As I am forced to travel by foot, I notice the ducks are still swimming. They kick around in blissful oblivion despite the grumpy man down the road and the fact that I couldn’t cut the carrots this afternoon.
The world does not end when things change.
The little rock pathway lined with thriving greenery-a stones throw from my front door-is a magical road that takes me to the fountain. A peaceful space that ignores my presence entirely, and glistens and sparkles and dances and prances on its merry little way irrespective of the stories that exist in the air that it breathes.
I want to be that dragonfly. She simply floats on pockets of breeze and lands wherever she feels like it. She moves on and moves on and moves on. My presence is no business of hers yet my extreme fascination with her behaviour in contrast is a gift.