Idle Thoughts
Little Maverick would always greet me with a stretch and a yawn, bound across and sit to attention with his head in the air, waiting eagerly to be patted and told what a good boy he really is, then with demi-pause he rises and runs to the door. With keen anticipation we make our way across the fields to the rhynes and ditches where my ear catches the sound of a male blackcap and I garner the quality of his song. As I caretake in the moment I immerse myself into the landscape. All the while Maverick rests easy watching the moorhens with their ingratitude of chicks, feeding diligently on a smorgasbord of scattered food. Suddenly from the reeds, Stumpy the rat joins the throng. With his three paws down, he wobbles around feasting himself on the tasty delights.
Maverick is as wise as a beekeeper with such enthusiastic innocence. He asks more of me; he asks better of me. I love being with him on our daily adventures. I love him for what he enables me to forget but also for what he makes me remember. I feel the emotion of a tear, for the most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or touched but are felt with the heart. I love living a simple life within nature, others it seems doing the opposite, chasing money and craving for what they have not. As they go in search of joy and happiness, they are oblivious to all the beauty and contentment on their own doorstep.
Only connect.
At first these few words may puzzle you but the more you think about them the more sense they will eventually make. When we crave for more wealth in our chosen profession, it becomes not the job but the spirit in which the passion for the job is done. It determines whether the work is sacred or secular (undevoted). I truly believe that it’s not what we take up, but what we give up that makes one rich. As I ponder with my thoughts a buzzard mews in his misery and the wildlife quickly disperses, so we head for the woods where the crowded trees throng the meandering stream. The majestic beech trees show their grandeur and inlets of memories come flooding in as I observe a declaration of love from long ago carved into its bark and reflect on how the heart of printing owes its origins taken from such a carving.
The older I become I find my mind dwelling more in nature, in the inexhaustible variety of pleasures I can still enjoy. It stirs my soul, enabling me to write my tapestry of tales. However, I don’t feel as though I am the one creating my stories, it’s like getting out of my own way and allowing the creative to use me as a conduit, but I hope this feeling and my love for writing will never wax cold
