Funny how life’s twists and turns can lead you.

The air and breezes seem to push you in all possible directions.

Chills down your back pose as a sign that your well alive.

Cold air, fresh air, fill your insides with life, endlessly recharging you with every breath.

I feel cold stone beneath my palms onto which I draft this letter.

My eyes feel a mist that forms above the sky.

An air not from corrupted exhaust from machines, but clean, purified mist tha comes from within.

Within me.

I can see my breath. It is clean.

I see a tree. I see the cold. Feel it without touch.

But its spirit. It connects us.

There is no emptiness between the tree and I Within our space is life and force. Its everywhere.

It numbs the senses, the cold. When I touch the untouched ground, only touched by the debris left by the trees around, when I touch the ground, why can’t I feel it, in this cold.

Why?

Why is it then that I can feel it’s spirit instead?

How is it that I can sense the spirit of a field of grass?

11/22/01

Zen Blade