Forty years ago I have come out of my mother's womb, and she has been carrying me for nine months. She has pushed me out. It's only when I have pushed my son out did I understand what an enormous effort this requires, and that my mother has done that for me.
The other day she told me that we, her children, were four, seven and nine respectively when she was forty. And today I am forty, and that makes me feel closer to her.
I am not one for celebrating myself. I'd rather watch the birds in the garden, the birds that have come from Russia to escape the big freeze. This year however I am. I am celebrating the richness of my existence, of existence, all the impressions and experiences and the growth that have nested themselves into me.
My Self is a big landscape of many vistas.
The forests, streams and mountains of places. And cherry trees in blossom. Rome. Hanoi. Chicken Foot Mountain. Rue de l'Avenir. Cafe Baghdad. Hampstead Heath every Thursday night - walks of Life. Hilly Fields which should be called Windy Fields, every day no matter what. The forests, streams and mountains of places. Engraved in my being.
Permanence nested in impermanence.
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