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I am in a place of constant movement . . . I wrote in my journal . . . some episodic, as when huge boulders break loose and tumble down the gorge or when the canyon hosts the raging floods from which it got its name. Some of the movements are very slow, as in the work of roots and water that pry loose those hunks of granite and of shale. Slow as in the one-inch-per-century growth of the cryptogram, or the trees that take a decade even to inch above the soil.
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It is my ritual on weekend mornings to bundle up with hat and gloves, and sometimes, digital camera in hand, I scamper down to the lakefront. Sometimes, it silently shimmers in solitude–barely making a noticeable ripple or an audible groan–and then there are times when it tosses about angrily, lashing out as if giving up a few secrets of its own; as if purging its belly of the collective secrets of those who have come by and left their soul prints.
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When big stuff happens, when there's nothing we can do to effect a change . . . then the best thing to do is do nothing. Hunker down. Wait gracefully. Breathe. Give thanks for whatever good things may be.
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