Dear Ismail and Hilaz,
I think pink blossoms follow me wherever I go. Even in my dreams, Japan in blossom comes to me. Then I see clouds of pretty pink flowers on hills rolling one after the other. D.C is entering spring soon and there are naked blossom trees lining the streets. Can you imagine how excited I am to see them flower! I remember during the short time in Spring, I would cycle down Canley Road and touch with my fingertips the lovely petals ahead of me.
England, S, Japan, D.C …I am never disappointed.
Images of Spain still come to me. I dream of the mountains. I wish my two were here with me, we could walk and walk and talk and talk. The world is ours to keep. I will always remember. My best time, those years, me you and the big black alligator.
I scribbled this last month in my book:
We hear so many birds. There is life that sings out here, still invisible to the naked eye. Our eyes now seem to be trained for different things, and we no longer see the life in between us. God is singing near me but I can’t see him.
It is dry here though spring is near arriving. The dead and alive sits peacefully beside each other.
There is something pleasantly peculiar about being amongst these mountains. I feel a sense of acceptance and peace, brings tears to my eyes. I’ve never felt so beautiful before.
On our way there were these blossoms pink, enough space and height between themselves for Radha and Krishna to play hide and seek in. Dry grass and reeds shimmer under the sun, amongst green swaying creating an apparition of waves in a calmly moving sea. Hills roll, each bend is a new beauty.
I don’t want delicacies and expensive toys. Throw away these potted plants and let the caged birds free. Give me to the wild purple and yellow flowers and let the bird songs enclose me. I trade my material freedom for tranquility.
time out of law school, to read, to write and dance. Writing inspired my dance as dance inspired my writing. In fact the author and dancer in me became so infused that although I could distinctly separate one from the other, it was not quite an instinctive task. In my black idea book, I traced out in a hierarchical mind map who this dancer was and who this author was. They were completely two different characters. But sometimes I wondered if they were the same person living on parallel planes. About this, I wrote once to an old flame ‘It is as though you could not speak of one without mentioning the other‘
