The Mountain again. In my face. Rock solid. As I think about the week behind me.
Monday, unexpectedly, this plate-sized flower stared me down from a shrub disconcertingly taller than me.
I was in a hurry like all the other scurrying city roaches.
So off-guard I was and looking inwards that it surprised me straight back into The Present; I stopped to smell the roses.
Those 30 in-the-moment seconds have stood me in good stead right up until now.
I've drawn upon that instance and have smiled satisfyingly about it, at least 15 times already.
On Tuesday, I wore a jersey for the first time since getting back from Prague in early November, but took it off later.
In my day-long to-ing and fro-ing, I breathed in deeply wood smoke from only one homely hearth.
That November weekend there was much more rain in Cape Town than there had been for a whole week in wintry Europe.
Log fires were still burning in my favourite city bowl restaurants and coffee shops as I hesitantly came down from the dizzy high of my travels, and work.
It was the beginning of summer.
Yesterday I wore a jersey for the entire day. And in my meanderings there was much more aromatic wood smoke from homely hearths to gulp in deeply.
Best of all, the moody day began with the slashing of rain against the windows.
As the seasons clash-and-shift-and-argue I hunker down and gratefully cocoon into my heart of hearts, as litres-and-kilograms-of-words wash-over-and-through me.