The author can be found rummaging through life looking for nourishment in the early hours of the morning. He is slowly going sane by using his actual life and relationships to wake up.He lives in Cape Town with his teenaged daughter, two bassett hounds named Thelma and Louise and Digit... the cat. He hugs trees, has experienced numerous dark nights of the soul, collects incorrect Chinese packaging and tracks curious things to their lair.
The Tree Of Life.
News, Psychology, Psychotherapy January 12, 2014 - 5:10 pm No Comment
Sunday afternoons are sacred to me,
I like spending them on my own.
Today, without any week weary artifice, I watched the world as if it were new, made of gossamer threads that glisten and churn magically in the light.
I marveled at the sheer variety of feeling that moved through me, such diversity and texture, each with its own tone and hue, delicate and magnificent.
I sat on a park bench under a generous Oak as the clouds played above in the wind, ever changing as sunlight dappled thoughts came and went, some lingered, others overstayed their welcome, but eventually they too passed,
as everything does.
I slipped the shoes from my feet and felt the soft grass beneath my toes, I closed my eyes and listened to the cacophany of sound flooding the small refuge within this beautiful city.
I stretched my forgotten limbs and climbed the inviting tree whispering to her as I went, higher and higher,
until I could feel a familiar softening of my heart, on I went until I found a thin perch and here I clung to her sunwarmed limbs.
She promised to keep me safe,
hidden here between her boughs.
Together we watched life beneath her branches, unobserved like small open children,
wearing her leaves,
blood sap mingling, full of delight.
A moment,
a fragment of Edenic merging before fear and have to’s awoke
almost apologetically.
