Wandering Thoughts

“You're so boring,” she said. I lifted my head from the book.

“Boring, boring, boring,” she mischievously says to tease me. I chuckle. Every afternoon, I sit in my garden and read a book. My wife brings me tea in the garden. We talk to each other. She tells me about her daily activities, as well as other usual or unusual incidents of daily life. She is a good wife, like any good wife.

The weather is nice here, and a cool breeze is blowing. In front of me, green pears hang from a tree; next to it, another tree is filled with pomegranates. The red pomegranates dance with the wind, swinging like pendulums. Two rose plants look enchanting; their fragrance has mesmerized me. The lush green grass covers everything like a carpet around me. Everything is alright.

I sit here in the garden. It is a wonderful time for me. My wife's dark eyes twinkle, her face glows. Her red cheeks resemble pomegranates, her black curly hair and pinkish lips look alluring. She wears a beautiful dress and shoes. Everything feels vivid.

Sparrows chirp in the trees. A cuckoo has arrived from somewhere; she has become a good friend of mine. I think! Who is she? How has she become my friend? If I go near her, will she fly away? Then I think who am I? What is my purpose? Furthermore, what am I doing now, and what should I do? Even as a human, I wonder—where did I come from? What is my origin? 

Probably, everything in life can not be perfect, but overall, my life is very good. My relationships, my job, everything around me is wonderful. A cuckoo has come again from somewhere; she has become my friend. Perhaps she has become somewhat familiar with me—or maybe that’s just my thought that she’s my friend.

A piece of pomegranate drops from the tree. I recall Newton—not thinking I am Newton, just a fleeting thought, like an apple dropping in Newton’s garden. I often have such freaky ideas in the garden. I take a sip of my tea, saying, “It's delicious, the taste is good.” I admire my wife. Of course, she is a good cook; she makes everything delicious and tasty, whether it's food or tea.

A gentle breeze carries with it the aroma—the scent of roses. It's a pleasant smell; I feel refreshed. If life is just this—an afternoon—I love it.

My wife goes inside for some work. I am alone here, pondering—if the garden weren’t here, the cuckoo wouldn’t come, the fragrance wouldn’t drift in the wind, and it wouldn’t reach my nostrils.

Another thought comes to my mind, did I separate from a species? If so, which one? And then what is my purpose in life? 

Does the sun shine only for me? The breeze that carries the fragrance came just to meet me? The green grass surges just for me—or is there someone else involved? Does the cuckoo sing just for me? Or does anyone else in the universe have it all?

I ponder these strange ideas, sitting in the garden in the afternoon with a delicious cup of tea—cared for by my kind-hearted, loving wife, who is a good cook and a caring spouse.

Presently, the sun is about to set; the trees are still here, their leaves fluttering in the wind. But the cuckoo’s sighs are gone; she has bid farewell to me.