My father kept a woodpile at the side of the house, nearest the back. We lived in the snow belt, an area known for its back breaking winters and mind numbing winds. To sit idly, was never accepted – each of us had a ‘job’, and every job had a purpose.

As the youngest, my job was to stay completely clear of the underfoot shuffling.

Though the height of the pile might ebb and flow – it was never depleted. For surrounding us on every edge, acres upon acres of densely wooded forest. And, whereas outsiders might have scoffed at such rigorous preparations, the locals knew – the secret to our survival involved just a few extra steps.

And yet, year after year, we’d watch as the community would grow; sadly, the lesson never followed. As humans, we are drawn to the simpler course – hoping to diminish, though ultimately encouraging. We find words to fill the gap, though never the need.

Our edges form quite unexpectedly; under conditions which might otherwise force new depths of discovery. For some, the answer is simple. As Dostoyevski writes, we must fling ourselves straight into life, without deliberation. And absent the chidings of chattering mind.

In peace…

Namaste ❣️