And the weather chills. The warmest day so far this year yesterday, and today a chill wind carries the chance of snow. Weather is such a magical thing. I love that people put so much effort into trying to predict it. I love that people put so much effort into trying to predict anything.
I, for one, know less and less. I am finding it impossible to predict what will happen; and the harder it is to predict, the more wondrous the mystery before me. That, I am loving. When I am unable to predict, that is.
I guess it’s when I have a sense that I know what could happen, when I look at the future and don’t like the story it tells – that is when I suffer. When I am open to it all, there is nothing to hurt me. Only my story of what could be can hurt.
This is a blessing. This is a gift. This is the way. I sit here knowing nothing and it is beautiful. I find that time there when I had so many fears of what could be, and it was torturous. Which would I choose?
I think I prefer this. I think I prefer chill wind and not knowing to Bahamian sunsets and dread.
I discovered this so long ago, and how easy it is to forget. I remember realising that it was all the same – only my story of it changes. I remember realising that the world treats me exactly as I treat it. I remember. Sometimes I remember, and this is what I get.
And other times I predict. I tell stories. I look at the possibilities and analyse and fret. I tell the story of the past and project that into the future and this moment ceases to exist: I live elsewhere, and that is hell. Being here, right now, snow front blowing, it is perfect. Durga the cat cuddled up beside me seems to know this; she is so snuggly, so seemingly content in this moment.
So here I am and that is all. There is nothing more to tell. Mauve walls and low ceiling. That is all, nothing more than the things surrounding me, and even they don’t exist until I see them. Mauve walls, low ceiling, rush of wind outside. And the fire burns, my heart warms and the cat sleeps. That is all.