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The fog had moved in that morning and showed no intention of lifting despite the best efforts of time and sun. I was at the Green Gulch Farms in northern California for a week-long stay of meditation, reading, working on the farm, and of course – photography. At first, the damp air and dull lighting was disappointing – but I soon realized how much the mist heightens sensory perception.

 

Colors found more nuanced expression while forms divulged their primal states. The scent of the cedar chips and peeling barks of ancient redwoods intensified as they marinated in the fine mist. The music of dew drops skipping through the canopy of giant leaves carried through the air like the distant laughter of children skipping puddles.  Everything slowed down and every part of the landscape gently moved in concert to fit into each other to form a continuous whole.

 

 

The only foreigner was my mind which kept looking and categorizing  — kind of like the Terminator with its robotic ocular lens and AI algorithm to separate objects from targets.

I felt foreign in this ecosystem – where everything had a place and a purpose. At best, I was a sojourner – at worst, a tourist.

But these mountains and woods have an inviting heart and and extend their ancient moorings to psyches adrift from the shipwreck of fragmented living.  

It is a place where life exists in circles, cycles and complex rhythms — not in straight lines and shrill sound bites.

Nature heals us by reminding us that we are nothing and everything at the same time. Our full worth impresses upon us as we are made aware of our connectedness.

 

 

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