I am here upon the grass under the dying afternoon sun. I am here lying, eyes shut and resting. Head heavy, and body tired from a slight sickness; mind lost and fed up with its thesis. With a hat over face I doze and recharge. The sun – so warm but so gentle as it wanes – bathes, folds and sooths me. It penetrates my skin and revives all that is weak. I am happy because of its presence. With bare feet, bare legs, and bare arms I invite it upon me.
I eat some tart of chocolate and think it is one of my favourite things.
I think to my self: right now I know I am where I need to be; right now I know the next half hour will be perfect; I dont want to be anywhere else, I dont want to do anything else; could it be any better? If there were less cars maybe, if there were less people maybe, if the grass was slightly dryer maybe. But now I am being picky, for only one car went past, the grass is dry enough, and the people – thought they don’t bring silence – bring an energy, and besides they are few and they are well behaved. To share this with another perhaps? To have them lying beside me, to roll over and meet them, and, with my arms, be connected and accepted. But actually, I am most happy to be just with myself right now, right here – with the grass, the sun and with a book. Especially this book that had lost my interest but which has rapidly improved, it is called A passage to India.
Lying upon the grass, feeling it with my fingers, I do not desire to sink into the dirt – as I do sometimes. I do not desire to dissolve and be one with the ground – I am satisfied to exist.
As time goes on and the sun further down, the shade of the trees encroaches upon my foot. . . and then my ankle and so I retract them into the warm light. But the sun continues to fall and the shadows to stretch and I creep backwards. When what is considered long enough has come, I am found sitting up and feeling better. I re-shoe, I pack and I walk paths and driveways back to where I was before, to try and do what I was trying to do before.
