I like to get lost. To stretch my body and my mind and to play. Watch the sunset and stare off into the blue-hued distance and wonder which way it is to head for home. Pick a direction and set out.
HOME is where the heart is. And when the heart delights in rambling wanderings then the heart is beat served and most at ease travelling along and watching the flowers awe in the breeze and listening to the songs of the trees and studying the meandering patterns that the birds make against their shifting canvas of cloud and infinity.
LOSING myself in the boulder-strewn, forested river side of my mind. I can rest here quite content, sitting leaning on a rock watching trout rise and snap at the surface, or admire the textures of mosses and lichen seeping over trees and rocks and resting and being active. Streaming myself fluid as water across the landscape, stepping left,chucking under to the right, and leaping over gaps between rocks to then dodge down to this or that tree by the swirling river surface and bound up the tree limps to to settle suddenly a static moment, holding on as the world swims by me below my feet, plunging, roaring, echoing into canyons and pummelling through rapids.
Rest a while, there is no hurry here, no imperative. Sit on this bowing limp, cling like a wet petal to the bough watching the sparkling in the light of raindrops gathering and speckling my view, pooling up on leaves. Watching the patterns change and the landscape emerge in smell and the world become inhabited by its fragrance.
I slide off the branch. Hit the floor running, leaping high over fallen trees, bound off this boulder, duck under that branch. Dancing the forced steps of the landscape I watch the world spin past under my feet, laughing. There is always time for another laugh. There is always time for one last dance.
HOME is where the heart is. And when the heart delights in rambling wanderings then the heart is beat served and most at ease travelling along and watching the flowers awe in the breeze and listening to the songs of the trees and studying the meandering patterns that the birds make against their shifting canvas of cloud and infinity.
LOSING myself in the boulder-strewn, forested river side of my mind. I can rest here quite content, sitting leaning on a rock watching trout rise and snap at the surface, or admire the textures of mosses and lichen seeping over trees and rocks and resting and being active. Streaming myself fluid as water across the landscape, stepping left,chucking under to the right, and leaping over gaps between rocks to then dodge down to this or that tree by the swirling river surface and bound up the tree limps to to settle suddenly a static moment, holding on as the world swims by me below my feet, plunging, roaring, echoing into canyons and pummelling through rapids.
Rest a while, there is no hurry here, no imperative. Sit on this bowing limp, cling like a wet petal to the bough watching the sparkling in the light of raindrops gathering and speckling my view, pooling up on leaves. Watching the patterns change and the landscape emerge in smell and the world become inhabited by its fragrance.
I slide off the branch. Hit the floor running, leaping high over fallen trees, bound off this boulder, duck under that branch. Dancing the forced steps of the landscape I watch the world spin past under my feet, laughing. There is always time for another laugh. There is always time for one last dance.
'Down by the creek.'
Entering my local playground when I lived near Bellingham, in Washington State, USA for a year, I used to go play in the forest south of town, from my front door I had a road to cross, then hit the trail head, 200 metres from door to trail.
After a mile or so and I ran out of buildings, maybe two miles down smooth trail and I crossed the creek by the bridge - barely visible here about one-third of the way up the picture. From there it was forest air in my cycling lungs all the way. How many greens can there be? Beauty-full times.
Entering my local playground when I lived near Bellingham, in Washington State, USA for a year, I used to go play in the forest south of town, from my front door I had a road to cross, then hit the trail head, 200 metres from door to trail.
After a mile or so and I ran out of buildings, maybe two miles down smooth trail and I crossed the creek by the bridge - barely visible here about one-third of the way up the picture. From there it was forest air in my cycling lungs all the way. How many greens can there be? Beauty-full times.