The drives back from work are not to the dipping of
the sun but the rising of the moon. It catches orange light in its early
stages, as though to acclimatize us to the loss of sunset. This evening, on the
horizon in perfect focus is the silhouette of a cow running uphill. It reminds
me of the nursery rhyme:
'Hey diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed to see such fun
And the dish ran away with the spoon.'
The scene is absurd, therefore fabulous. Thoughts flow
with the passing landscape, these curious snippets of outlines and
de-familiarising shadows.
Ordinary things are beautiful to an attuned eye.
Extraordinary things are easier to view, no less imbued.
That's the why of it, explains my
brain.
Writing is a daily practice, for me: even without
access to pen or keyboard I form sentences, sometimes out loud, sometimes in
mind. I composed one this morning about swallows preening on telephone wires.
Gorgeous words, left to float away over a cornfield, not to be remembered: to
be lived: that is the why of it.
Words explore and map my reality. If I can describe it
to myself, I can know it, build it, love it. It is where the imagination: what
is in me, the vital creative force: intersects with the outer world. It can be
used to reveal the brilliant in a mundane experience. It can be a coping
mechanism. It can be an attitude adjuster, a happiness transmitter. It can
stretch reality to a fuller capacity. The more it is practiced, the more the
inner and outer worlds open up, revealing and increasing wonder.
I do not want my words to instruct you to find the
world as I do: I want everyone to find the beauty their own view. It does not
matter if you are unique or commonly moulded. There is this life: that is what
we can deduce from being alive. Life is barely a blink, why waste time over
conceptual things when there is so much actual beauty? If a deity has made it,
appreciate that work. If it is an accident, appreciate luck. The real point is,
it is beautiful.
That's the why of it.
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