The Woman in the Gazebo

Existing in these moments of truth is the best part of my day. Memories come not as thoughts, but more as vivid scenes from a movie seen long ago. Tears come out of the joy of surrendering to the expansive space of the yard and the depth of perspective into which the street in front of me merges.
What if Martin finds out? I often thought about it, but not while at the gazebo. At the gazebo, I live art. This material world is suspended in a certain level of abstraction. Things lack clear lines of separation. Colors and shapes blend into a unifying presentation of the moment. The sky is blue and clear. In the linden treetops, cardinals are singing. Men walk by with their German shepherds on leashes; ladies carry poodles in their arms. A gray cat sits on the steps of the gazebo. The scent of juniper infuses my spirit with vigor. This is my truth. It is fragmented only in a sense that it unfolds in segments, scene after scene, snapshot after snapshot. Underneath, every move is imbedded in stillness.
Yes, this may not be the employment I dreamt of, but it is easy, and it pays $100 per hour. For a person who doesn't think money, $100 per hour crosses my mind too often. I took it not because I thought this particular line of work by itself suited me and would bring me fulfillment, but because this is life, and life is art, and art is fulfilling. If I were not already fulfilled would I have done it to fulfill my personal needs? No! But I found great satisfaction in knowing that this is my contribution to the fulfillment of Martin's dream.