I don’t know about you but I’m yet to meet a light flare I haven’t fallen in love with…
Between the intoxicating scent of these staggering giant lilies which have been keeping me company at my desk all week, today’s heady sunshine and a few delightful exchanges with some bloody great humans, I feel practically punch-drunk. Drunk with hope, with a lightness, with a sense of content so often underrated; discarded in favour of outsourced experiences which are exalted until we believe we can’t possibly be happy without them.
Of course we’re wired as humans to connect and to create memories, and Christ almighty I’m physically aching for them – for the very possibility of them – so much. But over the last few years, between the perspective that comes with life experience and the endless DOING and THINKING and PLANNING and CORRECTING that comes with living with type 1 diabetes, I’ve also come to cherish a sense of quiet calm in my heart. It’s a feeling that is far from always there thanks to the impermanence of human existence (and wow there have been some bleak moments for us all of late) but it’s one that I can *only* notice when the noise and the distractions and the notifications have been removed. The idea of sitting in that silence is sometimes scary for sure, and we’ve been forced to confront it far too often in the past year as those experiences we rely on have been stripped away. But it’s right there for me, when I ~do~ step into it and ~do~ manage to catch that delicious precious contentedness for a moment – despite the flat tyre I got on my lunchtime cycle and the Zipcar fine I landed this afternoon – that I feel the luckiest, and the most grateful.
That, or the scent of these lilies has really gone to my head.
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