A favorite stone. Like the one a lover gave or you found while having an epiphany in nature. Like your grandpa’s tools. Your great great grandpa’s tools. Or your great great grandma’s sewing machine. Or the family homestead with stories imbued in the walls and land.

Or perhaps jewels and gold and stocks and pork bellies. Or barrels of oil.

Or perhaps the touch of love.

Or the future generations. Your own progeny. Your inner child. Their inner child. And the core within that child.

Or cute things like puppies and butterflies and old people and babies.

Or perhaps the land. With undiscovered creatures and plants and other life. Of the medicine of Nature.

Or perhaps the most precious thing is out time and attention.

That currency which we can experience all other with.

Attention and focus.

So precious yet so obvious.

The magic of obvious yet overlooked and disregarded.


Setting on the shore of a black and calm lake. An occasional shooting star and jumping fish.

Black holes absorbing light just as my pupils. Perhaps they are just the universe observing itself.

Reality shimmers as a crystal. A crystallized form of manifested dreams.

Reality begetting dreams.

And dreams begetting reality.

Which came first.

With every breath I am reminded of the wind blowing in forest canopies.

The smell of pitch.

I like the bark and stones and mushrooms and snow and grass.

Smoke wafting upward like departing souls and drifting thoughts.

Heart beat as an ancient drum.

Connection just as looking over a vast landscape to the setting sun.

And pondering – marveling – at the moon without logical reason.

How many other people have stared at the moon?

Surely all things for all time.

And thus to watch the moon is to be reminded of our interconnection.

Of our greatness and smallness.

Only humbling.