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THE SENSES OF THE SEASONS ~

Seasons come and seasons go. None is first and none is last, for they come and go in their mild and in their harsh, as a loose fitting circle, which is reflective of the daily striving continuous spiral spin that rotates round and round. The timeless survey of natural logic doesn’t give it stature, even if it identifies a form for it, because no single one day could start a season or indeed end one, no matter how melodramatic it is.

On different occasions, with one glorious dawn or a hideous evening; with a frighteningly mean spectacle, one season melt into a void that cocoons into a state of anticipation and sense. One season will caterpillar about in an endless walk of leggy lethargic days, then it timely folds up in the secrecy of a covert day and suddenly it flies out in one beautiful open splendor, with its refreshing breath of colour and life. In between them is a mingled confusion of silent insolent void that is none of both.

How elegant she looked in her loose fitting grand wedding gown. The calmness she represents made the setting mild, totally misrepresenting the harsh life-long build-up to their marriage. It is so much like all the seasons in their mild and in their harsh personalities, together. Her loose fitting elegant cloth was a miscreant, she looked graceful in it. How easily she could stumble and fall because of its flowing beauty. Most ironic!

If to compare the seasons with the butterfly’s all too famous serendipitous life stages is clever, then certainly to liken it to her life’s memorial moments is most appropriate. From such a long past comparatively young age, she had been the type to identify her blessings as they come and not scale them with measurements and glut at how better off she is or not or such.

If she would have bothered, like most others around her did too sickeningly often, she would have seen her scale floored on the plate of blessings gone. But then, not perched on the safeness of height to prey on time with such an impossible patience so endlessly real to be innocent, she detached herself from all the remarks and simply lived on. She didn’t copy those who only humbled themselves because they were powerless.

With the increase in her age, she had proven that what matters most is the destination of the frail soul, surely and certainly burning itself out. The stakes were always too high to falter. Yes, she had ‘stuttered’ throughout on the way, but was never astray. If she cannot, by herself, justly and fairly satisfy man, then she most certainly cannot satisfy God, who is poised everywhere as time and patience; all in one sameness and form.

She was endlessly embracing humanity in a loving embrace like any mother would do while saving her drowning only child. Struggling along, she had identified God’s invincible arms from the deceptively entangling long ropy sea weeds’ leaves of the wrongly labeled evil and their manly harbingers, the Waters;

Look at the waters, compare and see
How like man it turns out to be.
With substances or matters joint,
It changes form and focus point.

Piffling people see evil before it reveals,
And all good only after it has surfaced.
From unlikely substances pain heals
And old valuable matter, are defaced.

No action without its consequence,
Then this love is basically insanity.
Take a dip and the source is essence;
Faith’s indulgence keeps humanity.

She has six children; three boys and three girls. All from the same marriage she gave her all. The marriage became the predicament it wasn’t meant to be. It demanded and got her best. At the end it was all worth it because she entrusted what little faith she had on the limitless hope she covered herself in.

Her late husband was a good man, if there ever was one. It had nothing to do with him but with what he had to done. He ran away into the lifeless embrace of another entity, when it was obvious that he was financially ruined and socially discredited. Widowed young, with six children after ten years of marriage, she struggled on. That cold season was harsh as hard winter. Her senses repelled its tough monster. She pegged faith, hope and future in God, her children and the roving power of change;

Only those friends
Because they know you
Would dare tickle you.

Though friendship ends
As time will all change;
For time is itself change.

This very air that fends
Will one sure solemn day
End each and every single day.

With God she won yesterday and was poised for a successful today. Change made sure her case wasn’t unique. Her children’s actions and in-actions claimed they weren’t indebted to her or the memory of their father. If she knew their minds as infants she conceived, if only they knew where they were then or will be, eventually? She couldn’t tell if they wanted to be living and wanting and wishing and needing. She only knew what she and her husband wanted as they ‘conceived’ to have them.

Like every parent, they said their want, planned it in a broad sense, if not in every detail. They did their wish, satisfying their need by consuming their wants in the birth of child after child, six times over. They unconsciously kept making one relationship after another like small steps on a staircase of a lifelong ascension that will certainly end with one fatal drop.

Unconsciously still they had stepped on their individual off springs to get to yet another next level. They fed an old idea and refused to nourish a healthier new one instead. They fear that when too many new ideas are being mooted out to replace old ones still in use, they are being changed merely for being old and not for being obsolete and utterly harmful and unhelpful.

As the children grew, each child revealed their person. Their wants; all their wishes as well as their needs, were all made clear with time and its slowly piling age. These same things that the couple didn’t know about each of their six offspring, before the children became their true selves, were clearly revealed. No one could tell their hopeful aspiration before they took form in them and were stated in their words and deeds. They are lost now as then and ever, as is the vagueness of their knowledge.

The knowledge of where they were or had been are lost, lost as their hopes then, as well as those they still have at present; those their parents, peers and society groomed for them and they innocently nurtured as theirs. Naturally, she cannot justify all this ‘favour’ she came to do for them, if she knew they didn’t know before they were themselves. It was always hers then; the wants, the wishes and the needs. Their lives were always hers to want, to wish and to need; hers to make as she craves. She thus owes them a good life and not only explanations. So when these two collided, one must give and did. What is then as selfish as to owe who you own? And it is so human too.

Her late husband had been incensed by the traditional logic behind being successful in the amassed might of being remembered long after he was gone. Still when he queried her endless pride in these living assets and she averted her eyes respectfully in the same traditional fashion, he thought it was rude by his enlightened European standings. His mental gaze followed the living crowd but he walked alone, like a violently funny madman in a crowded market at dusk. The late market people looked on amused, but stayed a safe distance away and still stayed for the entertainment and didn’t hurry home.

All her children went to very good schools at her expense, her slaving humiliation and her selfless sacrifices. Now they are all established, with self chosen spouses and in the most reasonable comfort, each child had turned away from her over powering love with a diplomatic apathy that always seems to speak for the younger ones when it involves their much older kin. She continues to live alone with none of her children offering to take in her ever present love for keeps. The big house they bought for her and maids they hired for her couldn’t share the love she craves to off-load; until she met him, long after.

He had lost both his legs in the Civil war and his entire family too, that was thirty-five years ago. She met him beside the big shopping mall in town, as he sat in his wheel chair, playing a small acoustic guitar. She habitually dropped a crisp money note on the small neat mat conspicuously placed in front of him as she went by. He smiled and nodded his familiar appreciation at her and sang on. She had barely looked at his face and had merely responded to a sense of duty to the disabled, like she is sympathetically accustomed to. Then with an unusual swift backwards glance her eye caught the sight of a fair-skinned, beggar child suddenly snatch up the money note and sprint off.

She was stupefied by the quickness of the sharp incident and the apparent audacity of the escaping boy as he called out excited words, still racing away in the radiantly bright early sun of the late morning. She suddenly stopped, called out and demanded for help on top of her voice, concluding that the beggar-boy was stealing the guitar playing man’s money. Then she hesitated as she recollected her glimpse of the angelic happy young face of boy that picked up the money note. She knew she couldn’t wish any harm to come to him, but the guards from the mall heard her and had quickly responded to her call. They had followed her pointed finger and chased after the running beggar-boy.

She didn’t stay to wait for the outcome of the hasty chase but walked into the mall, so full of admiration for what she thought was the guitar playing man’s indifference to the theft of his money as he played and sang on. The calmness in his face had remained motionless in its honesty. It was obviously real.

An hour later, when she came out of the mall, she learnt she had been mistaken about the incident. She was amazed but relieved that she was wrong about the incident and then she wanted to know what actually occurred. The story she was told touched her so deeply that it had made her be-friend the guard who told her the story and is today marrying the crippled guitarist.

She came out of the cocoon of her loneliness and embraced the morale in the crippled guitarist’s story of love and selflessness, devoid of expectations. Like her cagy children she chose to live her life, even if they desperately disapprove of her demeaning choices. She had sought to enjoy the company and intelligence of the crippled guitarist who had embraced her gentleness in return. She gleefully sank herself into loving; selflessly, without expecting anything back in return. She flicked her beauty and flew her peace, like a freshly emerged butterfly.

Like the seasonal butterfly that keeps a circle going with no demands on it. It was her spring of happiness after a long barren spell of murky confusion. She had meddled in and out of the many complicated seasons. She had been confronted often enough and severally had to jump into the shallow calm waters.

Reason stir things up, muddles up the calm pond and made things worse without ever meaning to. I told her the crippled guitarist’s story. I told her why the leg-less retired Army captain and pensioner plays his guitar for alms, so that he could give the money to the street orphans. They both chose to make me their best-man today and I will toast, ‘Their true selfless happiness’.

Cold, harsh and hard winter.
As skins feel and muster,
The senses repel this monster.

Water, green and breed spring.
As tongues taste and sing,
The senses eat everything.

Warm, lazy but busy summer.
As eyes see and shimmer,
The senses ponder in wonder.

Windy, dry and dead autumn.
As ears hear and minds fathom,
The senses prepare the burial drum.

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