Echoes (Endau Rompin Part 2)

Posted: May 20, 2009 in butterflies, holidays, macro photography
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57

If my mother was alive today, she'd be 57.  I was reminded of this in an exchange so familiar that if I allowed my attention to slip just ever so slightly, I'd go back 3 or 4 years and be standing at the kitchen self-absorbed in my endless selfish plans while she would stand just next to my elbow and talk about how the clothes wouldn't dry because the weather had been uncooperative lately. 

Mothers

And this was so familiar in Gandalf's little wife.  She was just 2 years older than my Mum.  She talked about how the clothes wouldn't dry and about how catfish should be cooked and how we should finish all the ikan bilis and nuts so that there wouldn't be any need to carry it all the way back home. 

The comfortable little tiny things.  The minute, ordinary but wonderful things that Mothers concentrated on that reverberate through the back of your mind, silently, gently yet powerfully detaching the fears standing out there in the real world that make big men feel helpless and hynoptically transport them to a sure…a stable…. a haven of belief that it was not important if none of us are strong enough to deal with all the things that we need to be bigger than.

Where we believe that the big picture cannot touch us.  Where we can believe that things will never change.   

Stolen Comfort

So I sat and quietly stole this comfort from just sitting there and listening to her talk about how the weather had turned chilly at night and whether I would have liked to live here and that if I wanted to, there was milo on the table and that I could help myself to some and whether we should open up all the packets of peanuts now and have none left for the evening and how good the rice tasted with chilli tuna.

It echoed like the sea against an empty cave, reminding me of what I no longer had.  

What We Are

I am always reminded.  How I can see God in every living creature around me.  But never in myself.  How they never question what should or should not be.  How they never question if they should be something else and how they never complain about how and what they have turned out to be. 

But I wander around merely a semblence of a person but displaced from what people are normally expected to want, wanting to dissipate as an inconvenient anomaly like butterflies into fire in the night.

But instead I wait. 

For the fire to come to me.

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Comments
  1. Emjay says:

    That top photo is just so tranquil. And, the side of the train, complete with reflections, is incredible!
    It was way too early for you to lose your mother at only 57.

  2. Thanks Emjay… 🙂

  3. I wish, I could give you big, big hug now, Ellen.

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