I was hiking in Utah once and had to keep myself from diving off a cliff: L’appelle de vide; the call of the void. Surprisingly there is little written about this. Doesn’t everyone feel the urge to enter the void at some time in their life? Find helpful instructions here on what to do when you are lost in the woods. (Also listen to Paths and Maps)
I once read that lightning fixes nitrogen in the soil. The lighting bolt’s electric charge breaks the stable strong bond that exists between the nitrogen atoms that fill the air. The separated atoms rearrange and attach themselves to oxygen and rain delivers these molecules to the earth. It can burn you too. The shoreline remembers the power of such storms in its blackened trees, which, like the small flowery monuments to the highway dead, post their warnings along the way. The story is about navigating your way through a storm. (Also listen to Thin Ice)
Snakes and Ladders
I know that I am not telling you anything new. But, do you know the answer to this: is this it, is this all that life is, and will be? And should the question make you shudder? Or is it an invitation to wonder?
While travelling, eating hard-boiled eggs comes second only to apples, which, by the way, happens to be my only party trick – I eat them whole, apple seeds and all. My kids have grown up eating eggs on trains and planes, on mountain tops and on park benches. For years they hissed at us, embarrassed, but now they follow suit, peeling eggs around the world. A story about fragile eggs and egos. (Also listen to Free Will?)
February 6. The earth is still spinning on its winter arc, though days are growing longer: a minute in the morning, another one at night. A very brief story about loss and life unfurling. (Also listen to Spiders and Entanglement)
For some, awe is proof of God; for others, science not only adds an explanation but increases their sense of awe, lifts them across the gap left by not knowing, sets them down on the others side, leaving them to wonder, wanting to know more.
“We are all compost for worlds we cannot yet imagine.” (David Whyte)
Composting has always been a bit of a surprise, an experiment: I never quite know what will slowly, and sometimes suddenly grow out of the bins’ corners.
And I am a composition of all the good wishes and warnings, insightful and thoughtless, helpful and spiteful comments, all the conversations I have ever had, and not just the ones I remember and took to heart, but all the ones I have forgotten, dismissed, ignored, rejected, ridiculed.