Dear Friend,
We have these napkins in our house, Chiara bought them. We used to use paper ones, but then that seemed like a waste of resources. So now we have linen ones. They are mustard and petrol blue. It’s something I’d never think of, buying napkins.
This morning we were hanging up the laundry. I remembered the garden in our family home. The garden was my kingdom for the first few years on the planet. The washing line. You’d look up at it when it was empty and it would divide the sky.
The birds way up over black speck against the clouds. Mam hanging out the bedsheets, propping up the sagging line with a pole, ships sails billowing in the wind. I wrote my name in the concrete at the foot of metal post. It’s still there.
Mam, Dad they sailed on the wind.
I’m here, holding this square of linen, thinking about the sacred. It’s all alive, holy when we’re young, before the forming of the world, the mental abstracted world of me, mine.
We’re still young now.
No matter how the body ages, the soul, spirit never ages.
The linen in my hands is sacred, as my mind slows, a gap in the clouds lets through the light. The weft and warp if we were to fall into it we’d find nothing solid, strands of pulsating light, creative energy - the play of consciousness.
The whole of it, this universe as we know it seems so solid. The closer you look the less solid it becomes. It’s alive, every little bit of it.
Our attention makes it so.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey