The Red Shawl


There’s a wild wind blowing and its affecting my nerves. Like the Harmattan, Mistral or  Sirocco, it is dry and brings a sort of madness in its wake.

In my last post I mentioned glimpses on the periphery so I must tell you about the red shawl. I was in the high end fashion shop Jigsaw, reading their Vogue, and having a quiet moment in the air conditioning, after a hot haul up the hill, when my unconscious attention was drawn to a red shawl hanging over the back of a cubicle door. I didn’t even touch it. I finished reading and, after thanking the nice girls for the rest, went on my way.

But like the wild wind it has seeded my sanity. At home I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I googled red to see if I could find clues for the obsession. Other than the fact that all Japanese children start drawing with a red circle, this route only gave me the passion fire and ferment answers. True, and as the days went on my yearning grew. This time not for the centre and the rewards of spirit but for the needs of the flesh. I just had to have that shawl.

I phoned the shop and reserved it. It was the only one they had so it was obviously meant for me. When I went to collect it I found it Made in India out of silk and wool. It has small tassels sewn all around the edge. It is perfect. For flamenco dancing, for hiding the widow’s hump and eventually, when the willow coffin time comes, for my shroud. And of course as a reminder that in the meantime I am of the earth and have needs too on the finite level. There is is now, hanging over the chair, inviting me to put George Michael on the deck and dance my earthbound body into trance.


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