The Contemplative

The contemplative within me still asserts. Fall becomes especially potent.
Contemplative or warrior? I feel each is enclosed in the other.
The ambiance of autumn light, the timbre of crickets or a bugling Wapiti, the revelation of true pigment, the rush of one’s heart on a trail or cross country run, the essence of cedar incense or roasting chiles on the breeze.
Knowing the call of a wolf or rumbling of a Grizzly embracing the season is happening somewhere because I can hear it in my own heart if not my own wild backcountry.
I am called more to reading, hiking, climbing, hanging with huskies in crisp air than productivity. If it were not so, I’d lose how to live deliberately and why to. Thus, my primary teacher is Spirit, mediated by stone and sky.


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