Yesterday I came across a stark warning of imminent death. I was wandering around on the side of the butte, little red riding hood style with my wolf friend. He led us off trail on the mossy spongy juniper speckled slope. It was under a medium-sized juniper that I spotted the flat round beacon of intrigue, my first impression of a wide white mushroom. Then I picked it up, flipped it over and read the following message scrawled in hasty black marker;
Spring is here, the ninth wave of the mayan calendar has begun and I'm seeking newness in my life. In the spirit of rebirth, I've committed to some daily habits, picked up two shy foster kitties, climbed walls, hills and a church and this is a start. xo
"She was careful and muddled and dreaming and lovely. And though she would move with her family one winter to the forests and slate-blue skies of the Pacific Northwest, and I would not see her again, for a long time I believed in my sleep that I was still living in those months and years, awakening with the thought that she'd be waiting..." (Kevin Brockmeier, Things That Fall from the Sky).