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something more still in its movement


There’s something about a summer evening.  It’s late August, Friday, 6pm.  I climb the face of this day as it fades from my grasping fingers.  With steady, easy strides it passes by me like a long-legged boy heading home.  This day too, like so many days before it, heads home to my memory.

How can I not be carried away with it? – back to a time before work, before responsibility.  I’m young again and spending time as children do.  Those were the years when summer lasted for as long as the school year, or so it seemed.  Every day was a free day.

But Friday was still special.

∞ ∞ ∞


My life seems to me like a movement of water, sometimes a tiny creek and sometimes this huge river.  Always moving toward the sea, toward something much larger, much more still in its movement.

This river slows and quickens on its own.  Often it feels like it’s stopped and then I realize that I’ve traveled ten miles further down the line than I thought.  Sometimes I move and can’t judge my own speed.


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