October 3, 2016 4:06 PM
I awoke to white. To a layer of snow and ice. It explains why I have the camp all to myself—everyone else is smarter than me. Or they are lousy photographers. Because when the weather is bad, the shooting is always so very good.
I climbed out of bed and dressed and stepped outside. It was cold, but not that cold, not enough to head back inside. The air was so still. What is it about mornings like this? The silence? The solitude? The beauty? I love them, I love the feel of them. She—the Divine, my Lover—lies so close, just below the surface, just below visual perception. It is mornings like this where the artist senses Her—sees Her. On mornings like this, the artist feels compelled to paint Her or write about Her or put Her to music. Or he lifts his camera in a futile attempt to capture Her beauty.
I walked up the hill, the silence feeling like a physical presence. Speaking into my phone—recording a thought about the Self—I startled a bird who, rather than flying away, began to chirp and sing. He sounded happy.
Suddenly I was hit by such a profound connection. I physically felt it. I felt what we shared, the bird and I. I felt it intimately. It was as if each of us had been completely and utterly alone in the world, when suddenly… we were not.
We were together. We were joined. We were connected.
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