The Unclad Soul

  The night, with its stars set in the darkness above, silent in the mystery that is space, shines as a messenger of light. The sun, fickle, some days glaring, burning, and some days shedding warmth against the cold, has its purpose. The clouds, hazy and swift at times, like crumpled tissue floating across the sky, and at other times motionless, taking odd shapes, a unicorn, a face, a mountain of snow, offering relief from the summer heat, or billowing and turbulent warning us of threatening weather ahead. The earth rotates without our notice. Caught up in the tedium of our lives, we take for granted the miracle of our planet. Its landscapes and oceans, its highlands and peaks, its trees and flowers, the green grass, the yellow fields, the clear streams, and rugged paths. Majestic. Stunning. Mesmerizing. Awesome. All of it. Every rock and petal, every clump of earth and blade of grass, every jagged crevice and smooth hill. Astonishing in their place of function. Healing in the glory