Sometimes it rains so that the front lawn gets positively flooded. Then there are these reflections on the surface - of clouds, and trees, and other things. Puddles make wonderful mirrors, reflecting the world back at itself. For just one moment in time, the sky is on earth, and reality becomes twofold.
Here is what I like to do:
Prance around a puddle, and see the reflections from all angles.
When the sun sets over the hills near my bedroom window, the sky turns a purple colour, and if I lean out just so, I can see the most spectacular panorama...
Of hills, valleys, the silhouettes of the macrocarpas and eucalyptus trees, all framed by the heavens above.
And if the view is so phenomenal, and if I am really quick about it, I can run to each window in the house, to get a different perspective. Here is my favourite: the tiny window above the bath.
During my university years, I would stay at my Grandparent's house in the winter time, to ensure I could get to class on a snowy day. Living in the countryside meant winter was a time of silence and blinding whiteness, and the roads were deathly icy. So, instead, I lived in a cream coloured room above the hustle of the city, with old wallpapers and a heavy blue duvet blanket on the bed.
Those times were quite lovely, and I remember peering out the window at night - the heat of the room escaping from the crack in the curtains, my cold cheeks and nose pressed against the glass. In that frame of hot breath on cold glass, I could see all the lights of the city.
Our city lights have always given me comfort. To me, they mean:
- The return of a long car journey up North, after sleeping in the back of our family car.
- The view from the lookout, as we watched dusk creep over the houses.
- And, of course, they meant warm evenings spent at my grandparent's house, eating Grandma's bean soup and watching David Attenborough documentaries.
