I is for Idiom Book Sellers #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge.

Thank you.

Arti

*****

The word 'Idiom' (n), according to www.etymonline.com, comes from Greek idioma meaning "peculiarity, peculiar phraseology". 

Fowler writes that "A manifestation of the peculiar" is "the closest possible translation of the Greek word, 

from idioumai "to appropriate to oneself," 

from idios "personal, private," properly "particular to oneself."

You can find more fascinating facts about the origins of the word here: www.etymonline.com

***

The seagulls must've woken me up. I hadn't put the alarm because I didn't want to disturb the husband. We were on holiday after all. 

I was wide awake. The sky was still dark.

I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, washed my face and got dressed in the bathroom. 

"I'll see you later." I whispered to him. He groaned in his sleep. 

Equipped with my camera, I left the hotel and stepped out into the still sleeping Old Town of Cochin. 

A street cleaner was creating cloud dusts with his broom while the security guard at the entrance of the hotel looked on.

Almost as soon as I turned the corner, a fading word on a faded wall caught my eye: Idiom, it said and under it BOOKSELLERS in block letters. What a fabulous name for a book shop, I thought and clicked. I made a mental note to visit the shop.

The husband knows how I behave in bookshops. Once I enter, I don't leave. 

When I recall that quiet morning in Cochin, I smile. This was last year. It was our last holiday before Covid-19 descended upon planet Earth. On that sunny and sultry morning, I was congratulating myself for waking up early because I could explore this part of town alone, without any crowds or honking traffic.

What I thought to be precious solitude then (March 2020) started looking like stifling punishment in a matter of weeks after we left.  Silence on busy roads is so rare a commodity in India and yet just a few weeks of lockdowns had turned the same silence unworthy of want.

How fickle and transient are the flavours of time. How important than ever before is to pause and take it all in, to stand and stare and pay attention.

Come along with me while I explore the quietude of a busy city on a March morning that dawned on the right side of Covid-19.

Once upon a time, before Covid-19

joggers, walkers, cyclists

could come out all at once

and spill

without masks or restrictions.

I looked up:

Idiom

Will come back to the store

for sure

I made a mental note

and carried on

capturing

moments as hunters do.

Everywhere I looked,

on doorsteps,

on domes of cathedrals,

there were moments 

waiting mid-flight, 

in plain sight.

Scooters, bikes and cars

began displacing joggers

as I made my way back.

Morning rituals of a city, hotel surrounded me

as I sat on a bench;

sipped water, followed by tea.

I was happy to be with me.

Amber window panes paused the beginnings of the day

distorting them into treasures of fragments

and embalmed them forever.

Later that day, I went back to check out the book store. Adjusting to the darkness inside, I stepped in. Ah! There are no words to describe the feeling when you step inside a book store that has been curated/managed by a book lover.  It's a moment so precious, a feeling so blissful that I stood there in the coolness congratulating myself for sacrificing my afternoon nap to be there at that minute.

I had stumbled into an Aladdin's cave of books in Cochin. I couldn't be happier.

Lying on a table, near the exit,  was a book which was covered in clear plastic. The plastic was dusty. The artwork on the book had a haunting quality despite the dust. 

I asked the gentleman at the till if I could see the book without its cover. He nodded kindly. 

We got talking. The afternoon melted away.

I found  a few gems that I lose myself in often these days. One day, I'll tell you more about the treasures I discovered in a shop I chanced upon which lives up to its name's ideology. For now, these photos:

The spellbinding cover of 'Creation' published by Tara Books --

the one that caught my eye first.

One of the colour plates created by Badri Narayan in the book 'In worship of Shiva' published by Orient Longman Limited

Such finds, in my view, are magic--plain and inexplicable.

Leaving you with this poem I wrote inspired by the teleportational powers of a book shop.

What's a Journey?

Does it come entrapped within two bookends

of a beginning and an end
measured in time? distance? space? 

or is it just a displacement 

achieved

in a step, a moment, a lifetime?

Are all  journeys homeward bound?

Or are the homes we seek to reach

dwell hidden in plain sight :

in a book, a look, a touch, a smile?

Perhaps our journey's end is always in sight

but we walk and walk and walk

pretending to be lost

hankering to be found

despite.

*****

Are you a bookshop fiend? 

Do you miss browsing in these times of lockdowns and restrictions? 

Is your favourite bookshop still alive?

You know I'd love to hear, if you'd like to share.

Wishing you all a restful Sunday.

See you with J on Monday.

Stay safe and well.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

H is for Hurting on High Line #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

Thank you.

Arti

The post today is a departure from the 'feel good' moments I've covered thus far in the challenge. Sometimes, painful moments hurtle towards us like meteors and can potentially throw us off balance, carve out massive craters in our hearts and leave us feeling empty, if we let them. 

They are necessary though. 

They are as valuable as the happy ones for they show us our other side, the unpleasant part of us; those undesirable  character traits which we only see in others.

I once read somewhere that the 'thing' that irritates you the most about a friend, partner, colleague, offspring, sibling is something you're in desperate need to address within you. 

It's a bitter pill to swallow. Over the last four/five years of paying attention to what ticks me off in others, I'm beginning to see the wisdom of this odd logic.

Let's take you straight into that moment with a poem called:

Hurting on High Line

Torn and shredded

lay my insides

the womb that had birthed them

travelled up to where my heart used to be

and displaced it.

My children, all grown up

didn't look like their baby photos any more.

At the brink of adulthood they stood

scraping out chasms between us

and filling them with words so hurtful,

I couldn't believe they were mine.

How could this be?

Where had I gone wrong?

What could I have done differently?

No answers came that day.

We went ahead with our plans anyway:

To explore a garden 

greening an abandoned spur.

Hurt, the artful Grandmaster

played us like pawns

using indifference and silence to open

her chequered game of blame.

We were putty

in the master's hands

slaying each other on her command.

Hope grew in between the rail tracks that day.

whispering patience on petals

softening the rigid lines of metal 

and malleable clay

so seeds may sprout gentle compassion

we find easy to profess for those that don't see us as honestly

as our children do.

***

Not all moments that stick are memorable for the right reasons. My daughter and I had gotten into a nasty argument that morning. We had a couple of days together in NYC and my sister had planned a wonderful day for all of us. So, we went ahead with the plans but every time I look at these photos, it reminds me of the journey my daughter and I took that day in 2019--beginning with pain and hurt, muddling through with start/ stop/start  again talks and tears and ultimately reaching love, where we are today--somehow finding our way to each other's point of view

In fact, over the past couple of years, I've come across many of my friends who've shared similar episodes with their almost grown up children. 

This is new to most of us as we never had the 'freedom' to be so honest with our parents. By default, we expect our children to follow in our footsteps. 

Every generation feels short-changed by their predecessors. Our children are no different. 

I'm learning to figure out that the hurt we exchange with our children/loved ones/friends/colleagues when we lash out at each other is the residue of what's churning inside. 

A happy person will never inflict pain on another. I'm beginning to see a pattern. The ones who have an opinion on everything or complaint about most things are hurting inside. I'm not here to preach or pretend that such people aren't annoying, but, maybe, they're the ones who need our 'listening' ears and an open heart more than the ones who we always love to hang out with. 

Whenever I'm hit by a tsunami of self-doubt, I turn to books and their wisdom.

This time, it was 'The Parent's Tao Te Ching' by  William Martin. And here are the lines that helped me: 

"Compassion, patience and simplicity 

cannot be taught 

until they are experienced

And when we experience them,

we lose the need to teach them.

We live them instead.

And then our children learn."  

From another page of the same book:

"Children become confused 

when parents become rigid, 

holding rules above love.

Be consistently flexible.

Hold tight only to compassion."

Question: Should we value all of our moments as treasures and hold onto them?  Even the painful ones? 

Answer: Wise people illustrate the futility of holding on to pain with a simple experiment. Take a jar. Fill it with whatever you fancy (water, doubt, pain, pebbles, hurt). Hold this jar in your hand and extend your arm. You'll notice that the longer you hold on to it, the heavier and more painful it gets. Something like those moments/memories. Instead, if I use these moments as reminders or guides to look inward, to figure out my truth, to find out why it hurt at all and then let go, I'm able to put the jar down and move on.

Life's too short. I choose to revisit that which makes me happy and learn from that which made me sad once.

After all this sombre soul searching, let's wrap up the 'H' post with some photos of the 'hopeful and happy' garden we walked through that day in September of 2019.

The High Line is a "rail trail created on a former New York Central Railroad spur on the west side of Manhattan in New York City." according to Wikipedia

Have you held on to a jar of water/ pain/ hurt for too long and then let go? If you'd like to share your findings with me, you know I'd love to hear.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

G is for Gardens and the Gates of Shambhala #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge.

Thank you.

Arti

***

As a gardener, I can think of no better therapy than being one with the soil: the digging and the sowing, the tending and the growing can overcome anxiety and any and every stress. Gardening's healing powers, I feel, are especially effective in these uncertain times of enforced sequestering.

I've been watching episodes of 'Gardener's World' at night and spending every moment I can  in my garden this year.

In The Book of Ichigo Ichie, the authors illustrate the concept of now or never with the help of a  Tibetan legend called 'The Gates of  Shambhala'. In it, a hunter, while pursuing a deer in the snowy Himalayan peaks, comes upon a narrow opening just wide enough for one man to pass through. "On the other side of the opening was a fertile garden, bathed in sunlight... children played happily among trees laden with fruit.." Despite being awestruck by the sight, the hunter decides to go back to his tribe to share his discovery with them. He's warned that "the gates of Shambhala open only once in a lifetime." But, he leaves. He would keep looking for the 'other side' for the rest of his life.

As a gardener and a photographer, I can completely relate to this legend. 

Every day, the garden changes. 

A bloom that was thriving yesterday may be gone today.

Thankfully, the camera lets me capture these precious glimpses for posterity or for as long as my backed up cards and drives work so that I can look back at the 'gates' that had opened up for a few precious minutes and  revisit the magical world on the other side.

I photograph my garden regularly and am amazed at how different it looks every year, every month, even every day. A sudden dust storm or the cold northerly winds can change everything in a matter of hours.

I know it's cliché but I'll say it anyway: do stop and stare and pay attention to beauty all around you. It's transient like breath. Here now. Gone now.

Today, I invite you to peep into one of the most beautiful gardens I've ever visited. 

The day dawned clear and the sky shone blue on the 8th of June, 2019 when we drove out of Cape Town to visit this garden that lies "nestled at the eastern foot of Table Mountain".

"Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden was founded in 1913 to 'preserve the flora native to the South Africa's territory". According to Wikipedia, part of a hedge of wild almond and bramble planted in 1660 still exists in the gardens. You can find more about the garden here: Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden

(Source: Wikipedia)

An autumnal sky made the perfect backdrop for these crimson blooms.

Tree Aloe so vast, I'd call is Aloe-city.

Can you spot the thirsty sunbird?

They call it the tree canopy walkway. To me, it looks like promise of magic.

Heaven on Earth

Tree branches are antidotes to phone screen addiction. You'll miss out if you don't look up!

How can I resist these? One last shot--I promise.

It was time to leave the garden. 

I rubbed these rose-scented pelargonium leaves on my wrists so that I could  carry the scent of this garden with me, for the rest of the day at least.

Luckily, I have this fragrant plant growing in a pot at home. So, all I have to do is rub its leaves and like the proverbial magic lamp, its scent teleports me to a happy place.

Why Garden?

Whenever you feel sad or blue

step into a garden or two.

And if there isn't a garden near you

no worries

don't fret

sow a seed in a broken teacup

instead.

Place it on a sunny window sill

and let it show you 

how to be still

and deep.

Gardens are forests for the soul.

When bodies dwell in cities and concrete blocks,

our ancestral spirits and evolutionary codes

beg us to explore

a patch of green

any patch of green

even a geranium in a pot will do

so when you witness a seed spiral twirl, 

unfurl down and shoot up

or watch a bud uncurl,

stare in awe

for it'll be gone

soon.

******

What are your thoughts on the 'gates' that open only once? 

Do you have a favourite scent that teleports you to magic?

You know I'd love to hear, if you'd like to share.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

F is for Free Cola and Friends #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge.

Thank you.

Arti

*****

Friends

They might not need me; but they might.

I'll let my head be just in sight;

A smile as small as mine might be

Precisely their necessity.

Emily Dickinson

For today's post, let me take you back to a moment in time in December of 1994.

The husband and I were on our honeymoon in Cyprus. I wrote about it on 'C' Day. You may recall, if you read the C post, that the husband was enamoured by his rental Subaru. 

The sun was shining and the sky was blue. We were driving up north to Nicosia from Larnaca. It would be a long, long drive in the rental Subaru. The husband was happy. 

Sometime in the afternoon, while still on the motorway, we felt the need to eat. So, we stopped when we spotted a food truck.

We knew no Greek and English had been enough to communicate with the locals in the cities we'd visited so far.

We looked at the menu and decided to order a doner kabab to share.  We had discovered the doner on our first evening in Larnaca while strolling down the seaside. We were so impressed with its amazing taste and satiety value that for the rest of our stay in Cyprus we ate one everyday. It was 1994. It was also the first time we'd tasted a doner kebab. And the fact that it cost only 1 Cypriot pound helped, too. We were on a budget. 

The lady in the food truck window smiled and asked me something in Greek. I smiled back, extended some money and asked for a kebab and a bottle of water.

"New...new..." she said chirpily and pointed towards my hennaed hands. 

I replied, "Yes, we got married last week."

"Ninos?" she asked, sticking her head and arms out of the window and gesticulating to suggest babies.

"No! No! Not yet."

We paid for the doner and were figuring out whether to sit at the table or stand and eat when we heard her behind us. She was holding two cans of cola and extending them to us she said, "This is for you from me. Congratulations!" 

We were both left speechless by her kindness.

All we had heard from family and friends when they found out that we were going all the way to Cyprus was to be careful, be alert, don't trust easily, etc. etc.--the usual advice but no one had prepared us for this unexpected act of kindness by a stranger managing a food truck on a motorway linking north to south.

I had to get a photo taken with her.

I wish I'd asked her her name. Maybe I did. But I can't recall it now.

She told us that her daughter had been to the UK to study and had made friends with an Indian girl who told her about the henna and the choorra (red and white bangles I was wearing) were signs of new brides.

Kindness can make friends out of strangers in just a moment. But, the memories of such moments can be treasured forever.

Unless you're headed to the Himalayas for sanayaas (renunciation of the world) or are a monk, good friends are essential to live a healthy and happy life. 

Especially, during tough, unpredictable, wobbly times such as these, we all need a kind word, a helpful hand, a smile, a nod, an open heart that is ready to listen without judgement or advice. 

Friendships are like seeds that sprout underground, sending their roots to hold the soil intact within their folds and shoots to peep above ground and be visible as smiles and hugs. These friendship roots provide stability in unstable times. Communities don't grow out of thin air. They need to be be nurtured with attention, time and love--one moment at a time. There has always been a need for kindness in this world of ours. How blessed are those who receive it and those who pay it forward.

And for those who asked for photos of the Subaru, after reading C is for a Cypriot honeymoon, here are two:

Caption: His beloved Subaru with wife

*****

Do you have a story about kindness of strangers you'd like to share? You know, I'd love to hear. 

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

E is for Escape like an Earthworm #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences,  pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge.

Today's post is all about getting lost in time; of timelessness, of when moments morphs into nectar.

I hope you'll enjoy reading it. 

Thank you.

Arti

*****

"Listen to presences inside poems, Let them take you where they will.

Follow those private hints, and never leave the premises."

Quote borrowed from 'The Essential Rumi' Translations by Coleman Barks

The word escape, I feel, has had a bad rep ever since it started associating with 'ism'. Escapism sounds like cowardice, like one is avoiding ones role in human form. 

To me, escape is essential for self-preservation. It's time travel. Let me explain with an example:

When I was six or so years old, time was a cloud that came rolling in without making a sound. I'd be lost in Papaji's garden for hours (according to my mother) which felt like minutes to me.

Everything fascinated me: plants, flowers, bees, leaves, soil, twigs, branches and climbing trees. 

Often, my sister and I and a few other children from the neighbourhood would congregate behind the rose bushes, under Papaji's big mulberry tree, far from adult eyes, to prepare wedding feasts for our dolls. There used to be one communal doll and its groom was usually present in proxy for no one could ever find him. 

The magic of preparing the feast lay in the pots and pans we would sculpt out of garden soil. We'd carry water in palms of hands, bottles or mugs from the grey, cement water tank next to the metal gate. Mixing water with soil and patting  pateele, tawe and karahian (pots and pans) of varying shapes and sizes would absorb all of us all at once. Six inch wide pans, uneven looking pots would start appearing on the patch of sand where the ginger plant fronds erupted. It got the most sun so the pots dried quickly. 

We'd run back and forth (stealthily and swiftly) from our kitchens stealing a potato or two, a tomato perhaps, some salt and haldi and sometimes even spoons and an odd knife. We'd will the fires to burn with scarps of stolen newspapers and twigs gathered from the garden, going phoo, phoo, phoo at the embers to get things going. 

We escaped into play with such abandon and enthusiasm that when an adult voice called out to announce that the sun would be setting soon and it was time to get back indoors, we'd all be taken by surprise.

Hastily, the half-cooked feasts in half-baked pots would be distributed by the oldest in the group who'd take charge. We'd extend our palms and relish the raw potato cubes swimming in lukewarm salty water like they were the tastiest morsels we'd ever eaten before wiping our hands on our frocks and shirts and promising each other to be better prepared for the next 'gudde-gudiya  ki shaadi' (doll's wedding).

Those tunnels of fun we travelled into when we lost ourselves in play brought us back to the surface of reality refreshed, enthused, bubbling with ideas. Like earthworms, we dug deep into our worlds and churned our energies, our imaginations, our friendships, our abilities into fertile ground for growth. 

I do it still--

escape, evaporate. 

I haven't made any pots 

with garden soil 

recently 

but losing myself in a book, 

a poem, a plant, birdsong, a bloom, or

an inefficient teapot 

teasing to be reused,

brings me back up:

refreshed, rejuvenated.

These portals of everyday, ordinary things

suck me in.

I like to indulge in time travel, I do.

And I do it as often as it pleases me.

You could say, I'm a pro

at the art of getting lost

disappearing into lines and words and the spaces left blank on pages.

One day, if I practise getting lost in tunnels of time, often.

I may find I've smudged my edges on a dragonfly's effervescent wings.

 

O! How magical that would be!

*****

The etymology of the word escape suggests that it was used to mean, 'free oneself from confinement'. 

Covid-19 may have confined us to our homes but we all have an escape route or two at our disposal. Of course, any addiction of any sort does not qualify for the kind of escape I'm talking about:) 

What's your escape route? When does time morph for you? If you'd like to share, you know I'd love to hear.

 Horizons melt 

Sun escapes 

ocean waves

Photos taken in June 2019, South African coast.

*****

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

D is for Delight in Impermanence #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences , pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge.

I thank you for spending your precious moments with me today.

Arti

******

 "You know how everyone's always saying 'seize the moment'?" She says excitedly. "I don't know, I'm kinda thinkin' it's the other way round. You know, like, the moment seizes us."

This quote is from the end scene of the film Boyhood. 

Although I've seen and love the film, I came across this quote on page 16 of The Book of Ichigo Ichie and decided to use it for today's post because it fits the photo essay that follows.

April 2019, I was roaming the streets of Barcelona when my attention was captured by two young children squealing with such delight that I couldn't help but stop and look.

Dance in abandon. Let the moment seize you.

 Bubbles burst without warning.

Now rainbows--

now a piece of string.

New beginnings are always buried in ends.

Life's effervescence:

joy, sorrow, breath, death.

I'll sign off this post with a short poem I wrote recently. It's called 'a glass teapot' and it wonders about life's impermanence.

A glass teapot

I'd bought 

a few years ago

had a bamboo handle:

a crescent with nodes

polished with care so that it didn't shine 

but looked beautiful

faded like old embroidery

and just as charming.

Kamala, our cleaner,

one day last May,

washed the pot with such force

that the hook that held the handle broke.

Without the hook, the handle lost its use

and without the handle, 

what's a teapot?

I thought: useless,

empty.

I was upset.

Kamala was sorry.

We couldn't undo that which was.

Why do we play with bubbles when we know they'll burst?

And why are glass teapots bought?

Only in impermanence lies the truth of life.

*****

Has a broken piece of ceramic or glass made you sad -- ever? 

Have you found a new avatar for remnants of your prized possession? 

I'd love to hear, if you'll share:)

And in case, you'd like to relish the beauty of nature's impermanence, then hop on to last year's 'D' post which wandered through dewdrops on deodars and daisies.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

C is for a Cypriot honeymoon and other Coastal Curiosities #AtoZChallenge

"...expectations are like the wrapping that prevents us from seeing the gift. Once we've freed ourselves from them, the present offers itself to us in all its splendor."

-Quote borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie

When I planned my honeymoon (using Fodor's Travel guide book) in 1994, I  jotted down every detail  in my diary. I was 23, he was 25 and we'd saved up for six months to afford our honeymoon in Cyprus.

Our ideas of what a honeymoon should look like matched perfectly, too.

He was thrilled to drive a 'foreign' car in a 'foreign land' on smooth, smooth roads which were free of traffic for the first time in his life. I was ecstatic to visit all the places I had underlined in pencil in my well thumbed Fodor's copy. 

He drove. I enjoyed the sights.

However, after visiting monastery number 2 on the 2nd day, he stood by the parked car, under an olive tree and told me clearly: "If there's anything unusual in there, describe it to me when you come out. I'll wait for you here."

The sky was cerulean blue and I didn't mind leaving him with his Subaru.

As a 23 year old, I couldn't bear to miss out on any 'sights'. Planning was crucial and following the planned itinerary was imperative for a successful holiday, honeymoon included. The holding of hands on beaches, stealing kisses at sunsets and the lazy mornings could be achieved at home, when we could do it all for free. We'd paid for this holiday and I was going to get the most out of it. Plus, his love for his rental Subaru helped a lot.

There are more photos of the car than of us in our honeymoon photo album. 

"The car isn't coming back with us." was his valid and logical justification when I asked him why.

I didn't know it then and I've only recently started realising that any kind of planning always comes with its insidious side-effect: expectation. And as soon as expectation appears on the horizon, joy tends to leave the party. Frustration and anger are never far behind when expectation is around. 

Of course, a lot of life's stuff needs to be planned but should our leisure time be bound to a time-table too? Can we give chance a chance when we're on holiday and let go of control?

Fast forward to 2019. 

Apart from picking the destination and a place to stay (sometimes that has been left to chance, too) I avoid planning my days when we are on holiday.

The internet helps with this laissez-faire attitude. We can be free because we are connected. Ironical, but true. 

And, surprisingly, the experiences we've enjoyed in open expanses of unplanned days have been beautiful and sometimes even surreal.

Early June, 2019: Day 1 of our much awaited trip to Cape Town dawned cloudy. Rain was predicted for the rest of the day.

We decided to drive up to the coast anyway. We couldn't walk in the downpour, but we could certainly drive. (Note: His love for driving on holiday continues to flourish. Yay!)

And keep our senses open to the magic that was unfolding all along the way. All we had to do was pay attention to the unplanned, un-orchestrated moments. Instead of disappointment (nothing was planned so nothing got disrupted) caging us indoors, our day (despite being wet, windy and cold) offered us many treasures I cherish even now as I look back at the photos and videos we took whenever the rain stopped or we did to breathe in the fresh coastal air.

Have you ever let the day unfold its mysterious magic onto you when you've travelled a long distance to see a new place? And has such an un-planned adventure made you smile? Leaving you with some remembrances of just such a day in June 2019.

The moody seascape was achingly romantic.
Clouds create fantasy:
shrouds and half-hidden doubts
add intrigue to any landscape.  

                                  Butterfly wings and other Curiosities we came across on the

coastal drive to Chapman's Peak,
South Africa in June 2019

On our way back we drove under this mountain ledge--how amazing is this!

Thank you for being here.

Tomorrow is Sunday, rest day.

See you with delightful 'D' on Monday.

Please keep safe and healthy.

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