an interlude

A child sat beside me on my ‘writing seat’ this morning. A beautiful girl-child with thick tendrilly hair and bright sparkling eyes. “Can I sit here?” she asked. “Certainly,” I said, “are you tired?” She said she was, but she didn’t LOOK tired. Her mother arrived, smiling (as if her daughter was always making friends with solitary women), and asked which forest path she wanted to take. “This one,” and she leapt up and danced down the left path, leaving behind a smile on my face.

I went back to studying the near-perfect frangipani in my hand – a rare find in this intermittently rainy weather. The bursts of fierce sunshine burn the delicate flowers quickly. This one had just a tiny tinge of brown on one of its petals. I’m now wearing it in my hair. Throughout the day I’ll forget it’s there and wonder why people are smiling at me.
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I’d like to learn the art of the interlude. Enjoy what is here now for its momentary qualities, expect nothing, hope for nothing, move on with curiosity to the next interlude – like that child this morning.