Plume of pampas grass
Trembling in every wind…
Hush, my lonely heart — Issa
After the early days of Spring, after the Tuis have gorged themselves on the nectar, the flower stems of the harekeke, the flax bush are left to their own devices. The wind grabs them and flings them around brushing impulsive calligraphy in the misty air. Any seeds are flung away – no-one wants to be crowded in on days like this.
Down in the valley, people are heading home on yellow buses or in cars, finally the weekend. There’s a lightness of step though. Friday night, fish’n'chips, takeaways, anything to scrape off the workday drudge. Tomorrow – sport in the morning, doing the dishes, walking the dog, practicing music, family’s coming home, doing the garden, reading the paper, having a coffee, shopping, going to the match – it’s always the same, but tomorrow, tomorrow’s always better, much better in the weekend.
Manifesto
01. Every day is a fresh new day.
05. Every day is now. The present moment.
13. Every day be better than you were the day before.
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