Life is about rhythm. - Mickey Hart
The piercing call of the rooster told me that it was dawn, even though it felt like I had only just fallen asleep.
I yawned and stretched out of bed, watching the light pattern the walls, my eyes adjusting in the fuzziness of early morning. The last few stars winked. A pale glow had pushed night toward the other side of the city. The scene was thrillingly beautiful. All signaled the arrival of day.
Especially the sound of Aling Maria sweeping up with a walis tingting (literally a broomstick made from coconut midribs).
The broom was only around three feet high, so she was hunched over as she scoured the patch of grass by her house and the crannies of her narrow cement walk for any stray pieces of blown-over kalachuchi petals or any other crumpled bits. It was her morning routine.
Sometimes she would stop to take in the scene, her face relaxed, before swiveling back to her task. Her old broom seemed to know the corners.
I was intrigued by how this simple act of housekeeping could actually echo the rhythm of life. A movement outward between here and there, an unfolding.
It was like being born over each night, the same process repeated. Finding oneself, losing oneself, finding oneself again.
It made me think how everything was linked. The world in motion around the sun. Everything returning. Every act, however small, causing a thousand repercussions.
(To be continued)
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