A rocky moraine dammed this Tarn,
Long before the Beavers got to it...

There are long days full of languidness,

Of snoozing in the Sun,

Merging with the Earth,

Lapping at the waters like an Animal,

Letting something primal tickle at the back

Of your consciousness:

And this is the meaning of life.


There are cold moments of logic,

Analyzing, breaking down the components

That make things tick,

That make them function, and are

Driven by a need to create, which is

Inherently human:

And this is the meaning of life.


There are songs that pierce you,

Sonorous and other-worldly,

That stem from the divine substratum

Of the collective subconscious

That binds us all together in one lump

Of creatures we call human:

And this is the meaning of life.


There are substances we call drugs,

To eat and smoke and snort and smell

And wear and watch, to taste and hear,

To ride and sleep upon,

To be filled with, and dive inside:

And they awaken our minds to wonder:

And this is the meaning of life.


There are clothes to wear upon our skin,

And days when clothes should be shed

Beneath an Autumn Sun,

When the Trees also shed their clothes;

Limbs a-quiver in September's breezes,

While we quake beneath them:

And this is the meaning of life.


There are Rivers to slide into -

Sinuous things; sleek and silver.

And we can jump together,

And cling, intertwined like gnarled roots

While a Force beyond us guides us,

Underfoot.

And this is the meaning of life.


There are nights when we howl at the Moon -

Violet and pale, luminous and strange,

Both eerie and familiar; suspended from nothing

In space. Just beyond our reach

And thrust into our consciousnesses,

And promising us nothing...but comforting.

And this also, is the meaning of life.

Having fun at OMB's, but ready to get back to the Woods...

There is a cheery companionship in the shade of my towering Pines that the patrons of the City cannot match.

I sympathise with the Chipmunk & Woodpecker in the early morning, for they are up & alive; rather than the late-morning sounds of commuters, wearily sighing at their paper coffee-cups.

#the-Woods-always

The temperature will level off at about 71 degrees, today, with winds at one mile an hour.

The skies are too perfect. Too blue. Too beautiful.

Thank you, Breckenridge.

A glorious Sunset & a lovely Night.

Reading multiple authors simultaneously is fantastic, because it reveals mutual underpinnings in great philosophy.

Wherever I go, I observe action & behaviour in the Woods (unique properties [though always following general laws of Nature] & the interaction between Animals). I cannot help but contrast my local observances with Universal laws.

Everywhere, the power of the intellect to sift layers of observable information, is in full bloom.
Everywhere, the power of turning OFF the intellect in order to merely BE, is a sweet companion.

To properly enjoy & learn from Nature, one must embrace all facets of Being.

If She is only half-known, then she is Isis of old; hidden behind a veil - obscured by our own ignorance.
Known in full, She is a pleasant companion in the Morning, & gentle mistress at Night, & always a House of plenty to those who seek Her.

Gladly would I unfold in calm degrees a natural history of the intellect, but what man has yet been able to
mark the steps and boundaries of that transparent essence? The first questions are always to be asked, and the wisest doctor is gravelled by the inquisitiveness of a child. How can we speak of the action of the mind under any divisions, as of its knowledge, of its ethics, of its works, and so forth, since it melts will into perception, knowledge into act? Each becomes the other. Itself alone is. Its vision is not like the vision of the eye, but is union with the things known. - Emerson

Please stop trying to understand Being. You have already had significant glimpses of Being, but the mind will always try to squeeze it into a little box & then put a label on it. It cannot be done. It cannot become an object of knowledge. In Being, subject & object merge into one. - Eckhart Tolle

They reach for me, like the long-spooned neck of a ship's prow
Emerging - ghostly - through the mist.
Snaky fingers, though dry, not oily
Slap gently at my face in passing kiss.

Water flushes from the Mountain's bosom,
Athwart a Cedarn Grove, now full of light;
The Streambed & alike, the frigid Earth
Shed the bone-stiff'ning slumber of the Night.

See how the City gleams by Night!

See how she sheds her shawl of white;