Dear friend of my heart,
The sweltering mid-summer afternoons here in Dehradun are not half as unbearable in the placid shade of Mahogany trees, sipping on a jar of liberally iced Americano, pouring over a Wodehouse, in the rare company of a chummy cat, called Jojo. I have been writing, you see, and when I must re-write to tidy and mollify the agitated manuscript for my book, that was written through and of my sweltering twenties, I get restless. Twenties, I muse, are the boiling afternoons of life and mine are drawing to an end soon.
I look at the bright late-afternoon summer light riddling through the thicket of those trees at the café, casting sepia shadows on the smooth lemon-yellow wall. It feels like I am living a memory, it carries an almost spiritual karmic tinge, a sensation that we have lived though this before in some other time. I feel drowsy.
Nostalgia of the late afternoon shall progress into the melancholy of the evening when the force of this remembrance is lost and nothing remains to fill that emptiness, just a stretched out feeling of having lost something that I have never had. The spiritual weight becomes an existential weight, and I feel the joy to be slowly overpowered by sadness, a metaphysical sadness. It is not without its pleasures, it is not without its strange exhilaration, of having forgotten something that I never knew, of having lost something I never had.
Musings of a drowsy afternoon, dear friend. Let me drowsily introduce you to the late-spring garden.
I am thinking of writing to you more often now and in a different way. Eager to hear from you,
Yours in wonder and amusement,
Beautiful… I read your letter while sitting at my dining table/writing space with screen & coffee & garden-filled window… I feel that spiritual weight, that existential weight… even as I think each Spring day is more lovely than yesterday’s… A truth for each hand. Thank you for sharing 🙏🏼
Isn’t writing the most wonderful way to speak… Thank you for reading.
Yes…a wonderful way to speak, and a beautiful way of making sense of our world.
Like the hummingbird you have returned with the opening of the flowers while here in Connecticut the Carolina wren is already singing to his mate. You too have beautiful images, song and poetry to share.
Thank you for posting.
song bird (aka Angel in the dust)
I return to find your song awaiting me. Perhaps that is what makes me return. Always a pleasure to hear from you, dear Angel in the dust(aka song bird).