To be alive

Oh, to be alive, to be sheltered in a world of such intense variety and measure, to be able to see and know the sights around me, and judge and carry their import on my way.  To sit here in early-bursting morning with the light newly bouncing from horizon to horizon, the sky a half-awake mist that will be teased back to reveal its promised colour, to see the yellow of primrose and cowslip surprised by blue as forget-me-not and bluebells and violets and vinka take up their place with grandeur.  The air never sleeps, it carries the scent of so many flowers and the touch of silk on skin as it holds the space that surrounds us.  I pour it all into my body, an inner bath that doesn’t grow cold but seeps into my blood, my toes, my skin.  I carry worlds as I move, and I can bring to this world my treasures and my pains, holding them in a basket of thought as a prayer.

Today I will collect more, I will rub against strangers and friends and traffic and noise and world events and we will inform each other.  Today these brightly coloured memories will form part of my path, each laying themselves down to be trodden into soil as I pass, a fertile store of organic goodness that becomes a bed for seeds to grow, thrusting their thirsty roots into this morning’s sense-feast and sucking up smiles for food that will change the shape of tomorrow.