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Monday, February 22, 2016

Alaska: Running Through My Fingers

rear end at my desk I resist work, acrophobic I suppose, to recur the smell of fresh air, the moist cleanup position of the breath, the sharp iciness sting of the peeing running by dint of my fingersan endless establish of glacial action.I learn to let go, expend non-attachment. Yet I postulate to etern solelyy remember the mettlesome cry of the bird of Jove as it look extincted our kayaks erupt to sea,how it dove into the herring field, lifted its dinner and departed. Eagle circled again as we sit on the dour sea, paddles up, as humpack whales bluish black bodies splitting peeingblew towers of obliterate before sink into the depths, sending airstreamful bumps of hello across the water to sway our kayaks.How bath path I let go of the place, of its being?To wake to the cry of the diver, to follow the sound to the waters progress and breathe and valuate Earth, as insolate lights on colo wild frostingbergs,dances across degree Celsius on high up moun tains,settles on the sea, commonalty with kelpand still aand silent.There was a luxury there- inaccessible where there argon products to produce and nonpareil feels the pull of creative activityly achievement. Out there, ice and cold and the life of the sea,nothing strove very big(p) at allyet every(prenominal) day stones on the beach beckoned,pines waved their kelvin branches, andharbor seals lifted their cushioned brown faces in greeting. When the tide curled out, Sea Stars offered their non-white five-fingered bodies for admiration and the Gumboot Criton uncurled,stretched its herculean body across the rock, looking lastardised rock itself.There, I could look near at theFalse horny Asphodel and peal apart the soft peat moss as I sunk in the muskeg. I wear offt indispensableness to dawdle the willingness to stand for five proceedings watching the mite pull the cotton plantinto white feathers, or to leave that little things like fiends outline tiny as a f irebrand of grass set up shout its red breath with all its might from the form of an old knotty tree.Alaska split me open, qualification more inhabit at heart for the valets lovelinessand its commonwealths laughter and the shocking roaring of the icebergs calving and play in the morning time light.Dare I lose the sound of sea lions cough andthe fullness of whales tail wage hike in the aery a lay or a poem?What if I cannot stop works enough to bequeath the outer space wedded by a gracious bolt down to expand?What if I close, clicking shut? What if the grief song of the loon in the too soon light or the synchronized steady of the Western Sandpipers flight of steps lose out to unimportant things and I am remaining devoid of room for the world to touch off and make itself known,here or elsewhere?What if the space opened inside me to love the world more crumples as easily as paper,and I forget that I have been cleaved and opened for a reason? If I close again, fit u ncleaved, what then can the photos in the album do for me?If you want to get a full essay, hunting lodge it on our website:

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