Back from morning meditation, a bit of waffling, then to-day's story: The red flowers' breakfast

Just got back from morning meditation. On the days when I am well enough to go, I feel really, truly, madly, blessed. I know that after an hour or so of concentring deeply on the beautiful truth of human existence, I WILL have a good day. The mood is set to permanent smile, little botherations don't bother, big burdenages become light with the deepening awareness of who I am.

'Nough said about this. To report, little new. Good weather encourages much washing of clothes, followed by rainy weather to foster the ironing of said clothes...but so many for one person alone...

I have a friend - well I have several friends in fact-, but this friend never EVER wields an iron and always looks impeccable.She is a Professor, she gives talks at conferences, she has met the Pope AND Bill Clinton (in no particular order) and so she needs to look very presentable. But I just don't get it. I have tried not to iron my own clothes and... I end up looking crumpled Well, now, there's something to ponder about isn't it? ( Just in case you have asuspiscious mind, I know for sure that she wouldn't cheat and have a quick press in the middle of the night...)

A little story for to-day?

Ok, Let's begin:

It's my beloved Africa again. It's Harare, after all the nastiness and before the madness, in 1987 or so.

I am driving the oldest, most battered, dangerous car ever. It has holes where the floor should be and if you are prepared to risk it while driving, you can watch the road unfolding under you as you go; a rare privilege when you're not on a bike! Once I pondered what "those bits" were dangling from the back wheel, and I was reliably informed that these were the brake pads shoes...There were no brakes on the rear back wheel, but then the old dear went so slowly that you almost didn't need to break, ever, you could just glide her to a halt in most cases. I digress. If you want more stories of my driving adventures in Africa, do ask...I will oblige.

So in the car with me is my 11 year old son, Paul, and we are driving to his maths teacher. Harare is not like a city here: great big swathes of it are just like the bush and I make a point of going through those wild back roads for the joy of looking at the long grasses, the flame lillies, the wild chewing gum trees, may be seeing a snake or two basking on the dirt road etc. For the education and edification of the young one, and for the joy of it all, I am ever on the lookout for those experiences.

This morning, beautiful blue, the balancing rock at Epworth profiling ochre in the backgroung, we, singing at the top of our little voices, pass a new patch of some truly fantastic flowers,several dozen, coral red, each the size of a small pompon. They weren't there yesterday, I'm sure,- but then things are so magical here that flowers can and do appear from one day to the next, you know...So, In a puff of dust from the 3 wheels' braking I am slowly reversing the car, ready to make erudite notes of what type of flower these are for our endlessly improved brain filing/filling. How many sepals, petals, how long the stems, how shaped the leaves?? But when we get there, the mirage has gone. A small distance away, instead, a flock of little red birds is dipping and swirling. Old Banger disturbed the flowers's breakfast.

So back to the reference book satchel: put away The Flowers of Zimbabwe, and get out The birds of Africa. They are, I gather, red cardinals and very fonds of grass seeds too. Boy, can these babies fly!

Love and Peace to all Birds, Flowers and Peoples.