The other day, I was wandering along the beach, collecting agates and jasper for my rock tumbler, and I stopped to enjoy the beauty of the day.
It was one of those glorious, early-summer mornings by the ocean - all blue skies, cool shallows, and soft sand. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing along the strand where tiny ghost crabs scuttled to their holes, disturbed by my shadow as I passed by.
The ceaseless roar and hiss of the surf became a mantra, a meditation on the eternal rhythm of the sea.
Time stood still, a moment in the every-present now.
Later, at home, I penned what a friend identified as a prose poem in response to an email - a reflection on the connection between collecting and polishing rocks, and the work of spirituality. This is the result.
Wherever we find ourselves, we are on sacred ground...
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