It was one of those Sunday afternoons when the time goes by so languidly you can hardly feel it. You don’t do anything, and then you look at the time and it is evening. Of course, in an ideal world, all Sundays would be like this.
The view from my window was the luxuriant green of a tropical mango tree in full bloom, against the backdrop of a sky a color somewhere between smoke and pewter. It was going to rain, but meanwhile, everything seemed to be waiting. I waited, with the mango tree and the sky, for the rain to begin.
Maybe it was the breeze that made me stop lounging and step out into the balcony. Here, the mango tree can be viewed in its full abundance. Do you ever stop to admire a tree, just because it is such a beautiful sight? I do, regularly, and there was something about seeing those vivid, green mangos up close in all their living splendor that just made it seem very intimate. I reached across and picked a couple.
This instantly transported me into one of those pure moments where you are acutely aware of the rightness of being where you are, doing what you are doing. I suppose you could call it Zen. There is nothing else; for me, there was nothing else except standing near a mango tree, waiting with it for the rain to start. I closed my eyes and smelled the fruit in my hand. Please, nobody ever come up with a way to bottle this scent. Ever.