A foggy Friday morning. Binoculars cleverly harnessed. Camera slung shoulder side. Pen and waterproof notepad in hand.
Lengthening my inhalations and exhalations, I gaze out onto a small pond. The tall marshy green and brown reeds contrast with the dark unbroken surface of the water. The stillness is mesmerizing. Just how I like it.
Softly walking, I listen. Lured by sounds, I push further, into undergrowth. A dainty deer trail emerges and I find myself next to a body of water I've never noticed before. Surrounded on all sides by dense foliage, I feel a sense of complete isolation. Bird sounds are all around me now; I firmly grasp my binoculars as I whip my head around trying to see them all. Then I gasp. A black-crowned night heron -- a lifer!
I did yoga twice yesterday. I haven't had to do that in a while. I know when I need to. Something inside me commands it. And I listen.
As I write this I hear soothing acoustic guitar chords floating up from a nearby patio. This is the first time I've heard this here. I enjoy it. I'm doing yoga to the sound of the music now. And somehow this feeling is identical to being sheathed in nature, enveloped in trees and grass, covered by water.