PAGES FROM NEW JERSEY
WEDNESDAY, 10 JUNE
Only three more days,...these pages are about to close with the epilogue of good bye to this stay 'A dream fulfilled'. A kind of sadness comes over me but I quickly overcome it, reining in my spirit because I believe that every ending is a new beginning. I know that the wheels of free moving/ peregrinations have started rolling and, in near future, I am to make many such wanderings to near and far off lands, adding many more new pages to my blog.
When you arrive at any new place, you just get attracted to every thing, every detail of the landscape, the colour of the birds, the falling of the leaves and the seeds, the changing moods of the everyday weather, every little sound attracts you, the tulli, tulli chirping of the bird, the rustling of the Sycamore leaves, the squeaking of the running squirrels one after the other, the wheezing past cars on the wide road, the passers by's appearance and, then, there falls a silence. You come out of those sounds.
The fresh saplings have grown out of the Sycamore seeds that hung there on the edge of the roof, making a hedge in a neat line. No hands have trimmed them but they look neat and trimmed. I know that they are not going to stay there long in want of soil yet they add beauty to the house.
WEDNESDAY, 10 JUNE
Only three more days,...these pages are about to close with the epilogue of good bye to this stay 'A dream fulfilled'. A kind of sadness comes over me but I quickly overcome it, reining in my spirit because I believe that every ending is a new beginning. I know that the wheels of free moving/ peregrinations have started rolling and, in near future, I am to make many such wanderings to near and far off lands, adding many more new pages to my blog.
When you arrive at any new place, you just get attracted to every thing, every detail of the landscape, the colour of the birds, the falling of the leaves and the seeds, the changing moods of the everyday weather, every little sound attracts you, the tulli, tulli chirping of the bird, the rustling of the Sycamore leaves, the squeaking of the running squirrels one after the other, the wheezing past cars on the wide road, the passers by's appearance and, then, there falls a silence. You come out of those sounds.
The fresh saplings have grown out of the Sycamore seeds that hung there on the edge of the roof, making a hedge in a neat line. No hands have trimmed them but they look neat and trimmed. I know that they are not going to stay there long in want of soil yet they add beauty to the house.
Thank you Emmanuel.
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