Today I was caught in the rain,
I let myself be caught.
And rather than wanting to be spared of it, I thought about the being in it.
Pricks of cold stung my cheeks like needles, as if I were a walking piece of fabric trapped under the foot of an olde Singer sewing machine. Riddled with holes, I show no signs of blood or scars, yet all that remains are raw remnants of me.
All that I got dressed for to go out, is but a memory, a silly process.
Now I'm wild, exposed, messy, cold, wet, and profusely happy.
The wind clips my face, my pant legs are wet, my shoes muddy. I'm shivering, thrown out on the storm grill, churned out in the elements. I watch as the sea ferociously manoeuvres itself about like a wild awkward octopus.
Something inside me wants to drop it all, the lot - and dive in. Swim, or drift, let it take me away, to where it will, and have faith that I'll be OK.
I'll find a life raft made of wood, and clutch it. I'll be collected by a giant pelican and hang from its beak. A genie will swing by with a magic carpet. I could choose a cloud, and sit on it before it disintegrates and I had to choose another.
But I end up where I always end up, dodging the wet leaves up my steep tree-lined path, to the house where I live; where orange lamp light greets me before I reach the door.
And as I heave down my bag of wood, I settle in to light the fire, stroke the cat, make a salad, bind a book and lay out tea-stained paper on the floor.