yield of your hands and minds; bully for you! — only that, the more you are or strive to be, the more you’ve got to lose or be caused injury by.

Perhaps one can then attest some of this discontent to this hastiness, but such a thing is very much Extensional and may have no empirical root in the humane constitution if you’re ever daring to check.

But is the belief for the relief that an open, unmolested clime can provide, utterly true, without any human prejudice reserving in the back lots of thought? — perhaps, it hinges on the individual, as does it truly remain to be for most things, regarding your substance of being, that is your history, the past days that you’ve lived — regrettably so, or aimlessly joyful, or somewhere in the depth of truth between in how you lived them, they affect how one regards a sight.

If a mountain brings back the traumas of War, then it might not be so advisable to seek its accommodating vastness in the naked eye's sight, then it might be wiser to venture down to the shore and witness a shoal of fish, barely flickering under the surface, and the sun setting far enough away to leave the sky bedazzled in colors; but for an injured seaman who has lost a daughter out in that very sea, then the recompense of the trauma of our past days becomes apparent.

So it is upon the knowledge you have of yourself of where to stir oneself in times of trouble and grief, I will upon you — what is your magik hobble?

The Clime I will speak further about, after my wee divulgences of an impressionable history was given, all words and sensations may not be inherently true, it was only given to you as a portrait to set things well;

But what good utterance does such a Doctor as myself provide on such potentially welcomed words? — come along now…

This welfare, for a wife lying awake all night in an armchair, while the lanterns burn the wicks’ usual amorous flavor into the room, is sovereign in the heart of an anxious sleeper — wherever the married half be, on duty or cavorting drunkenly in the streets, it remains a dismal shower, to touch the heart.

The rain comes, and no sight of him or her appears, no knock at the door, or a staggered tumbling with the key to enter, the heart falters on quick snaps of hope, in vain to behold such a simple thing as that;

But there it is a clear night’s sky, open like a jewel that is reflecting in your eye if an omnipotent force could say to you, as you gaze wistfully out over the yonder scene.

But to consider the weather and its capriciousness as any reliable relief on our capacious temperaments seems like a folly worthy to bequeath an ill monarch well unwisely.

Under other conditions, it may leave one bare and despondent to one’s current aliment — as it has been used in songs and poems for decades ranging in their fortieth mark, the weather, like the human disposition, is ever-changing, ever in current, ever unwholly predictable, and let no spot of physiology or unrefined word you may find be uttered as the undeniable truth.

We are such things from which dreams are woven —

There is an analog within the human disposition — being more potent for some — when sullen weather comes around, and storms bridling with ill fury soak the lands in unwell temperament; few cheer when it does come, only after a long drought or for reasons most particular. Unless you possess a pension for striding through the pouring hailstorm as I do — your goodly Doctor!

There is a story about the goodly soul, Abraham Lincoln, and his first major adult depressive upset, which almost culminated in his killing himself, as he would wander into the trees covering nature, with his gun under his arm, openly talking about Suicide. He was taken under the siring of a kind couple of the name Green; Bowling Green, with his wife bearing the name of Lincoln’s long-deceased Mother, Nancy. Improving somewhat, they cast his loathing ship to assail the rocks on his own. Remaining “Quite melancholy for months.”

In the popular images of the narrative seers of History, of whom we broach the name of Historians, have offered this episode a somewhat romantic cause, as it must be for many, and that was a supposed interlude with a girl, Ann Rutledge; Such an image was cast in Young Mr. Lincoln, 1939, Henry Fonda. She died after assumingly courting Abe for an unbeknownst amount of time she was young and as the image used in the film, would visit her grave through rain or blizzard.

With this visual account, one can suppose the attraction, as many more have suffered heartbreak in such areas than the suicidal august Lincoln was experiencing. But there is no physical account of this courtship. Eyewitnesses — which remain dubious at best — tell of fondness between them, only speaking about such things after her death and Lincoln’s spiraling melancholia being an alarming thing from a liked and energetic young man, so at best, it was only inference by individuals in a similar experience trap as I mentioned before; they couldn’t know, so they invented.

I believe he would have grieved her death, but much remains out of the popular scope, that is the wave of illness [Typhoid most likely] that has swept the area asunder, and Lincoln bearing witness to this, tending the afflicted, building coffins, and aiding in the burials. Himself suffering from the epidemic, but in a milder form; thanks to his youth and relative health.

All this could be tapping away at the trauma of his younger days when he was nine years old, his Mother, Nancy died from an illness that went under many characterful names, one being “Milk Sickness,” — such scenes he witnessed here, must’ve waged something awful on his deposition. Abe lost his older Sister only very recently in childbirth, to whom he was close, especially in his younger days.

With the hourly attrition, weaving away at him, a downfall would seem reasonable — yet, one thing shouldn’t be disregarded, and that is the Clime of this given day. Heavy rains came and “unnerved” him, he seemed to bore the things well enough until this point, at least the folks around him seemed to say; his friends hinting at some foreknowledge of his precariousness.

Cold temperatures would afford him his second breakdown, so would it not be so awful for one to infer a similar fragility linked to the weather of tempestuous or unkind natures? Lincoln himself wrote, “Exposure to bad weather to be verry severe on defective nerves.”

But I must bid you an incomplete image, for now; please do ruminate on why are things thus, and why for such thusness. I may have meddled in giving an off-image myself of Lincoln, as the popular narratives and films have done, but alas, I call bail on brevities sake.

Let me leave you on this:

The smallest of tragedies given at the worst time, may break the Ox that has been enduring much for so long.

So sparks the caution:

The Clime may seed the fruit to our salvation, or break the sounding thunder of our Destruction.

Grief will come and go, like the flotsam and jetsam on the ever-revolving current of the Universe, but the Clime will ever be transformative — when the stars are bright, the sun setting just right, and at the time when you need it the most, there will be a sight to catch your breath for a while, to steady that of yours, and for a moment a while longer, you’ll be too.

However rough, vigorous, or beautiful that scene may be, it will be calling for you to settle for just a wee moment;

Heal yourself up for tomorrow's awful bout — when a bruising blow comes; you will never know when, so keep yourself well in the puggers' regard to absorb such aftershocks.

Save the tears for later if they cannot flow now.

Recalling where this entire venture of not only the Goodness & Wellness series, as this was my first, and this being a harking back to that, and as time elapses into the new earthly year, I look back on that, and I wonder where this will lead me to now?

Friends have departed thence, friends remain, and friends are soon to be discovered, even for a mere moment's notice. Though I would only know you all as mere acquaintances, with the mere oft-chance that a few of you will only ever become dearer. ’Tis the way of living — so yes, I will take it.

So there, I head in my mild reflection as I depart you for now — Remain warm for the moments hereafter; perfection by our crux and the betterment in our temperament of all things is the best we can hope to do.

Ever yours; The Doctor [Adams]

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TAKING THE LONG WALK: THE HEALING ART OF SOLITARY WALKING — GOODNESS AND WELLNESS — SERIAL №3:

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©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms