The simplicity of the natural.

The fact that the nest was empty froze her heart, it seemed like a curse, as if everything was going against common sense. Getting to touch that warmth of home, that refuge, where life had begun and contemplating it with nothing, altered her thoughts.

The earth was not uncomfortable, nor hard as one could think. Leaves fluffed up, did soft rest. Without much discomfort that she was feeling, it was also true that she couldn't stand holding it like that for a long time. In the end, she would have to drop it to regain her verticality.

That afternoon a storm was threatening, dark clouds were playful. They came over her head fast and just as fast they left. That chiaroscuro in the sky was a faithful reflection of her heart. With the worst feelings of holding onto that abandoned house, the left place... she looked at the sky again and what was her surprise when in that enormous and deep space some winged figures were drawn that came and went defying the wind.

Her mind began to spin faster than until that moment when it had been lethargic, and her heart lighted up.

-Would those be the birds of the nest that she was holding in her hand? .-

If it was true, then... why feel unhappy? They flew high, proud of their art and his plumage, in their natural environment. The simplicity of the natural.

Everything made sense, the passage of time put everything in its place. She had already left the nest in the wood where she found it. Hollow that sheltered lives for a time.

She was already in a vertical position and in her natural way, beginning also to defy the wind. Her hair swirled at her temples and the tips of her hair flew between her lips.

She felt at ease and every moment more and more glad. So much so that she even squeaked at the birds to get her attention. She tried to imitate that language that she intuited, but she didn't know, she couldn't manage it. In that little piece of place, a party dance began, the dance of life.

The woman danced and shouted happily. The birds flew greeting her to the wind, fierce and in their element.

- Don't you realize that we were born to be here, up in the sky? So do not suffer, since we reach our happiness. -

Look for your own happiness and she knew very well where to look, she searched in that natural simplicity that always slept next to her, inside her, in every pore of her skin.

When taking a glance at the cold, smooth surface, toward which she pored over with a kind of curiosity and expectation, the result was always the same: she couldn't find her reflection.

The brilliant ability of that smooth surface was to provide us with truth. Evidence that was in front of it, too simple: one could ask about a doubt, a yearning and it answered with the certainty of what was there.

Those days were long and a somehow tedious in the near summer. Temperatures became inflamed and everything languished, entering that circle of slowness... concerning not only actions, but even thoughts. Those sensations where a simple touch could trigger a million vibrations, as those of a friction with a sheet, or a brushing with a shirt when dressing.

Intrigued, from time to time while smoothing her hair or rubbing her head with a strong massage, she would take a sideways glance at that appreciated mirror and see the reflection of the outside, her beloved garden, the branches drying out due to increasing heat, that delicious air, she could even perceive the smell reflected, yes! that aroma has a warm colour that thickened the surrounding air to a very unusual degree of drunkenness. To her astonishment, her reflection was not there, there was no reflection of her body.

This is how days passed one after the other and in the meantime, her mind used to think as fast as fingers move in a tremolo: Why? why can't I see my reflection? She just wanted to recognize what she was like. Each time she found nothing, a fugitive emptiness.

But , in spite of these things, at the end she nearly contracted an intimacy with the surface. One beautiful and sweet morning, that air around her just whispered in the ear… -“you will only glance your reflection if you look at yourself”.-

-“True!, How was it possible?, she asked”- .

The woman that morning combed her hair with more energy, happier than ever, she was ready and willing. There was no need to look at any reflection in a mirror, grasp the hint!.

Keeping now steadily in mind that it was her… her clothes, her arms, her thoughts, those dancing and hard-working fingers, they all were “herself”. Under those agitating circumstances which ensued, she was her illusion of each day, her tasks, and what she truly did.

She felt a creeping of the air, becoming more and more joyful, satisfied to know that she finally understood a part of the meaning that everyone is looking for: “the presence and essence of oneself”.

In feeling her way, she had found many angles, and thus deduced a strange but vital idea: that essence is not offered by anyone's opinion, or image formed by other people. What we are, is not anywhere. Nor is it anyone's formed idea. There is no reflection that shows how we are, by thinking this way, we are giving this issue a fair trial.

Don't believe the reflection you can see, it's fake. People are walking energies filled with incredible power that cannot be locked up anywhere, neither encapsulated or reflected.

Never get the idea or the image of a person, the reflection is worthless, a grotesque one. Give them the benefit of the doubt, get close to them, that is where their spirit truly resides.

We really are hot, walking energy, with a tangle of potentially incredible thoughts in our heads. What is desirable is that this tangle unravels for the good.

For good and love, mixed with forgiveness.

Who wastes time looking for a reflection in a mirror? Or the reflection that society can share with you?.

A doubt gripped her heart, so strong that she did not feel comfortable either on the ground or at the height of the branches, like a frightened or confronted animal. Why is human nature so unfathomable? Human nature does works alone without breath, without rest. An engine that does not stop and is piercing our interior.

That afternoon, the coolness coming from the stream attracted her to that current of fresh water, while she walked along a path almost lost in the vegetation, she was motivated, without realizing that the brambles and other plants scratched the skin of her legs, she did not even feel the pain because she seemed like an animal at the mercy of others, that others might prey on her.

All that consciousness accelerated her heartbeat and upon reaching the long-awaited water, instead of quenching her thirst, she decided to climb the branches, seeking refuge, to remove her fear. There all her pain and anxiety became zero and tranquillity came. Doubt also, at the end of that hidden path, came the uncertainty of not knowing who she was or where she was... at what point of her life she was, even if her place was the ground at the mercy of the voracity of others or her destination was the branches, like an animal that devours.

Those type of thoughts ran through her head one after the other: eat or be eaten.

What was her place? In truth, neither one nor the other... nor would she allow it, nor did she feel the desire to climb the branches above the others on the ground.

What was her place?... The place where water pools when it does not flow, there she achieved the serenity of her ideas and filled her heart with peace.

The Mistral raged and began to move all the branches around her with force, howling through the thicket, in tones almost unknown to her and bending most of the stems, turning her heart upside down, that wind that blew made her finally descend the trunk and look for water to drink, always where it runs... clean running water.

Moisture down her throat, coolness warming her heart and clearing her thoughts. Relaxing the growing anxiety of a nervous system that never lets us rest.

Thus, without a fixed place, she returned to the path, walking a path that she did not really identify as her own. Her eyes were crowded by surprise or open by the alarm of knowing uncertainty exists.

The tree, her refuge, her house... are still there and will continue even longer than her.

The beloved witnesses. Witnesses of her doubt, of the uncertainty of not knowing her place.

Happy Easter!

What transient moments are! only comparable to fragility and short duration of flowers. Beautiful flowers, tight buds that in a very short time trigger their fleeting existence. Each moment and each thing, each place or each animal, each detail reminds us of transience of life. We are everything and suddenly we are nothing. In a very short time, we will only be a memory on paper, a thought that wanders in other minds.

Our words, the clothes that now shelter us will remain for a while after us... but it won't be too long. Everything is too interconnected so they can go unnoticed: the cycles of life. The flower cycle is too short to remind us that we are not eternal. If we don't stop to meditate on them, flowers will show us. Mysteriously, flowers fill the holy fields, they are very close to us by showing our transition to something different indeed.

Strangely, how easily flowers fall from branches! how petals are quickly deposited in hands, teaching us in a veiled way that it should be assumed and normal to follow our course calmly, in an acceptance of one's own life.

How many people do not realize the transience of our days, where the importance lies in a whirlwind of work or self-improvement, personal development as much as possible, lack of remembering the path of existence, a presence so fast and so fragile... circumstances make us live in oblivion of a false perenniality.

While those petals gave her their softness, accelerated her fall for her, embraced her, simply accompanying the course of her existence... she thought what would be next? perhaps a piece of written paper instead of her being? some earrings left in a drawer as being her? a closet full of her new converted old clothes?

An abandoned place of daily cycles, where day and night no longer matter. That would remain hers. She thought if she could communicate with those petals and ask them to tell her how the journey would be like, it was the same passage that she would take, but flowers were even more ephemeral.

At least, at that moment, they didn't feel alone. The inexplicable harmony of life made time run its course, without too much trauma or too much grief.

It was inexplicable so much beauty sprouting from those branches, tight beauty, in clusters worthy of gods. At that moment, in that place... she felt like a traveling companion of the flowers.

The beginning and end of it would be the same. Therefore, for a given moment in life, by a chance of fate, the woman and the flowers could share happiness.

As much as reason tried to erase all that warmth received, felt, caressed and shared... it was impossible. There were floating memories around, those ones of looks, smiles, kisses… all that could imply a certain complicity.

What accomplice had built that beautiful trough, to drink from love? Overflowing with rainwater, clean and fresh water. She wet her arms and legs but that coolness barely managed to quench the intense heat of her life, of her dreams. She felt so alive.

Soon those bare stems would be filled with flowers, mini pink buds, buds about to burst with greenery, the beginnings of leaves. The pink colour of the delicate petals, the white one... she would admire them again, like so many generations before her, a sweet gift, an incredible spectacle. She felt happy because it was her moment: the moment to live the given time. No matter how much she opened her eyes, sharpened her hearing, or expanded her delicate nostrils to intoxicate herself with the perfume, it was still on its way. It would be quite an event and she knew how to wait. The best is made to wait.

The path that led there was known, a friendly path and that arc, walked in the opposite direction, led to distance, to freedom, to the origin of oneself... the fact is that at that moment bodies were crossing the threshold of love and resting in the peace of that lost corner.

There is nothing forgotten in memory and even less in heart.

Reason cannot erase it, nor falsify it. Neither a thousand winters, nor snow or water can extinguish or cool the beautiful and burning memories.

Soon, trees would be filled with leaves, in abundant dreamed springs. She would have liked to stay there for a long time but she wouldn't stay much longer in that hidden garden, oddly enough no bird was singing, there was a silence that was not annoying, however. It was pure peace.

As long as she could think she would crowd those memories into her heart. We can never fight against freedom and the reasoning mind has a very impossible task. There is no reason per se, to erase life. She will always be impregnated with a sentimental touch.

On the edge of the trough, she was all feelings.

Like waves that went up and down, in and out, life got into her heart so burningly, so did the music, the notes... how rabidly, they grinded and came out crazily one after the other with the rubbing of the violin bow. She never imagined herself as being in a competition to the beautiful sparrow, even to all kind of birds, which at that moment listened to her stupefied, barely hidden in his twig, although delighted and with a certain admiration for these unpredictable humans, who have the ability to understand the song of life, the high-pitched and communicative sound of existence. In an enrapture, the bird listened to her and she listened to him... perfect love!.

- “Delicate sparrow, she never pretended to reach your glory! Here she was simply with her allegro, celebrating your company”-.

The earth pampered us, life spoke with a fine rain of sweet and silent petals that fell, giving a majesty to the representation that was offered there. Representation only for a few crazy people, who dared to be left alone in the middle of a wasteland. Just alone.

The ground full of stones seemed like a stimulating carpet underfoot and the coolness that still remained from winter in the nascent spring still reigned. Neither the bird nor the woman paid attention to it, because blood ran through their bodies, sublime music… notes were falling apart one after the other.

In that afternoon, she felt that her melody reached the distant peaks and if it had not been so, her faithful companion, the sparrow, would take her allegro everywhere, to the far mountains, to the slopes, to the peaks, even boulevards and roads. Travelling in his trill.

"I know it won't last forever", "I know it won't last forever", the woman repeated to herself over and over again as she rubbed the bow against the strings, ripping out her thoughts, her music, in perfect tune for her ears and those of her buddy.

And I insist, yes, yes... I want to wake you up, I have put my effort into it. Life falls in petals, in a rebirth, furiously... a life that never stops.

And I know that my happiness and that of the sparrow is not forever.

Beautiful spring. Love you!

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Filling form - Laura Marco Art Photography

Hastily, she was already with tasks, the Sun barely rising over the line of the mountains, that ball of fire that drew rivers of gold in the sky, leaving nothing without any blinding around it. Without rest, at the beginning of the week or at the beginning of the morning, even if it was the beginning of the year, at the beginning of an hour o’clock… she tried to make everything stunning around her.

That eagerness began in the house, the room, where all things could be moved, or simply added with new details. Flowers were her favourites... no matter what kind, when they had grown, she would cut them and put them in the vases mixed with honeysuckle stems or tied with a beautiful bow and although she did everything from her heart, trying to start with the same glow of the astral King, there was something that disturbed her spirit.

Could she really do something enchanting, bring about some lasting change? Could she be as certain and sure as the sunrise so dazzling each morning? Could she create something so necessary and vital?

No, definitely not. That worried her greatly. Many mornings in her homework, she would stop for a moment to watch the huge ball of fire rise. So astounding and so accurate, she made everything around us come to life, possible. He gave us the possibility to grow, to exist, he gave us life and warmth, warmth to the bird's nest and light to the stem that grew in the field.

In the middle of her chores, she would stop to contemplate the sunrise, actually in no more than five minutes the sphere had already risen over the horizon, showing its perfect curve and remaining suspended with the best magic in front of our eyes. She was contemplating it, amused at the thought of finding the threads that secretly held that big sphere in the sky. Surely if people looked closely every day, they would discover the secret of this kind of magic. However, as people, we just dedicate ourselves to decorating our surroundings, we embellish things and temporary places that, compared to the king star, appear to us in a shameful ridiculousness or at least as an uncomfortable restlessness.

The light began to flood the room, the fireplace was golden, orange colours wanted to reign in her little room... she got up early and put her heart into every little thing she did. The red rose touched her heart, it was her heart indeed. The flower was filled with the warmth and the colour of her blood, of the life that ran through her veins. There was dedication and beauty and kindness in her work, but she was uneasy at how little value she could bring to all that effort.

She closed her eyes and she forsaw the same room several decades later, radically transformed or sadly demolished and being empty with time, without things. Fallen walls. She saw that, through those broken walls. Nevertheless, there was something that remained the same, unalterable: it was that orange light from the beloved predictable large sphere, which filtered through the fragmented glasses and now bathed the cracked walls, the empty chimney, the collapsed roof. In that vision she understood how ephemeral her arrangements were, how fragile the changes she made around her were!

Superfluous decorations are of no use because they are not durable over time.

The King Star taught her the value of certainty, stability and the true love towards things. In his right measure, he bathed them with his goodness and let them be, let them flow.

On that morning, at moments like that... she began to walk the valuable path, an interior one, perhaps not very visible to human eyes, but perceived by others through true feelings.

That morning, the idea of changing paintings, of arranging the flowers in the vase, did not make sense to her, that morning she was going to look at the orange light bathing the fields, the hills and there she stayed listening to the thanks giving in the songs of the birds. Thank you for the new day that life was giving away.

Through the window, she kept thinking about how to work those rivers of inner peace, how to see and feel that light inside her. She felt grateful to life.

The beauty began to walk from the outside to the inside.