rounded by jasmine, infused by jasmine and laughter and the steeping of sun I took at Kathleen's and then later stretched out along the sidewalk in conversation with my mother, sated by falafal from Mass Ave. in Cambridge, and pleased by the lovely chance to be three again at the gift shop next door, imagining for the selecting of what Rosie might enjoy at tomorrow's fete in her honor.
Three. Walter held out his palm to me this morning to show me himself at three. A dynamo, I "saw" there: so much light, radiant in every direction, and a vivacity sparking and sparkling.
Things come between. We forget our dynamo selves, enticed by this story or that along the way. One friend has a bad shoulder. Another, a failing hip; another is weak in the back. And now, JT with a cancer diagnosis: an offering, an invitation. "Life waved her magic wand for... this? I would have preferred faerie dust, a unicorn: anything but this!"
And meanwhile, the night is full of jasmine and mist, and somewhere out there, stars. And my cat forgives me for her lonesome day, thanks to shrimp and sun and air and rolling over warm pavement, then christening the underbrush while I picked my fist full of violets and trimmed the grass 'round the ones that will remain.
My friend is snoozing now. Later, she will wake into her bad dream... But this is no dream. This is Life, laden and dripping--every moment of it--with the nectar that bees would die for: jasmine, bearded iris, violet; Bordeaux, Stilton, shrimp. Eros and kindreds, healing and seeing, and everything around me breathing I am perfect Love.
And it's so sweet like this, and so hard to imagine poverty or illness, grief or regret--anything but jubilation, celebration for the generosity that is offered unceasingly and unconditionally: the goodness that is our wealth, always, forevermore in this Kingdom at hand.