Settling on my blanket on the bluff last evening I felt so glad that I had packed up my basket with the usual: my camera, wool shawl, journal, pen and glasses. The setting sun was painting the clouds in broad strokes of orange hues. A mountain peak or two were still lit up as I felt the movement of the ocean moving me in some unfathomable way.

It felt heavenly to sit on the earth with solid rock and soft moss beneath me. Having listened to some brilliant story tellers just before I was called outside, their stories, their words, the mystery contained in them, was still alive in me and moving through me in this present moment. My heart was tuning in.

Slowing down to the speed of now I watched my hand move the pen across the page while listening to the birds settling in the last glow of light. Their voices becoming fainter, less frequent, quieting one at a time, until only the sound of the ocean and wind remained.