Rainy day




This rainy day has inspired the strangest thoughts...I found myself gazing into the soggy garden, looking at the decaying blossoms and the watered down flowers, the slowly dying daffodils and small weeds and wild herbs, which have taken hold in some of my flower beds. 








There I found beauty within the decay and after that, looking at the abandoned breakfast table, I sense the same. The candles are still burning and the bread has not been packed away, eggs still sitting half eaten in their cups, yet left behind. Maybe it's this, this being abandoned, which makes me look at these things again. 





I think of the just passed conversations and how our words have evaporated into memories already. How some words turn into actions and some into nothingness.




I love the lived-in table, where I read the paper and begin to think of this and that!
It is the beauty of ebb and flow, it's of being born and death, the steady rhythm of on and off, beginnings and endings...laughter and tears. I am not sure I am making sense to you.




These are the moments, when I muse about life and it is a feeling hard to grasp...
I am  thinking of impermanence, the only constant.
We try to reach equilibrium, just to realize a moment later the permanent imbalance of it all.
So we shall enjoy every moment of imbalance, for it is the fabric of our lives.


March is leaving us, he has been kind and gentle and April knocks...


Emily Dickinson wrote:


Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat -
You must have walked -
How out of breath you are!
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!




I got your letter, and the birds';
The maple never knew
That you were coming, - I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But March, forgive me -
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.




Who knocks? That April?
Look the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear a praise
And praise as mere a blame.


What can I add? 
It is still raining out there and, watching, I sit patiently, knowing the future will bring sunshine.
All is in flux...


Wishing you all a delightful Sunday!










All images by V.Zlotkowski

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