8.26.09

Journal Excerpt (7.22.09):

Maybe it was just the spirit in which I arrived there (Abbotsford), but I distinctly felt as if in a sort of home. I remember vividly a moment at Abbotsford when, while in the garden, I looked north into the landscape; or, as it seemed, into the whole of Scotland itself. There was a heavy mist in the garden and the mountains surrounding, giving the setting such a majesty and beautiful mystery as I have never seen; as if those same mountains held a subtle secret endowed by the endless magnificence, however tenderly expressed, of only time. A sort of divine secret, not so kept in spite, but with a gentle encouragement and love; kept, not from all, in the promise of potential and peace and the knowledge that again, through the surreal rolling-on of time, that same inspiration will be gloriously shared and unfolded.

There I stood, transfixed in the garden; the house and especially the Scottish flag fixed atop perfectly framed by the mist and mountains behind. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

Abbotsford itself, as a house, was inspiring as well: the greatness of Sir Walter Scott leaving its tendencies and reverence in it. The man himself looked very noble, but I was perhaps more inspired by the effects of his imagination and the perceptions of him. But perhaps not; I also felt a certain kinship towards him and his style of work even despite outward on public musings.