A flock of birds perch on a sandy island in midst of the Rio Grande. Sun ripples off water, wind sloughs through cottonwood trees, footprints of various sizes and shapes wander in all directions.

On the return trail, a couple passes me. The man asks:

"Is the river dead ahead?"
"Someday," I reply.

The brain is always dying and being born, in a quest for what?

Meister Eckhardt said we are made perfect not by what we do, but by what happens to us.

 

 

button-n.jpg (718 bytes)