"My children should be like a Wild Flower, resilient in any situation. Not like a garden flower, very delicate." ~ Rinchen Dolma Taring (Taring Amala)
Lying down flat on my back at Parc de Noisiel and languidly observing those fluffy dandelion (but no, it's thistle) fluffs shooting across the patch of speckles azure void partly bordered with plane trees and chestnut trees leaves, while my mate beside me was recounting about his flight experiences something like controlling time or having a sense of living and doing, I couldn't stop repeating the above two-sentenced quote of Taring Amala. I had for the moment forgotten my obsession with my lagging behind in reading what I had been reading, to carry on steadily, and such a pugnacious notion like ensuring myself that those silver birches down there at one end of the lawn were real birches, not aspens. And also such impression, of my mate, that the pale blue leaves of birches amid the leaves of other trees at a distance, across the lawn with heatwaves jigging up, present as a mirage, like a burr of smokes.
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