Purpose rolled down the icy hill into an embankment of doubt.  The, rare pockets of hesitation…deliberate and empty.  Our walk falls into pace, along with unflavored pieces of rock candy, dripping from the pines.

Frequently, I am reminded of the ‘waddle’.  A wintered saunter in which steps are shuffled, in smaller strides.  And, the big toe, extended, within the shoe, pointing slightly inward.  Akin to taking one’s first steps.

Gifts of used snow find their way to the sleeve made of  tired flannel.  Pouches, canvassed by a jacket not quite new, find themselves the recipient to Mother Nature’s tears.

Our destiny, now, re-learning how to stroll in the cold.

A visitor to our little chaotic scene?

Would offer up a tow device.  In the shape of oblong timber…Color, fire engine red.  

Perhaps, an earth visitor would also inquire,

“A common sense tool for any Northern Native…fool!”

However, our marching orders come from the beat of a different drum.  For us, there is no multitude of purpose, no sanctioned, sanctuary.

It is a simple and pure, daily reflection.  A meditative chance to walk away the haunts of the upcoming day!

 

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