This morning as I walked to the bus stop, little puffs of chilly breath escaped my lips, it felt cold. I checked for the temp and the glowing face of my mobile shouted 7.1° feels like 3.9°. Bloomin’ heck, it is cold. Thank heavens for my trusty blue coat (a replacement for my long ago discarded green one) and pink scarf, a reminder of cobbled streets and family and most importantly, it is soft around my neck and warm as toast.
Yesterday – Google told me it was 11.9° feels like 8.6° and I agreed with the ‘feels like’ but find this phenomenon slightly bemusing. There was no wind chill factor, how can it feel colder than it actually is?
I crossed the road, three people at the bus stop. No early morning greetings, instead heads were bent with faces illuminated, I’ve decided to call it Smartphone Glow.
The sky was still dark, dotted with remnants of the milky way, the horizon atop the treetops edged frosted white. The sun on its way up, hinted at the day to come.
Birds regaled us with their ‘get up, get out of bed’ songs. My fellow companions oblivious to the chorus, a free performance. I closed my eyes, and listened. Every now and then the woosh of a car, but the birds didn’t mind, they sung on, taking me to a place of peaceful meditation, a small remnant of calm before the day begins.
The journey, a rock and roll, as we wended our way to our destination, the city, the big smoke, Briz Vegas.
I raised my head at every stop, the bus filling with early morning risers. I wondered if they’d heard the bird song?
At one stop a slim older lady in a red coat disembarked and there, waiting for her, was a younger woman also in a red coat with a small weary-eyed youngster propped against her hip. Bundled up against the cold. The swap was quick, like synchronised clockwork. A smooth transition and with a quick kiss to the cheek of the child, the young one alighted the bus and was whisked away. The child waved a farewell as it huddled to the older woman’s shoulder.
Outside the sky had lightened and was clear as I left the warmth of the bus and made my way across the bridge. Up and down river, picture perfect. Sun turning glass to gold and reflected myriads of colour and movement danced over the river.
A wise woman once told me, if it gets too overwhelming just look up. Yes, that was a different time and place, a different continent in fact. But still it works. I looked up, the skyscrapers looming, history lives in the modern. The straight edges, the curves, patterns appeared as if by an artist preparing a canvas. And when I looked down, I found scuffed concrete, worn and cracked. It too tells a story, amongst the dirt and grim I spied an intricate arrangement like a glaze crackled ornament, a thing of beauty.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul. I see the truth in this, for the eyes convey much. Many do not have the gift of sight, their other senses honed to perfection. We who do are blessed beyond comprehension.
We are but a mere speck. A tiny infinitesimal being that the world holds in its hands. Take notice of the everyday treasures and in plain sight beauty that surround us, just imagine what you might see.
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