In the shade of my courtyard, yesterday late afternoon, the thermometer hit the mark of thirty eight degrees Celsius – plus.
The globe tilts. Live changes its degree of latitude. These days it is donning the yellow robe of the Sahara parallel, Pays de la Soif as the French painter Fromentin so aptly called one of his desert pictures. The Land of Thirst.
Walking through the last dell of my oasis I count the trees still in sight, till finally their last shadows are behind me. A sun, suddenly unmasked and merciless, is showing its glaring coppery countenance.
I contemplate an early return. Out there is the awesome desert.
Yet move we must, if only to make the unhealthy body not even unhealthier. Though walking these barren fields may soon turn it into a corpse, awaiting buzzards, perhaps even the proverbial vulture.
Soon the heat makes of pacing a mere moving. On and on and on. The walking cadence become ritual, the mind starts drifting. A cow-like gaze takes over. Lo and behold! The mandatory hallucination materializes.
Not the insubstantial, yet Holy Mary, Consolation of Sufferers. The true stuff of any honest believer – Water! Fata morgana, fate of the desert walker.
Would I be a cow, sure enough this image would have converted me to a faith in the Golden Calf. I would have danced around its so beauteous liquid green. A four legged dance certainly, but a dance of joy and praise all the same.
Sierksma, 24.8/2016 La Roche