The fog is moving in and out playing games with the sun.  I watch and move within.  

Because people I know are dying, I’m very aware of death, and these last few days I’ve been going over the losses of the years.  Perhaps it’s also  because my mother’s birthday was Saturday and my “baby” brother’s was yesterday that my focus is there.  My mother passed when she was 78 and would have been 95.  My brother would have been 69.

I’m heading out to Inverness for a few nights.  It’s where I process death.  The land is on an earthquake fault and one travels back and forth from one tectonic plate to another.  It’s like playing hopscotch, a chance to pick up stones, and hop from one square to another, journeying a joy, augmented with sorrow, filled path.

Monkey Flower


The ridge without its wrap of fog

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