I am sitting in my magical garden. It is my secret place.
The sun has slipped beneath the horizon.
The colours changed from dazzling red and then soft pink to the deep blue hues of night.
The candles in my garden are now aglow, flickering on the very faint, almost indiscernible, breeze.
Everything in the foreground is still. Nothing is stirring. The chatter of conversation from the garden 5 doors down has fallen quiet. The participants having sought the indoors.

I sit, still, in the stillness. The sounds of distant traffic is drawn closer by the quiet of the night. The candles cast their shadows. The pixies and fairies will soon be out. Ready to dance by the candlelight. If you believe in such creatures.
A goose makes his presence known with a single honk, and an earwig has found its way on to my journal. The earwig is relegated to the ground.

I am an observer, unobserved in the cloak of night.
A child is not happy being tucked into bed, too early, for him. A woman coughs. A radio is playing a tune ever so softly a few doors down. Windows stand open letting reflections of life spill out. The heat of the day has permitted this. It is cooling now, soon the sounds will cease as the cool air necessitates the closing of windows.
The traffic drones on unabated. A creature, a cat perhaps, is rustling in my hedge. I shine my flashlight in its direction and silence ensues. My roses are blood red in the light of the night. A door is shut.
All is quiet now.

The damp of the night is falling now. Even as I sit under my parasol, I can feel it descend. The traffic continues, not so intense. The candles on the terrace cast light enough in my garden that my sunlounger is visible, only just. Quite alone out there at the edge of the light. Uninhabited in the dark.
The lights in the windows around me shut off, one by one. A work day ahead for many. It is Sunday.
I sit in the silence in my magical place. I can sit all night if I so choose. No work tomorrow for me, just play.

The air is cooler now and I gather my sweater closer. A blanket might soon be in order, to keep the chill air at bay. It is late. The witching hour approaches.
A faint feeling of contentment is falling over me. The comforting ambience or the wine the source? Here and now, it doesn’t really matter. The feeling is rare and welcome. I wasn’t quite sure but yes, a feeling of quiet contentment is present.
I search the night sky for stars and there are a few. No shooting ones yet sighted. I have a wish ready though should one happen to fly across the night sky.

The witching hour is upon me. A few minutes past actually. I just looked up at the windows in my neighbour’s house and the moon is reflected in the one to the right. There are two moons!! Must be the window cheating my sight. A beautiful full, round moon reflects back at me, with a halo around it and a cloud shrouding the left side, just a bit. Wonderful moon it is. Full and cheeky.
The moonlight has reached my garden. It is moving quickly as it has reached the window on the left. The garden is now divided in two. One side moonlit. One side not. The trees cast shadows at night.
I have seen no witch nor had a visit by the fairies. I’m a little disappointed. I’d have enjoyed their company. No bewitching on order today. And yet….

I am bewitched I daresay, by the beauty in a flower, by the butterfly floating on the wind, by the toad that calls my garden home despite the four footed guard patrolling the perimeter. I am bewitched by the beauty that nature supplies in the very simplest of things and that beauty is magic in my little garden, my secret hideaway.

Am I here?
Now?
I observe the sky, light blue with white clouds scattered across it.
Am I present?
I notice the seagulls soaring with the clouds, defying gravity while gaining height and speed.
Am I in the moment?
I hear the birds calling to each other, the plane racing across the sky, the trucks thundering on their way.
Am I aware, of now?
Life is happening all around me.
Shadows are cast as the sun flickers through the leaves.
Am I here?
Now?
Am I?

I walked.
I walked a different path today.
I walked past children playing at the playground.
I walked past dog walkers and joggers.
I walked farther than I had planned.
I walked down the lane through the fields of hay not yet harvested.
I walked while contemplating, life.
I stumbled upon a curious thing, a pink post-it note. Blank.
I picked it up. It stuck out in the golden hue of the fields.
I walked past blue cornflowers, white daisies, red poppies and purple thistles.
I saw one more bunch of pink post-it notes. I picked it up.
I looked along the lane, lifting my eyes to gaze further along.
There was one more and then one more pink post-its waiting for my hand.
I wrote my thoughts on each note, in my mind.
I composed poetry so exquisite on each pink note I picked up.
I raised my arms in gratitude.
I stopped to catch my breath.
I looked at my handful of pink post-its. Blank notes.
I put them in the pocket of my jacket.
I walked past the last bunch of pink post-it notes lying in the lane. Lost. In thought.
I walked down the lane farther than I had planned.
I walked on.

I came across a little dinosaur on my walk today. He was very shy and almost disappeared on the path. He was such a cute little fellow with a smile on his face and a couple of deep round dimples too. A short round snout made him look like he wore a permanent smile. His look was kind and he had a helpful and open expression. All in all his was a lovely face.

I wanted to ask him all manner of questions. A dinosaur, just think!! What a wonder and one so shy. What was such a creature doing here? On my path? During my walk? Surely this little fellow had gone astray, walked the wrong way? Turned left instead of right and walked a million years  away. Surely he was lost. I wasn’t sure how to address him and he didn’t offer up his name so I searched my brain – Dino came to mind and seemed to fit. His lovely face lit up, so the name, it stuck.

Dino had short little arms and a big tail, with spikes. He was sort of gray, with a bit of brown. His eyes were jet black and very kind. They were framed with lines that indicated he smiled quite often. No amount of cajoling could convince him to utter a single word.

It began to rain as I stood on the path, with Dino. No raincoat or umbrella had I so I suggested to Dino that we head for some cover, the trees at least. Dino remained where he was, on the path on which I walked. Not relishing getting absolutely soaked to the skin, I bid farewell to Dino, my new found friend. I hoped that I would see him again. He dimmed as I walked further towards home, the rain making him difficult to discern.

I looked for my little dinosaur the next day but alas he was gone. Nothing of him remained as the rain had seemingly washed him away. But, wait, looking closely at the path I could just barely make it out. A gentle, caring expression was just visible in the puddle. Dino had left a gift behind.

When I arrived at your doorstep the happiness I normally feel was gone. It had evaporated during the course of the day for warmer climes.

The raindrops matched my tears and my mood matched the colour of the clouds.

Then you appeared.

With a gentle smile and a warm, welcoming hug you each took a bit of my burden.

As the afternoon and evening unfolded, the enormous weight on my shoulders lessened and the lurking tears disappeared.

Your caring and comforting presence made all the difference.

I have a little garden at the back of my house. Nothing grand, a postage stamp really. It is filled with half chewed pieces of thick branches, soccer balls – some flat with holes, chew toys. A hedge that is too high surrounds my patch of grass. A lawn that is patchy with tufts. I wonder quite often about how to change the little spot of grass that I reign over. Put a pathway here, a spot to sit and enjoy tea there. Plant a tree. Remove that shrub. Change things. The thoughts and ideas race through my mind. I become breathless just thinking about it. And why? I stop myself looking through my window to the back and ask what is so pressing back there?

My mind is free to wander and make plans. Right now, right here even as I look critically at the grass that is too long, the trees that need shaping and the hedge that needs trimming, I spy the bees visiting the purple foxgloves. The peonies are flowering in all their glory and the full heads are hanging heavy today. It rained last night. The hedge is full and green. The trimming can wait. The birds are silent now after a busy morning.

I cast my gaze to the grass that just a moment before desperately needed mowing and enjoy the sight of the small white flowers and clover turning their faces toward the light. The mowing can wait. The trees sway in the gentle breeze and I know the branches give a welcome relief from the blazing summer sun. I decide that that task too can wait.

With the urgent items erased from my to-do list, I sit back and enjoy the view. The day lilies that make their appearance for the first time in this garden – bright spots of yellow spreading their perfume in the air. The daisies that can’t quite figure out how to stand straight. They sway drunkenly on the breeze, some taking a breather on the earth before rising again. The regal foxgloves in all of their glory stand like guards in disguise at the border of my little garden. The chocolate flowers are the colour of rich dark chocolate and they mix with the hostas and the ferns. The rhododendrons in the corner are a bit tired now and on their last legs but oh how they have shone brightly this spring. The rosemary and thyme stand at the ready and when I brush against them they give out their wonderful scent. The thistles, tall and prickly, will soon open their miniature purple flowers and the silent corner will buzz with life. The bees love them.

My dreams begin in my little garden. My paradise. My anguish calms. My thoughts meander instead of race. My garden at the back of my house needs no changes today. The work can wait. Today, it is perfect just as it is.

The human spirit is defined in Wikipedia as a component of human philosophy, psychology, art, and knowledge – the spiritual or mental part of humanity. The human spirit includes our intellect, emotions, fears, passions, and creativity.

No matter how many times I am knocked down, I get up. No matter the weight of the knock down punch, I get up. Be it a punch to the stomach where my gut instinct is wounded or a strike to the heart where all my feelings are blasted or even a left to the head destroying my beliefs, I get up.

How is this possible? A heart blasted into a million miniscule pieces recovers and very slowly dares to reach out to love again. A gut wrenching wound recedes, loses its strength to cripple and I trust my intuition once again. The thoughts racing through my mind are the hardest to turn around. I’ve noticed that sometimes no matter how much effort I use, no matter how many clever authors I read for inspiration the thoughts continue in a downward spiral whispering in my ear that those clever writers may know lots but it doesn’t apply to me. All that effort is for naught, the whispering voice tells me as it won’t change anything for this is it. And so I continue my inner struggle. What is it that makes me see a little speck of light in that canvas of darkness, despite all the whispering of that voice so black and so very convincing? I get up. My step becomes just a tad lighter. My outer voice a tiny bit more gay with a lilt even. I get up. My deepest held conviction, my innermost belief in myself, in my spirit, in my worth, in my soul will not be broken. It speaks to me so softly so as not to be trampled but just enough for the subconscious mind to hear and it listens. I get up. My humour and optimisim return albeit cautiously, treading carefully into the whirlwind of thoughts and creates a small storm. A smile appears, almost reaching the eyes and a small giggle springs forth indicating a turn in the right direction.

The wounds are healing and the spirit gathering strength. I get up. The pattern of life continues winding down the well worn path but something is different. The rocks in the path are not so jagged and the steepness is not so relentless. The path seeks the less toiling way and the travelling is easier, almost pleasant. The maelstrom of thoughts are less argumentative and there is peace within.  Days, weeks, months even years may have passed during this period of immense inner conflict.

I am changed. I am stronger. I am wiser. I am at ease in my skin once again. A belief is born that it will not happen again – but it will. The difference next time will be that, from the past I know I have what it takes to make it through. I know. I got up.

I want to be creative.

But I am stumped

I want to write all those many ideas inside my head,

But I meet that dreaded devil resistance

I want to create magic with verse

But I just can’t seem to find that one magical spell to release it from inside my keepsake.

My muse, please help me!

Let me ponder with you a minute in time, an hour or two perhaps would suffice, to delve into the inner sanctum and the wondering that secrets itself there. To let it see the light, stretch its arms and wriggle free of the insecurity that inhibits me. Resistance, you devil, be gone I say. Let my mind wander free.

I’ll just get me another cup of coffee…

Scribblings….

I sat down, ready to start the day and my heart sank. Come on, I cajoled my heart, it won’t be that bad. We know, you and I, how to handle this. Put a smile on your face and it often ends up in place for the day! Come on we can do it!

Not this time said my heavy heart with a down trodden voice. I can’t do this today. I’d rather not anymore.

But what!? But why?!

I don’t want to pacify anymore people. I don’t want to be blamed for ruining this, that and the other. I am, very simply, tired. Tired to the very marrow of my soul.

Tomorrow is another day say I with a question attached.

Of course. My heart takes heart – tomorrow knows no bounds and miracles do happen.