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  • As I walked down the street and past the house that always makes me look twice. The house with the two shiny life size statues of horses covered in a myriad of little mirrors, the house with interesting bits and pieces of wood and banners, the house that said: ‘Love is the bondage willingly accepted by the free’. I had to stop.
    There were two elderly gentlemen working with their hands, building, carving and laying mosaic panels on a little, wooden, ramshackle room covered by a dome. Something about this scene just spoke to me. There was a makeshift mantle piece with Arabic calligraphy; it had a Moroccan flavour to it. I greeted the artist and he told me they were building this room as a work of art. He and his wife and child had to vacate the house, that it was being sold. No more shiny horses, no more random confusion of creativity filling the little front yard and no more rooms being built just for the sake of building something beautiful using hands, eyes, feet and heart. I felt a sadness descending, like that yearning for absent loved ones. A heavy lightness filled the air. It would only last a weekend then it had to come down, all that work was being dismantled overnight and he was telling me this as it was being built. I wanted to cry, it was so beautiful, so alive, so ephemeral and fleeting just like this life that we are living. They had understood what it takes to make something beautiful just for the sake of Beauty. To build, to serve , to work. Not for the sake of financial monetary rewards but for a more permanent satisfaction. It was a sort of spiritual exercise. Quiet, contemplative activity. Fleeting and yet permanent, like a mother’s hug, a lover’s kiss, the sound of the ocean. Once tasted never forgotten, remaining like a morphogenetic field in the memory of consciousness.
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