It was a very cold wind in the morning. It was any wonder the Equinox regulated so well this year. But you shouldn't have long expectations, given that it is unstable by nature, and perhaps a few days later it would make a sun as hot as at the height of the summer that should be dying by now. like every morning, ever since he acquired this habit, he opened him bedroom windows and felt that constant wind from the east, the wind that never stopped blowing. He took a deep breath, trying to taste the aroma that the morning brought, like a winemaker looking for earthy or spicy tones in a sweet wine. He never forgot the phrase he had heard as an introduction to that wind: "-This is the wind from the sea". When he are in the country-side of a small city in a trip, he knew very well that the wind passed through an immensity of regions before reaching that window, probably not even a particle as diluted as homeopathy from the southern sea air reaches there, but the poetry contained in that sentence, in that idea, it's extremely intense, and every time it opened the windows in the morning, took a deep breath looking for nuances of the sea.
He leaned against the window with his eyes still heavy and half closed and watched the wall of pine trees delimit the view of the horizon, from that specific point of his window he couldn't see the landscape spread out like a carpet of forest and mountains, even being at a particularly high point in the region, this view was only possible from his backyard, right behind the tool magazine. That green barrier of pine trees was to him like a natural wall, and he thought in a way that, as long as those pine trees remained standing, he would be protected from "civilization". In the sniff of the wind, perceived shades of green moss, dense araucaria forest, earth turned over by armadillos, an alkaline aroma of something decomposing in the middle of the dark icy forest of the region. Given his current situation he could give himself the whim of getting out of bed, just looking out the window for as long as he needed, until your brain boots up correctly. As with the habit of contemplating the environment in the morning, mate became a daily morning habit, but this was already interspersed with the first activities of the day. More correct was to say that there was a ritual, a pleasurable ritual.
The first thing to do was to light the fire in the wood stove, the use of gas stoves was almost extinct at the cold time of year. In fact, the wood stove was only not used on very hot days or outside commitments. He opened the box of firewood, took a portion of small chips and dry logs along with a few branches of thatch, started a consistent fire in the stove and then added very dry and gradually larger logs until the fire solidified. That done, he filled the kettle, went to the bathroom to wash his face, brush his teeth and finish the initialization of his internal system. Now lucid and awake he watched his face in the mirror, everything was there, everything was fine, would not shave today. Soon, the water already warm could be used to prepare your Yerba Mate. He had been using the same quality of yerba mate for over three months, this was not very common, not just given the variety of herbs in the region, possibly the richest of the regions in terms of yerba mate, but also why he couldn't find the perfect herb, as if it were going to exist. This one, not as green as the gourmet herbs that had been gaining prominence in the region, had an organic seal, which in fact would become standard longer, why there was a sincere and powerful reprisal against the use of poisons in herb production.
It would be a morning of great service even if that spontaneous morning relaxation represented a kind of respite to untrained eyes, after sipping a few gourds of mate while I opened the house, fed the cats and dogs, stretched out. decides to start the day definitively. He wears his service boot, despite being shabby and very dirty, quite comfortable. It was decided that the uncomfortable was not in keeping with the pleasure of “lida”, a characteristic of the culture that for so long worked with sweat on the forehead in the vast fields that surround the entire region. When thinking about the subject, I couldn't understand if the predominant German and Polish culture had the habit of just not complaining about the difficulties and therefore accepted what they had (as the good fight, the day-to-day work, must be fought after all, with what you have and how you can) or if somehow this was ingrained in the culture with religious remnants, where suffering (from needs, from boots that cause callus, from cold, whatever) is a fundamental part for purgation, for the sin of just existing and with that alone having to be God-fearing. Maybe both, maybe both...
No doubt he respected the greatest amount of traditions of his ancestors, knowing today, with the maturity that only age can give, that after all they were right in most things, but not in everything, and definitely he saw no logical and sensible reasons to feel if uncomfortable with a dry boot that causes blisters on your heel for a difference of twenty reais. He pulled on a shabby flannel over her T-shirt and started the job by doing some sort of routine check of the backyard garden. The garden protected by an old tree fence contained some lettuce, kale, carrot, broccoli, depending on the season. The tomatoes as well as strawberries and a few more plants were in a separate greenhouse. There, in the garden, you can see a weak sun rising through the clouds, no longer strong enough to burn. He smiled at the failure of the heat. Nothing was more pleasurable than this midseason, this coming autumn or the end of winter. Not that I didn't like the winter itself, the intense cold season, which leaves you in a state of hibernation, taking refuge beside the stove, but that mid-season climate was conducive to manual work without a cascade of sweat watering the land, no headaches from the sun, no burns and best of all, no bugs. For a moment he was reminded of years past, when at this time he would be entering her service, hurried and uncomfortable and necessary. In fact, he liked his job a lot, but he liked it mainly because he had learned years ago to enjoy what he was experiencing. The motto was always: “the best is what's happening now”, but not in the optimistic sense, but because what we have is this, this is now, this is how it is. You can complain, but the present is there. The advantage of this way of thinking was that he was very little disappointed in reality, although that did not take away his habit of creating expectations. He took a deep breath and, with a satisfied smile, he prepared to remove the insects that were nesting in the cabbage leaves.
A picture of a old house i took while walking through the country-side of my city
Well, this is a small fragment that I had kept in my writings, I do that a lot and I think using Steemit to publish is a good way of not leaving them unattended. Some are long stories, others short texts, poetry, ideas. I also really enjoy writing book and movie reviews. And I hope to be able to share this material around here. It's my first time in the community and I hope my English is understandable, I use a translator and I clean it by reading carefully, but I'm still not very good at transforming texts written in Portuguese into a fluent writing in English. Thank you for the opportunity and for your reading!