It was a quiet Saturday night. I was writing posts and tidying up thoughts for my blog, when I heard light-but-heavy little steps on the garden stairs..
It was Meli — my dog, now 15 years old.. I found her on the street when she was only two months old.. And although she’s a little old lady now, to me she will always be my baby..
I stepped outside.. She wasn’t eating much lately, so I gave her a favorite treat and sat with her on the garden step..
The evening chill wrapped around my shoulders like an old scarf..
The sky was that deep violet of dusk, the kind that never looks quite right in a photo..
Clouds drifted above, but they weren’t rain clouds.. Just wanderers..
The garden looked tired.. Summer had been too much..
So many flowers didn’t survive the heatwaves, they left behind only dry branches..
The araucaria was shedding its strange leaves.. The oak was already turning red at the edges..
All of nature was quietly preparing for autumn.. So easily, so naturally.. No resistance.. No complaints..
But we, as people.. We often struggle to accept change unless it happens fast.. We push and pull at time, trying to make it bend..
And we lose our patience, with the world, with others, with ourselves..
And yet, that quiet moment.. Sitting beside my little old dog, watching her try to eat, surrounded by the quiet sigh of the garden.. It reminded me of something essential..
That patience isn’t weakness..
It’s the silent strength that allows things to fall, so they may bloom again..
It’s the soft voice that says: “Don’t rush. You are already on your way.”
Tatiana,
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