I see a woman, bent over a pot of hot curry, stirring it, as she smells it to assess if the ingredients had come together. If it smells like a memory, it’s cooked right, she always says. She walks with a bounce around the house to the sound of soft soul music, setting the table and laying the plates. Her peaceful eyes gleam with wisdom, they reflect the peace within. She looks exactly like her mother did at her age, but she is nothing like her mother. There is contentment in her heart and joy in her soul. Her life is of her own making, she loves it to the last bit.
She pulls her fine, black hair back into a tight bun, as she checks on the curry, still brewing, smelling like Christmas eve at her grandparents’ house when she was a little girl. The evening is getting colder, she floats across her tiny cottage shutting the windows, drawing the curtains. There are a million stars in the sky, and every night you can watch them twinkle in a rhythm.
Supper is ready and the lights are lit. She looks beyond the gate, calling her dogs by their names. They come rushing, she can see their heads bobbing over the horizon, bringing with them a gust of energy and the chilly mountain wind. She raised them since they were babies, like her own children, growing up in front of her eyes, little by little, every day. They rush to their bowls which she fills with water. They drink it splashing it all over themselves and the floor, panting as they do.
There is beauty in tranquility.
There is bliss in finding it.