Jonquils
Spring
Spring reminds us that death stalks all things. That even in a time of life, when the air swarms with windsong and perfumes, flowers turn brittle. Petals become translucent and papery, like the skin of the elderly. That a bird may make that final journey landing somewhere unseen. Insects find themselves attached to puddles, their desperate thrum rippling across the surface in ever decreasing arcs. Time becomes smaller and minutes reach out to full lifetimes as the smallest creatures struggle against a world for whom their time is only an iota, the merest mote upon a strong wind that carries everything along with it, silently bearing everything to an ending.
Bower blue
I’m on the train looking out the window. There is a huge reach of oyster-grey clouds across the sky. The sun is still edging its way from the horizon and I can’t see it for the houses. But it’s catching the clouds at leery angles and the whole morning is a painting of pink and orange brush strokes, yellow ink wash and wiped charcoal. I’m in the grubby outskirts of Melbourne and this is somehow, impossibly, beautiful.
What makes you itch?
…it’s absolutely stupid to spend your time doing things you don’t like in order to go on doing things you don’t like and to teach your children to follow in the same track. See, what we’re doing is we’re bringing up children, and educating them to live the same sort of lives we’re living in order that they may justify themselves and find satisfaction in life by bringing up their children to bring up their children to do the same thing. It’s all retch and no vomit. It never gets there!
And so therefore it’s so important to consider this question: “What do I desire?”
— Alan Watts