It was one of those deep sleeps that is rare for me these days. I awoke not quite knowing where I was. Moving my eyes from side to side, I sat up. The ambient noise of a Monday morning told me that the rest of the world was already doing its thing. That meant that I had to get up. Planting my feet upon the floor, my grogginess slowly gave way to a nagging, low-level grumpiness.
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I think this is it. Lensbaby and I are over. I tend to embrace projects with an obsessive enthusiasm, kind of like shooting a Roman candle into the sky. *Pfffffffft!* My projects soar into the sky with great intention. The loftiness is palpable. So too is gravity and the crash is inevitable. The better projects tend to live to see another day and another burst of optimism. The lesser ones land with the smell of burnt sulfur. I'm not sure what to make of this one.
There are two kinds of walks. The first is purposeful. One gets out of bed and says, "I'm going for a walk!" This proclamation is followed by the planning of a route. The more obsessive might pull out a map and, perhaps, write out an itinerary. Some might even program a GPS device. This kind of walk is more work than walk but it does have is proponents. And it does have its advantages.
I looked out my window late yesterday morning. High clouds. Normally I like to make photos early in the morning when the air is fresh and the sun is golden—when the world is my own. But high, wispy clouds mean magic in photography so I broke my own rules. I went out with my camera in the latest part of the morning.
In a scratchy dream I learn to fly. In effortless propulsion I glide through air and space. "Why haven't I tried this before?" I ask myself. Somehow I reach an oasis of palms. Lanky and swaying, they acknowledge my arrival. They are rooted, yet free—something I make note of as I land on my feet and look up.