the horses of port meadow

Port meadow in spring at sunset. Reminds me of how capacious the world is, god is, and of how i can be too.

 

It reminds me that the world is bigger than Philosophy, much bigger, and fortunately so. There is a lot to life than just the books and words. There is what the books are about and words recount. That is what they are in service of. That is what authors and writers are in pursuit after. To capture moments, its colours, sounds, smell, touch, motion. 

 

The colour of the orange sky. Dark shadows on the horizon. Bright blinking stars. 

 

The sound of horses blowing, of them munching away quietly, of birds chirping, of owls hooting, and of our chattering. There is also the sound of a broken, squeaking bike in the distance. That is the sound of trying, trying hard, the sound of pushing, pushing against. The sound of almost giving out but not giving up. The sound of us all. 

 

The smell of fresh grass and soil after a rain storm, the smell of horse manure, grounds me and calls me home, takes my hand and walks me back to a time, a carefree time, and reminds me that that time can be now too. 

 

The touch of this particular bay horse’s fluffy spring coat, dust trapped between the hairs, a musty feel that sticks with you but not in a bad way.  There is also the touch of you. Your hand in mine. The centre of your palm, warm and comforting. The tips of your fingers, cold but not icy. 

 

There’s the motion too. The motion of our strolling. At times in sync and at times not. There’s the stillness of the water. Stillness of the air. Stillness of time. Still but not dead, not suffocating, not stuck. There’s the occasional ripple that reminds one of the fluidity of the waters. There’s the occasional breeze that reminds one of the moving air. There’s is the slowly dimming of the sky that reminds one of the slowly ticking of time. 

 

Dear one, there’s no hurry, so don’t worry.