I lie in bed and watch the autumn sky brighten from the east in the early hours of the morning.
First a faint hint of orange, then a more steady brightness.
Very soon, the low clouds blush with pink at their tips before the light changes again.
The sky changes so swiftly, or perhaps, not so.
In my perception, as I lie and watch, time loses its essence.
And with the changing colours, light, the play of the darker western sky and the breaking of dawn in the east, the entire sky with the grey clouds becomes a performing stage.
And I observe.
We are natural thinkers, we are philosophers, we are people of the word.
But sometimes, especially when the spectacle of nature unfolds, and it does, every day in a million ways, it suffices to be present and observe.
In the garden when the first seedlings push their leaves through the soil, stoop down to touch the fine and tender green.
When the clouds move across the sky, look up to see the changing colours.
When the white-tipped butterfly flits between florets of verbena, watch the carefree dance.
And when the cold foams of the waves wash over the feet, feel the cool of the water soothe.
With the butterfly.
With the cloud.
With the seedling.
And with the sea.
Especially, with the sea.