Hidden in the heart of things

This morning, without deciding upon it formally, Mily and I took it reaaally easy and had a snuggle-in. Outside it seemed rather overcast and gloomy: perfect cuddle weather. She curled onto my lap, covering my first and second chakras with her silken body, while I lay dozing on my back. She later moved to where the sun started trickling onto the corner of the bed while I sat writing about the richness of this simple indulgence and tried drawing her catness in R-mode like I am being taught in Art class at the moment.  

     Then I spent time planning a week of personal treats. Read on, this gets even more ridiculously decadent. In my defence, I have to say that I am under orders to do so. (See Tasks of Chapter 11 of Julia Cameron’s Artist’s way). I struggle with especially this: treating my inner child, the true artist in me, to the things I need to fill my creative well. The reason, always, is a feeling of guilt. Guilt because there's a furrow seemingly permanently ploughed into my mind which holds that my artistic endeavours do not count as work, not the way other people work. A morning spent with seemingly frivolous non-activity is very hard to explain to my harsh inner critic.

      As always, when I allow Julia’s wisdom to grab hold of me, the delicious abandonment to the moment lingers as I get up, get dressed and take my breakfast, papaya and strawberries and a glass of orange juice, outside.  It is not Spring yet officially on this side of the Equator, but Nature has her own calibration of the length of her seasons and the day has turned into a bright, early Spring day.

      In a few weeks the garden has gone from barren to Bee Heaven. How to hold on to this? I go for my camera. "Let's catch us some bliss," I tell Mily who lazily watches from on high where she sits on the boundary wall under the Jasmine Falls, every now and again sniffing the blossoms framing her face.

      My lens picks up the tiniest new leaves, pinhead sized buds on the red lettuce’s new growth, the jasmine’s showers of pink and the mulberry’s frilly pollen laden puffs. What it cannot capture is the heavy fragrance of sun drenched blossoms, the sound of thousands of bees shopping in the newly stocked aisles, the warmth of the sun. 

      I harvest a handful of fresh jasmine blossoms and brew a cup of tea. I sit at my desk ready to tell about the glories of this simple day when a pair of sunbirds arrive for the Spring celebration. I watch them delicately dipping into the sweet froth of the Falls. I raise my cup of jasmine tea to them: "I have something to read you, my dear Harbingers of Abundance and Deliverance (mostly of myself, it seems)." It is by one of our favourite poets, Tagore. I like to imagine that he was sipping jasmine like we are now when he wrote this, he and the Jasmine both being natives of South East Asia: 

On many an idle day I have grieved over
lost time, but it is never lost, O God. You have
taken every moment of my life in Your own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things, You are
nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms,'
and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and
imagined all work had ceased. In the morning
I awoke, and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

Matilda