The blackberry outside the window is racing skywards. The window’s panes act as markers for its growth, and today it is half way to the top. Breakfast in bed blackberries are on order, and all I need do is wait for the sun and rain and air and soil to serve it up. A butterfly flitters around it, generating a shadow across the room and life is full this morning.
I harken back to winter when all was a sheet of white, when the trees were sleeping, and the contrast couldn’t be more complete. The seasonal circle here is full.
Drifting inwards, I see the cycles within me. I see how each experience seems so complete: when I am down it seems there is no way out; when I am high on life it feels like forever; when I am in love – as now – the fullness bears an apparently unbreakable totality.
Inescapable expressions of the moment. Here now turns out to be all I’ve ever known; all else has only ever been a story.