There is a man who cleans a shop front along my way, bright and open as a child, stooping with care and purpose. He is a changeless moment at the beginning of an unknown day, and I am such a moment for him. He is sure to call after me at weekends and ask for my prediction of the game, I am sure to return a few steps to hear his, though we both know I know nothing of rugby. We know nothing more of the other’s existence, and doubtless never will, but a smile at least is a daily certainty.
A day then lived and known for its gains and failings, there is comfort in seeing that inconsequential things like buds and flies are still considered viable by the Creator. Comforting too that the choisya still sheds an imperial glow to the bounds of its small-pebbled dominion. Perhaps it was waiting for my certain moment of silence; my studying of the careful gradation of its shades that would evade any paintbox; my marvelling anew at the happenstance which brought that particular red to frame it in the window.
They are small things, but to one who has yet to see the whole, small things and constancy are pieces of the infinite and unconditional.
Sumangali MorhallMarch 2005