At the end of a long path of shells and hemmed by tall grasses nestles a cottage surrounded by garden, the lip of which sinks into dense mangroves and there opens up a view of a peaceful ocean inlet. Beautiful by day and beautiful by night.

At night, matching the stars above, in indentations in the sandy ground you sometimes saw shimmer, crushed and scattered diamonds. If you poked at the glistening piles, say with the tip of your flip-flop, it would collapse and spread, still lit, relaxing into smaller sparkly particles. You could pick it up and in the palm of your hand closely examine the tiny heaps of bright matter. Be warned, however, because magic vanishes when you mess with it.

A scientist friend came along one day and scooped up some of the diamond dust and took it away for analysis. He tried everything but he discovered nothing. And ever since, in the field around my friend’s house, the diamonds have never re-appeared. As if perhaps the magic was offended, somehow, by the scrutiny.

Perhaps life itself is an easily vanishing pile of sparkly motes. Feel, learn, love, laugh and dance, and never scrutinize too closely lest the magic be pressed out.

For instance, were you to scrutinize this post, written half comatose form overdoing things at birthday celebrations (still going), I trust you will forgive me.

Thank you all for participating in another year of story telling. Thank you for reading my posts and returning the energy in your witty pithy comments. You inspire me. With gratitude, your friend

Image by John Martini©

www.johnmartini.com

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