Don't arrange the flowers in some grandiose display. They are a pile of death. One or two will do, a reminder of the beauty that we see for but a moment. What is lovely cannot be seen with outside eyes and it is past time (always past time) to correct. I hear Baba Tony laughing his morning greeting to me, “Mama Leksi, you have left your laundry to sleep with the moon again.” A certain laziness, sure. But also a hypnotic billowing and sway of a thinning veil, filtering the sun's rise on top of the world. Yet such delight comes with a price. A storm or uncouth Colobus or perching swallow or candied fingers could undo all the work – a delay of back breaking proportions. Best take it down. Sooner rather than later.
In the past, when nearing a spiritual chord of understanding, dissonance intensifies. Though the winter-scape keeps adding blankets of sleep, a restless banging of tin cans and broken wind chimes hinders the recognition of melody.
I am a slow and cautious traveler. And I am also the path. Yet I grow fat with inertia. “Mama Leksi, you are eating too well. Perhaps, reduce.”
Okay, world of my own world: I relent.
Now let there be peace . . .