Puffs of White Magic

Walking is my most beloved way of waking, to stride out each dawn taking in nature’s sights and sounds. The path of stone awaits me each morning, rising ahead in rugged perfection, the light playing over the grey as if it were the fingers of a pianist upon gentle keys. Nature welcomes me and enters my lungs, giving me a deeper sense of connection and wonder. The woodlands is a place where I rest old thoughts and gain new perspectives. My footfalls become my heartbeat, and my sight becomes a form of wakeful dreaming. I can see clearly, not with my eyes but with my senses—a type of thinking without words. It’s as if the sights, colors, sounds, and smells are a million weaved moments both transient and real. What comes to me are new thoughts, a sort of poetry I never realized I was capable of. Walking isn’t about the destination; it’s about the traveling, the seeing, and the seeking. The soles of my shoes are well-traveled, born to embrace each onward path seeing new views and seeking new horizons—horizons others only frequently gaze upon. I gaze up ahead. The sky above me is ever blue; schools of puffy white clouds form overhead. the clouds are soft puffs on magical field of blue the Artist's canvas clouds grace the blue sky heavenly shapes and sizes vapor and movement puffy clouds pass by silently carry my past to another time watching a white cloud conversing with God out loud tranquility found