"And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inner most secret."
Well, if labor as you say, Mr. Kahlil, is the flute of life, these days gone by have been an orchestra opus to that infinite force, to living and to life.
Living with labor everyday is a force unto itself, infinite or not, but no less a push of growth, like the rooted plant that gets watered everyday, gets sun everyday, and in it's time will bloom. I am the cactus in the desert, the succulent from Sacha, perhaps my most memorable present. Strange, but of all things I can remember, it is that sun succulent and it's tiny porcelain pot that's crystallized in my mind right now, on our old porch in the marina, on it's own single stool in the sun. The green of the tall thick reeds in the background, the sound of the fountain in the koi pond.
When a plant gets more than it needs, it gives back with it's beauty. My baby, she sprouted and bloomed one day and as time passed, reached to the sun in salutation for all to see. She swelled with grateful pride. What a role model. And to think that those were hard days...
Not because I worked too much,
but because I didn't work enough.
Do not forget the focus, fool.
Do not forget the Spanish couple set
right beside you.
What reminded you.
You lived in a city once for a short while
and it always sounded so.
And to you they were less words with meaning,
more music.
More sound of life
with melody and meter
and unfiltered emotion that didn't distract,
but made the foot tap in the mind,
like life as a catchy tune.
I was writing in those days.
I see her just outside the terminal, and she's smiling. There's a chill in the air. Hola, Argentina.
