111 Degrees Fahrenheit
111 degrees Fahrenheit in Delhi today. I bow down and thank the heat for helping to kick me out of the nest I’ve made in India. Just a slight shove to show me my own wings and help me board my plane back to the West.
The child inside of me tugs on the hem of my skirt and begs to know, “Where are we going? Why do we have to move?” And with a comforting pat I deliver back, “it’s okay…we’ll be back again someday.”
I hope this is true – but the decision is not in my hands. Nope. I have left it, and all, on the doorstep of the Universe. The future is not for me give, take, hold or determine. It’s only for me to accept – when it is left on MY doorstep — by the Anonymous who has knocked on my door and disappeared around the corner.
The cows. (How I will miss the cows!) 1000-pound, cardboard and carnation chomping reminders that gracefully meander through the crowded streets reminding me that life is nothing but a fairy tale – a fanciful animal caught in the madness of duties and details. In a country where the cows can mingle among the motorcycles and nibble on vendors’ vegetables – anything is possible. And in this far away land, there is a secret business of selling magic beans. India takes my love of the cow as payment and puts a few of the seeds in my hand. She tells me that if I plant them in the fertile ground of dreams and water them with the tears of my desires, then they’ll sprout a stock that’ll grow to the sky. “For this is India. And these are magic beans,” she says. And I believe her. For if the cow is sacred — can’t everything be holy, mystical and magic?
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