Mystical Rain.

Scarlet poppies. Friendship. Aloneness. Confusion. A piece of spinach quiche. A picnic. A river drunk with melted snow. Memories.

Andalucia. 3rd of May. Three women saunter through long low mysterious tunnels of beige bamboo, crunchy underfoot, following a brown and dirty-turquoise river. One walks quickly. High caramel colored cave studded mountains to the north, silent keepers of secrets of the terrible Spanish Civil war. An enchanted pool, a favourite swimming place last summer, trashed by relentless winter storms. This is the river where Pepe saved the drowning boy,eleven years ago.
These are some tags for yesterday.

'I think you've had a mystical experience.' I say to Sasha.
We're all laughing , but not disbelieving.

'Really?'
'Yes. Baptized in the middle of a poppy field. Cleansed. Watered.'
We laugh again. We are two artist friends and Sasha, 48, a writer from the USA.

'Well, I just can't explain this.'
The American writer is struggling for words.

'All of a sudden large drops of rain fell right out of the sky and rested on my arm. They were beautiful. The sky is completely blue. The sun is dazzling. How could this be? I swear to God drops of rain fell onto my arm. I saw them. I felt them.'
Slowly and incredulously Sasha strings out and stresses her surprise.

From a distance, and unseen by her, I became her silent witness. Too far away to see the raindrops, but near enough to know she needed to be undisturbed.

She sat cross legged, facing west, in the middle of Fraskito's field of scarlet poppies. Only her head was visible. Her shortish hair is dark brown, almost black, curly, crinkled. I sat with my textile artist friend on a stone, close to the river.

Sasha needed nature to commune with her heart.
She had crossed the Atlantic to do this.

Thousands of cadmium red poppy petals quivered all around her, and thousands of white Margaritas swayed every time a breeze whispered. Wild lavender, young olive trees, and fresh new mint surrounded us. We were resting in a valley alive with wild treasures.

'I swear to God,' she repeated,' it rained on me,just for a few seconds!'

Mystical rain.

Scarlet poppies. Friendship. Aloneness. Confusion. A piece of spinach quiche. A picnic. A river full of melted snow. Memories.

'Sometimes everything has to be inscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you.'

David Whyte

Pepe and the drowning boy. Post 22.04.2010.