Memories of Jasmine

[From some other time]:

~ I am sitting out here at the Japanese Gardens. A young man was drawing my portrait from down below me…just sitting on a step and drawing, looking up at me with those artist’ eyes…taking in lines, shapes, the spaces…then drawing some more. After, he took a photo. I didn’t mind this, never spoke or questioned…all in all figuring I probably look fairly picturesque: sitting by the Mother Tree with my book, reading…with Jasmine blowing and occasionally dropping a bud off into my long hair. Patches of sunlight accentuate the various strands of blonde, or honey. I am relaxed and enjoying the air of existence there and my scene probably shows this.

There are many people, large families with kids of every age…rushing everywhere excitedly, taking photos and moving moving chattering constantly about how beautiful it all is, as they rush by it…like the path they’re on is in danger of disappearing and swallowing them whole. Never pausing. And I realize…I don’t understand them at all. Like here where all things are One, suddenly the one race splits into two, and I stare at them bewildered like an alien gazing at a new creature… `What’s all this about? Why are you hurrying through a place of Pause?’ And I realize…I will never understand them. It’s not important to see it All, as long as you see some of it Clearly.

A bride in her bridal gown, sitting on the same step as the artist was awhile ago…although she is not the artist, she is the art. Pausing only to have her photo taken in an area she doesn’t seem to see. An older woman passing on the path I sit, maybe in her upper 60’s but looking very hip, pauses for my conversation. She asks me what kind of tree it is, I say Jasmine, and point out the beautiful buds for her to see. All the while she is saying “Really?” and smiling at the sight of it. I tell her she should just breath in…the sweet Jasmine in the air. She says it’s so beautiful and that I’m lucky to have it here, meaning she is from someplace else. I do not ask her where, because I’d rather her be right here right now, and not make her picture anywhere else. I agree I am so lucky for this, that I love it and spend a lot of time here. In an odd, but possibly perceptive statement, she says if she were bummed, this is the place she would come. I say yes it is very relaxing. She thanks me for my conversation and passes on.

It is growing darker now, and clouds are overtaking. I cannot read anymore, and realize soon water will be upon my notebook. I shove all things back into my backpack, and give a polite shake of warning that all living creatures which would like to remain here in the gardens should evacuate the bag now. I Think to the tree `Well, Mother Tree, it seems you need watering, and Mother Storm has come to oblige you.’. As I start to walk back up the paths, little drops of water sprinkle down on me. I find even this very relaxing and part of me wants to stay. But I am not all healthy, and wearing a white shirt. REASON coming in to interrupt my Inspiration.

There is a mad traffic jam of people trying to get out of the Gardens while the rain picks up strength, and again I am overcome with the deep urge to stay. I am a person who likes to be the kinds of places where other people like to be, but when no one is there. I am the kind of person who finds an empty stadium interesting. I like to go out into the people-chaos sometimes as well, but I can enjoy the peacefulness of empty. The sky is growling, telling us that our own little drama of Traffic Jam should hurry along and solve itself now, so it can get on with the Storming.

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