Occasional still, dark figures dot the sand in palm-up, open meditation: silent, straight-backed statues of grace, a living prayer to the unfolding majesty of the pre-dawn. I envy them but cannot emulate them, my heart too full, the beauty too painfully immense, for quietude. Instead I must walk with a restless yearning after I know not what, toes curling into the sharp, cold bite of sand, ears straining for the fluting call of unseen birds and the searching, ceaseless sigh of surf. It is a cry of gladness.
2 Comments
Bourdet Emilie
12/7/2017 05:33:31
Text and photo so beautiful and it is fun to think that days are short enough where you live so you can enjoy madrugada!
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Introduction
"Only that day dawns to which we are awake," wrote Thoreau. This blog, in words and pictures, is my attempt to be awake: to be alive to the mystery of life. It is an exercise in gratitude and wonder, and an open invitation to beauty. Archives
May 2019
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