Independence Day

It is cool this morning. I am sitting outside with a cup of English Breakfast tea, looking at orange tropical flowers I planted in my herb garden. It is the day after fireworks and the eve of Independence Day. I am thinking about the meaning of the Fourth of July, but the fragrance of English Breakfast distracts me. And where are the orange flowers from? Their leaves remind me of flora I saw in the Amazon jungle. Now I remember Benjamin Franklin. Because, of course, I am trying to think about Independence Day. His family came to this country supposedly for religious reasons, but one biographer suggests that entrepreneurship was more likely at the root of the family's emigration. Suddenly I am distracted again. Benjamin Franklin was the son of immigrants? I push the question aside. I am trying to think about the Fourth of July. Now the sun is peeking through trees at the back of the yard, and I can't help but evaluate the quality of the light. Look how it infuses the leaves. Light fascinates. It touches anything, and anything it touches is made visible or, unexpectedly, cast in dark silhouette. Last night at the fireworks, I played with light. I let it take me anywhere it wanted. It touched people, and I followed its lead. It took me to subjects I have not always sought. I noticed frizzy braids, thick eyelashes, the slant of eyes and curve of bellies. I became dependent, for just a night, on the leading of the light. Can I tell you it felt oddly like love? Nothing is going as planned this morning. I am trying to think about the Fourth of July. Independence Day. And here I sit, with my English Breakfast, my orange tropical flowers, and the images of people I did not seek until I followed the light. Photos and post by L.L. Barkat.