I've been thinking about this idea that my life tells a story, and that I have choices to make about how my story either draws from or feeds into other stories— whether human, spiritual, or natural.
I wonder, for instance, what story I am making— or allowing to make me — by sitting in this little woods day after day.
Or am I just experiencing the scenery, in a kind of drawn-out Sabbath rest?
... white butterflies and orange butterflies flitting and dipping, the breeze shaking the maples... and this tiny mustard-green insect, like a cricket in miniature, who is just now crawling across my blue-lined paper.
Bug on a Leaf photo, by L.L. Barkat.
Green Inventions Invitation: if you write a related post and LINK back here, let me know and I'll link to yours.
Charity's Hollywood Endings