The blue suede sky flaunts its array of colours. Indigo fades to wedge wood, then turns slowly to periwinkle. A band of heaven the colour of packed ice floats unselfconsciously between the horizon and the brooding cloud bank that was, until a quarter of an hour ago, the night.
Bands of clouds layer themselves in the light like ephemeral millefeuille. A bright spot of sun, like a probing eye, tries to find a lookout spot through the blinds the clouds stack against his window. “What’s out there? Who’s awake? Let me see?” They playfully deny his request, and the luster fades to ashy dawn. The morning is breakfast for my mind.
Last night, the night was filled with music. The conifer’s leaves played glockenspiel games with the rain’s lingering drops. Broad-leafed tropical plants provided a beat-box bass counterpoint. The wind brought an icy melody from somewhere north of here, and whispered the words of her foreign song: somewhere out there, there’s snow.
Midsummer in the temperate South East of Africa is hardly the place for such tidings. Her hypnotic harmonies, and the rain’s calming rhythm, are my lullaby of mindfulness.
Be here, now.
The inky, velvety dark is a blanket, protecting my mind from the sight of my eyes, forcing me to focus, comforting my brain into calm.
The night is my comforter.
And now it is day. My playfellow is here. I can write, and I am whole.
Dark and light, day and night. Yin and yang. I am whole when I am all of me. The happy and the sad. The good and the bad. The exciting and the dull (though it pains me to say it). The empty and the full.