Fantasist: September 2016

With imminent wisdom accompanying my grey hair line, in all earnest and sincerity, all I wish for with closed eyes and an open heart is 'to love and to be loved'. Somehow, along the way, I slip away from the simplicity of this wishful statement and get unbeknowingly entangled in the complexity of its execution.

The power of a flower is so profound. When you are hurt, it can heal. When you are low, it can lift. When you feel lost, it can show you love. So, when a flower was being hand-picked and hand-delivered to me almost every day, it was love sitting right there on my kitchen bench top looking pretty and promising. That is when the clutter in the mind dispersed slightly and I was surprised at how simple it can actually be to express this feeling.

"Where do you get these lovely flowers, sweet heart?", I asked him, curious. "Oh, from the bushes", he shrugged and said. When he means bushes, he means somebody’s(or our own) bushy front yard on the path he takes to walk to school that is probably strewn with spring flowers. With so much innocence in his soul, he simply picks one for his mummy, every day, not knowing he is picking love and he is showing me how to love.

Being loved makes you want to love. Loving makes you want to live. Wanting to live makes you happy. This is quite viciously unattainable to an immensely satisfactory degree on a daily basis. It feels like writing something on the murky beach sand that the waves relentlessly whisk away into the seas belly.