Free Write Fling, October 11, 2007
My red backpack has wings and smells of lavender oil. It follows me on hikes into the woods. I walk along a fallen log, balance with arms spread wide and listen to birds in the treetops and squirrels angry at my trespass. The wind cools my sweat. My journal is packed with a zip bag of sketch pencils and sepia pens. My camera and a stash of batteries. A one gig SD card. Nourishment and water. I may hike or drop to a rock at anytime to meditate and absorb the sun. Lotus flowers on a bog. Tall hemlock with fungi. A lake with countless tiny mirrors sparkling in the sun. Rustle of musty leaves. This is real life. This is my life.
To heal takes walking on spongy ground under old growth. My footsteps a drum beat on earth. The roots sing songs. The trees whisper with wind secrets that my Shaman Toad has taught me to hear. I connect with magic that I try to translate thru photos and poems. A wooden moth of brown and blue beckons me deeper.
A rush and roar of water falling, wearing rock, circles spiral. Foam and froth catch light and rainbow mist rises. I chance the slippery rock to bow before the fall and dance, Tai Chi and breathe. I cannot honor this beauty in any better way.
My red backpack has wings and flies me to places full of creation and surprise. I have the tolls necessary to survive. I have learned them over time. My skin has aged and my heart has warmed. I grow more patient with the moss. The spider weaves a web and my blue eyes dance round, pluck strings, vibration calls mother. And I tell her my problems.
Fallen tree, thrown from root becomes home. Another seedling catches and grows wraps roots round and climbs tall. Home is where you are–make it and climb skyward. This lesson I keep coming back to is reflected round me 360 in these environs. Life Dance.
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