May is for talking to the flowers on neighbourhood walks, falling asleep with the windows open, forever just catching the scent of jasmine. Wrists, the turn of a corner, the afternoon breeze, the nape of the neck.
May is two feet in the river, the skies wet with streaks of pink at sunset. May is coffee on the balcony and a big glass jar of chamomile steeping before bed. May is watercolour pencils and rosewater baths and candles after dark, tearing up fresh herbs to scatter on everything, when food feels like art.
May is for falling in love: the abundance in the mess on the kitchen bench, the movement of your body to a favourite song, your best friends laugh, the sound of a familiar bird. May is the potential that follows darkness. The clouds that finally part. The hum of new life as we remember we can choose to see beauty again and again and again…
This past weekend was quiet.
It’s a full moon weekend and the biggest holiday of the year in Japan so I felt myself wanting to stay fairly close to the earth. The weather is finally warming to a level I find acceptable as someone who often feels as cold blooded as a lizard stretched out on a hot rock. The wind is still blowing a gale but I am reminding myself, most days, to see the sweetness in it. It is easier lately, as the wind whips through the flowers and often smells anointed in jasmine or rose. I have made a habit of taking my nose to the biggest roses in my neighbourhood and breathing in deeply for all to see.
I saw a substack note yesterday which read I would trade all the billionaires in the world for a single bee and it had so many likes I felt what I can only describe as a pleasurable pulse ripple through my body as a reminder: we are not alone.
Last night, between eating the best part of a baguette for dinner and running a dangerously hot bath, I read this article about botox which made me feel the same way.
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