As I sit in my balcony, I look down at a dog rubbing his back in the small patch of soil between dry yellow grass.
It’s a to-and-fro motion, but it looks like playfulness.
A few minutes later, he gets up and climbs a pile of sand that those construction people left a few months back.
The dog digs in the pile throwing sand with his hind legs and keeping at it for a few minutes until he’s satisfied with the depth of the hole.
Then he goes in, adjusts his body and closes his eyes to sleep in the middle of the noon with the sharp sun heating up the rest of the land.
The dog had found the sweet cool spot beneath the layers of sand.
I look at the sky and see an eagle flying swiftly all over the ground, in search of his prey perhaps, looking here and there.
Our eyes meet for a microsecond as it flies close to my balcony. I wonder how the eagle saw me — as a woman, a writer not writing, a wife, a human being or just another living thing.
I sit here, watching, remembering a long-forgotten insight that Nature gave me.
Nothing to be accomplished, just exist.
Life’s only purpose is to live, doesn’t matter in what way, doesn’t matter how — just live.
It doesn’t matter whether or not you roll on the ground, dig holes and sleep, lose weight or get unfit, write or don’t write, read or don’t give exams.
All that matters is plain and simple living. All the rest — the hows and the whats, the goals and achievements — is upto you.
Whatever peace I know rests in the natural world, in feeling myself a part of it, even in a small way.May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude