Of Heart and Hand

I am never busier that when ambling along a mountain trail – alone. Had I a companion, we would by natural bond interact – pointing out sights of interest, planning the next meal, or adding new rows and colors to an earlier tapestry of discourse. Our focus is drawn to the narrow reach of shared experience, and we are better for it; for we learn best through reflection of thought with another. To be present for another is a hard won attribute, however, for we must then exclude all else – or in our frailty, much of the wonder about us. I choose to walk this path unencumbered by the demands of friendship. Now I can greet strangers with full heart and hand.

A shaft or morning sun has told a mossy log that its time has come. With the swirling mist released in glee, tiny motes of pollen, spores and powdered essence of tree, churn upward in a golden dance, which I by chance have time to see. I wave my hand as if releasing a butterfly, knowing that this silent breeze will distort the amber symphony – and by my passing some of the ancient tree’s rebirth prayer will fall on different ground – and I will be remembered. I place a whistled tune in the bole of a willow tree where another traveler might find it and appreciate it more by the mystery of source – not recognizing it as song, but only as a feather touch of spirit.

Ah yes.

A single step completed – and I am on my way.