This is a shot of the house immediately West of mine, taken from my front stoop. It's to give you an idea of the geographical (I have earlier opined of the psychological differences between me and my Staplegun neighbors, present blogger Lo excluded) distance between my house and, say, the 18 or 20 feet West of my house.
Here is a shot of my Oriental rug lain flat between the two trees on the right of way 18 to 20 feet West of my house. Until sometime in the magic bewitching hours between what I assume to have been a solicitous call from a man hopped up on the right to bear basketball hoops and the time at which I walk my dog hopped up on the right to take his morning constitutional, I found my rug so lain. And so soaked. For the sprinkler systems be aqueous in Denver once Mother's Day passes. And the date this morn was May 21.
My rug is a mysterious thing; 4 feet by 5 1/2 feet, hand knotted (and, yes, airing on my porch side railing since sometime in the late fall of 2009 and thus sufficiently aired out and, well, admittedly abused by its own owner. Namely me.) of many muted yet brilliant colors and hand sewn on one edge to cover the loss of part of its original breadth, thus reducing its financial value (to say nothing of toll taken by a continuous October to May outdoor life in mile high Colorado).
My rug is magical. It fell from the railing and instead of obeying the law of physics rule number 3 that all rugs go to the floor, my rug flew 18 to 20 feet West under shade of night and, even in a shallowly lit night, knew enough to unfold itself completely and submit itself fully to the earth. To cover each square inch of the earth that could fall within the fully unfurled perimeters of its substance. And to embrace not just the dirt, but to welcome the nourishing water so that it, too, could grow (mold) as the germinating plants submerged in the soil beneath it would. This is what magic looks like:
I lied about the zen. But my faulty memory sure does help keep me calm.
