Wild Things


Hollow.  It’s how I feel as I begin my walk.  I decide that it isn’t a bad feeling.  It means that I can be filled.  I leave the emptiness alone and note that my legs seem to be at odds with my torso.   My body struggles to find a rhythm.  I decide to concentrate on something else.    I note the rhythm of my breathing.  My legs have almost caught up.  Feet still complain but in the rhythm there is comfort.

Words slip in and out, through and around.  I don’t hang on to any of them.  I reach my midway point and smoothly u-turn.    I note the tall, magenta-colored flowers.  Their graceful spikes puncture the landscape.  Then, there on the trail, I spot the wild thing.  It is a small wild rabbit.  I slow to avoid frightening it.   She lets me get within 8 feet before she bounds off in the bushes.  I’ve often walked this trail but have yet to find a bunny sitting out in the open waiting for me.

Continue reading

I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.


I am reading

The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
0 / 170 Pages