Walking slowly. Hips, legs, feet deliberate, savoring every moment. Embodying the place of belonging utterly.
Slower and slower. Weekly, daily, these couple of hours.
Take it all in. Straight ahead, turn around, mountain, cows. Off to the right, west, geologic bulges on toward the Pacific. Vultures east, circling Sprouts, R.E.I., the 101. Staring with intention to really see. To own the day.
How long? How long to walk? How long to see – really see? To blog? To breathe like this?
Each and every step, out there in the spaciousness: Ground asking, “You don’t have to go just yet, do you?”
Nah. Not just yet.
from a mountain bench 
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