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  • All night I dreamed of zombies.

    They clamoured at the door. They wanted my blood. I spent the night running & hiding.

    This week I am on holiday. I am seeing no clients, writing no novels, running no courses. I am recuperating and rejuvenating and refurbishing my tired soul.

    I hadn't planned on dreaming of zombies. I hadn't planned on the tyre bursting on Monday, waiting three hours for the recovery van, or spending Tuesday morning getting it changed. I hadn't planned on my tooth starting to throb. I hadn't planned on the emotional storms of yesterday, or the heavy rain this morning.

    This morning I woke early and walked around the garden, before the heavy sky started shedding its water. I looked for signs of cyclamen bulbs periscoping their alien buds above the earth. Slugs feasted on a fallen apple. I watched the silhouettes of two wrens as they flicked their tiny bodies from eucalyptus branch to branch. The train roared past. Everything was green & moist & growing.

    I came inside, lit the candle on the shrine and read Bits of Rubble Turn into Gold. I listened to the soft steady sound of the rain. The rain put a cool hand on my forehead and reminded me of the ground underneath me. Reminded me of the light, illuminating the gold of Buddha's plump cheek, sparkling the gold on a thank you card from a friend, shining on me.

    It's still ordinary life, when you're on holiday. It's still brimming with dukkha. Impermanence and decay and slugs and rotten teeth and deep wells of painful emotion and burst tyres.

    Ordinary life. With the cheerfulness of wren's tails. Dentists with late-notice appointments. Clumps of monbretia splashing orange against dark green as if alight. Pink wheelbarrows waiting to be of service. Crisp apples. Text messages from friends, finished with the crosses we make that mean love.

    Try to praise the mutilated world.


    Cyclamen by sierrian with thanks.
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