What is a book other than a collection of words lying dormant hoping for someone to activate its story? Perhaps I assign too much power to an inanimate object by using the word “hoping” but a book, to me, contains life whether sitting on a shelf or clutched in my hand.
Photo taken at Carnegie Resource Center (a former Carnegie Library) in Mitchell, South Dakota, July 2017.
It’s a last minute thought to look straight up at the dusk sky before going inside my house. And I’m stunned by the clouds gathering overhead, holding tight to the moisture that gives them shape and life. I snap a picture, as I’ve done so many times before, of clouds. But this time, and I don’t know why, my heart seems to skip a beat or two as I contemplate our place on this planet and our relationship to those things outside us, like clouds and space and matter and eternity.
Night falls and I think of home. Not here, where the party rages oblivious to the streets below.
Early yesterday I hiked to Hidden Falls at Curt Gowdy State Park in southeast Wyoming, just 20 miles west of my home. Despite living here for sixteen years it’s the first time I’ve entered the park. I’ve been missing out and hope to go back many times.
While hiking to the hidden falls (last picture in gallery below), I crossed the pictured bridge. The bridge took me over the stream that flows from Hidden Falls.
I hiked early enough in the day that I had the trail to myself until the very end of my 2-hour hike. Being alone in nature (well, not alone as I saw deer and a bear was reported in the area) was somewhat of a spiritual experience. Not in any organized religious sort of way as I’m moving away from that approach to life but more of a I’m-part-of-the-cosmos sort of experience. The quiet hike felt like a bridge to peace and awareness.