At the end, all we have is memories. We don’t re-create them. We make new ones. And, sometimes, from the old. Like left-over food, the creation can be memorable. I’m settled in my chair, about to enjoy a feast.
The snowdrops in my garden first appear in August. The anniversary of my father’s passing. Far from saddening me, the flower, like memories of him, delights the heart.
Today is the birth anniversary of my father. He and my mother shared a birthday in the month of June. Their birthdays made our home into a house of celebration. It was an open house where people came uninvited, dropping in for a meal and drink. My parents, the ever gracious hosts, would treat each person with unconditional warmth.
My parents were business people. They managed their world of finances and friendships, with uncompromising integrity. I feel blessed to have been raised in their world.
My father was my David Attenborough. He showed me the wonders of the world in words and books. Through his eyes I see softness in ranges and know Nature’s hand can shape and smooth the most difficult terrain.
Jostled in the air, I have learnt to focus on the sun ray bursting through a storm.
I know no fear travelling in desolate outback. I’ve come to learn, there is beauty in the barren. There is peace in void.
My steps are measured and mindful because I know there’s more to experience in the journey between A to Z.
Did my father teach me to think differently at his knee? I’m not sure but the training certainly came early, much like our beloved pooch who at 12 months will get a toy and pose, Instagram ready!
Until next time
a dawn bird