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Waking Up
When weather permits, I wake each morning and trade a soft bed for a hard patio. To stretch. To breath. To think. To observe. I prune my head and face of loose hair and watch it fall or drift away. I scan the slate stones for signs of life. I photograph whatever interesting natural materials have accumulated since the day before. I focus on the smallest details that my eyes will allow.
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On May 5, as the sun’s first rays hit the slate scape, a bee climbed to a high point and began to groom itself. In my fantastical mind, it simply craved solitude after surviving the winter cluster of a crowded hive. Or maybe it had no choice, evicted for the summer generation, never to return. Or maybe, just maybe, it climbed to a high point because spring sun is reason enough to climb to a high point and stretch in unison with a disheveled human in need of vitamin D.
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My analytical mind recalled the lives of other bees, beetles and snails that have crossed paths on that slate stone patio in the early morning hours of a new day, the ones that didn’t survive the night, the ones that struggled somewhere in between. In particular, I recalled the smallest caterpillar I ever saw. It approached a solitary beard hair from several feet away, climbed, traversed, descended and continued on its way. Sure it could have picked an easier path, but that’s not the point of climbing … or living.
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The stone we’re on will outlive us all. The patience of the bee outlasted me.