Each morning, I discover that the surf has delivered up more stories for my inspection: discarded, broken lives, more than I could ever hope to count, cast up in random patterns upon the sand. Each one astonishingly unique and beautiful, and occasionally one still perfectly whole, telling me tales I do not know how to read. I marvel at the beauty they create, individually and in concert, long after their lives in the vast ocean have ceased.
Once, "health" meant spending my time doing things I didn't want to do instead of those I did. It meant eating what I didn't want to eat and avoiding what I did. It meant having energy I could not constructively consume in an attempt to avoid moral censure. It meant seeking approval of my appearance so that I could be acceptable to others, occasionally garnering unwelcome attention along the way.
Now at last, health is for me. It means regaining the strength to enjoy every breath of air and the will to walk out, free, into the wilderness of my desire. I sit planning all the things I should do and be. Then a fluting birdsong reverberates through the morning quiet, piercing every thought, every goal, every belief. It is in that moment I realise that I have missed the point.
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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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