I went for a long hike through the hills the other day. It has been grey, damp, and cold—intermittent rain and rolling thunder. I enjoy the wet weather, though I’ve only one sweater and no waterproof jackets. My yellow leather sandals are muddy and smell like the river. I walk in the mud, letting my legs and feet get filthy. I enjoy the sensation of the wild on my skin. I enjoy washing the earth from my body when I arrive home. It makes me feel efficient and focused.

The hands are an extension of the heart. The meridian lines that extend from the heart center move outward into the palms. My hands have never been silver, gold, or copper. They are of flesh, blood, and bone. They are very much alive. I am concentrating on how to bring more energy into my hands to make my work more effective.

I sit for hours by the river. I watch the muddy waters trickle over rock and bone. I see the bees land in the lavender bushes and say, ah, we have arrived! Summer spreads her legs for the lonesome wolves who cry out from the peaks. There is a stone cave on the hillside and I watch the sunlight bleed into the shadows. The pups run and stumble. The mother watches with one blue eye. I crave that kind of commitment—the all-knowing look of the woman who's shucked her innocence and claimed the wild.

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