I was going to pack a journal. And my flute. Or a book. And possibly implements for tea.
I left it all at home.
My better mind reminded me of the importance of making space for nothing. Allowing time to let thoughts rise and fall, unclinging and unhindered. Not doing.
I have to confess that the world at large is moving far too fast for me, completely at odds with the stillness that I crave. I’m increasingly feeling like a stranger in a strange land.
Seeing an owl in flight brought me home. An hour of streamside sitting and the illusory city-self begins to slough off like an old skin. Pink sunlight on the peaks above and a cold wind snaking through the canyon brought me home.
Grasp the feeling. Protect it. Nurse it as if it were a tiny ember. Carry it in cupped hands through the coming days of traffic and crowds and noise until it can be brought back to life somewhere quiet and wild.