She stands around the hot hob, her arm goes anti clockwise, as she stirs the healing mixture. Sometimes her tears fall, sometimes she sings, she adds a few herbs, and if she spots someone really ill, she adds an extra bit. Solomon sighed, how food well prepared and served with care lifted the Spirit within. It reminded him of the words of Jesus; how you disperse your charity, with humility. That’s it he smiled, that’s who she reminded him of, the caboodle they created, was the tastiest in the world, and you could never get enough while feeling fulfilled, you were left unfulfilled and wanting for more, yes he sighed, they serve the food of life, amen, thanks.
Jeans are high, the T shirt, she glimpses in the mirror, okay, need to do the
high lights again, she in on her way to meet her friends, they are always comparing, then again, when were we any different. Solomon sighed, the three flowers walked ahead of him, three flowers form the garden, a tulip a rose and and a daffodil, each different from the other. What was wrong with being different; If the Garden needed an awareness of color, there was no way they could all look the same.
The day reminded him, Jesus and the old controllers, the rules they passed on, the rituals they encouraged and spread, habits of the religion, not the habits of God. he wasn’t complaining, just reminding himself, what was inside you was what counted in the end. So if unsure of yourself, just ask youself this, What would Jesus say; Solomon smiled, it is going to be okay.
The wine farmer, nods, he is explaining the terroir, the land, and what it means to the wine maker. He has a glass bottle in his hands; in it, four types of soil, the difference, is there a difference wonders the small audience. Sandy and pebbly, heavy and smooth, the four types of soil, are all part of the land. The best grapes grow in the light brown and pebble dash soil, more breathing and better drainage he says, pointing to the far corner of the field; there is more sun too she smiles, one of the visitors says, sure.
They buy a few sample bottles; On the drive back to their lodgings, they discuss the enthusiasm of the farmer, how precise he was, how important the foundation is, and the power of the sun, to turn grapes into vintage wine, one of them is a teacher, she has a thought, her friends notice, “Lucy, what are you not sharing!”
Who wants to be serious on holiday, few. She wants to hold the thought. She imagines her children, her school children, as bottles of wine. Would it not be great to give them a foundation, rather than, toys that occupy their minds. She is high school, knows the problems facing families. How the mobile has replaced the parent almost, it’s not a popular thought, few will agree, but she is a teacher, and foundations are her core, just like the french wine maker, common sense to make those foundations secure.
Can anyone remember who won last years Oscar for best supporting camera crew, anyone. Blank faces, the actress in the corner, (sorry actor, the word actress does not exist), her mascara is running, it’s two blocks east of the theater, running. Not even a best supporting role, she saves that for the breast implants and her plastic surgeon. Friends, she promised them a statue, nothing. Pride ways you down, and what you think your friends think of you, does the rest.
No men allowed either it seems, there is a global outcry against inappropriate sexual antics; they focus on the lowest common denominator. The politically correct audience applaud the clever comments, eye each other, as if saying, I told you so twenty years ago.
Meanwhile, every perversion you ever thought of, is there at the click of a button. The brilliant smiles, they might last awhile till the roots go bad, sorry she says, I got a specialist for that, seriously he nods, does she actually believe all that.
Solomon encountered a strange week; the head miners were doing there thing, sowing stress or what they call, self doubt, he listens and wonders where this is coming from, as they all claim to be of God, a surprise, the stuff he heard wasn’t anywhere he looked, it only came out of their heads. But the tricks of the demons, remorseless. He saw two small faces, transform to horror, expressions he did not think possible in children. What were they like at home; the stressed mother knows all about that.
A walk to the market, sizing the veggies, she feels them, feel ok, drops them in the bag, a short walk, health and well being on her mind, she feeds people, wants to make them feel well, it’s a struggle sometimes, but she perseveres. The half hour over the boiling pot, the regular twist of the spoon, doesn’t want it to get too lumpy, dips her finger in, tasty, she wants a little more spice, just enough never too much, you can add more yourselves later. She watches the door, they will be in soon, lunchtime, she knows who is well and who needs extra, she has a heart that tells her she is a mother, her food is prepared that way. amen.
It’s for wisdom sake, heading a football, can do serious damage, so the bangs and the thuds, the vibrations, the head needs protecting, from all those banging moments, so the professional footballers say, i suppose amateur boxers do the same, wear head protectors, minding the grey matter foundations, the brain as we call it from future damages. Solomon was nursing a late night, felt great, but still felt the affects, of the stuff he put through his system. He listened to the argument, children should be banned from heading footballs, in the professional training sense, suggesting that, only when they are older, is it a safe exercise to train in. Willy nilly he thought, are they gone mad. The image driven world, and violence
guided war games, had done more damage to young heads, than all the footballs in the world put together, head bangers he sighed, while rubbing his own.