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Here

There is a scarlet wasp dragging a spider down the footpath. The paralysed  spider is a huntsman, newly destined for the role of incubator for the wasp's egg. It's quite large,  too heavy for the wasp to fly with, so she is going by foot instead. She drags it a few inches, then leaves it to fly off, looking for a suitable place to stow her treasure, before returning to drag it some more. I make sure Zoe gives it a wide berth; that sting is still intact and the spider has not absorbed all the venom.
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The old men at the next table are speaking Italian. We have discovered rose petal gelato, and have stopped by here most days, to sit at the distressed tables on the odd assortment of stools and share a dish with our tiny grand daughter.
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The playground has been laid out for wheelchairs. A gentle ramp has chimes which passing wheels will ring. The huge electric roundabout has smooth, wide access on every side. There are tables for waterplay at just the right height. Zoe runs gleefully through it all. She stamps on the chimes and laughs uproariously. She stands under the water and her dress is refreshingly damp in the 30 degree heat. She is so alive and vital and loud, and probably not one of the users included in the design brief, but this place welcomes all children. It is all so lovingly made, so Grace full.
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A pigeon lands on the shade sail above us, and I take a picture.
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Our home is a place where being present comes easy. Standing on our deck with the roses around us and the harbour flat and still in the middle distance and the tuis chortling in the trees, mindfulness is not an arduous task. But we are not there. We are here. And here is where God is. 


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