There
is a sense of ruin about this place, a sense that goes beyond the dank forest
floor to encompass the life of the bedrock upon which it is built. And there is
also a whiff of the new, the magic of root, leaf, and tree. It is a mystery,
and not just to me, how some scenes can impart such a powerful
sense of history and at the same time feel completely new.
Oh,
there are old places that I’ve never been so they are new to me: yes, that’s
true. But there are also old places that keep reinventing themselves, changing
on the strength of spring floods or lightning strikes or other, less physical occurrences.
And this newness is what surprises me – how do I see the changes in a scene I’ve
never encountered before? And why would it matter?
It
matters; it goes to the heart of my seeing, of why I want to see, ever more
clearly. It’s a way to surround myself with the curiosity of newness, to
cultivate the willingness and ability to see new and old, to distinguish and
appreciate both. It is a way for me to focus on the present moment even more attentively. This is new and tender and it feels like it is a way of staying
alive, flexible, open to life. Let's see where it leads. Blessings, Marco
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