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I wonder some times whether the heavy boots of my thoughts and words, the hard muscle of my fears and the toothy edges of my ambitions are a counter-balance, a reluctant partner to something lighter and looser in me. There’s a thing in me with no name and no roots that hangs and swings this way and that in the breeze. Without these tough boots, my muscles and grit, I wonder if I might just take flight, pull myself up and over the limbs of this life and become nothing more than a whisper, a song of wings.

What, I wonder, is the sound of that song? What might it be like to become partners with the wind, to become everything that whispers my name?

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If you don’t count the ticks that hitchhiked home with me, I had a wonderful time in the woods yesterday. I have stepped back into the stream of my dream to have a small parcel of land on which to have a garden, talk to the moon at night, and nurture my creative endeavors. I handed over a check and signed on the dotted line last week so will begin now the process of land clearing, having a well dug, and putting a minimalist roof over my head.

This particular parcel has both called and cautioned me. It was the old oak trees that beckoned me from the road, swishing their fans and feathers of Spanish moss, daring me to step into something grand. And it was the old house, abandoned for too long, that warned me that it will not always be easy. It will be a marriage of sorts, for better or worse.

Yesterday I stepped onto the land for the first time as its rightful steward. When I pulled the chain on my stalwart little mower, setting out to blaze a trail through the woods, my entire body grinned with delight. The work, the challenge, the dream. They’ll take me where I need to go.

Ellen Hamilton

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